The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1003, March 18, 1899
Date: 2018-08-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's literature -- Periodicals

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1003, March 18, 1899

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1003, March 18, 1899

Author: Various

Editor: active 1880-1907 Charles Peters

Release date: August 7, 2018 [eBook #57652]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57652

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 1003, MARCH 18, 1899 ***

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1003.]

[Price One Penny.

MARCH 18, 1899.

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

“OUR HERO.”
OUR LILY GARDEN.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.
A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS.
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
HIS GREAT REWARD.
A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

“OUR HERO.”

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

“PUTTING UP THE PONY AND CART AT A WAYSIDE INN.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXV.

ROY BARON A FUGITIVE.

On the edge of a little clearing in the centre of the wood stood a small square charcoal-burner’s cottage, built of stone. Near behind might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and to one side was the pile of slowly-burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.

Nobody seemed to be within or at hand. Jean opened the cottage door without difficulty; and when they had passed through, he bolted it in their rear.

Then in the darkness he found his way to a corner, struck a light with flint and steel, made a “dip” to burn, and groped anew. The one window was closely shuttered.

Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get his breath, and watched the other’s doings curiously.

“Are we to stop here?” he asked. “But if the gendarmes come?”

“We must circumvent them, M’sieu.”

“How? What are you going to do?”

Jean was too busy to reply. He produced a blouse, such as would be worn by a French labouring lad, with shirt and trousers to match, and brought them to Roy. “M’sieu must change his clothes,” he said. “Rest afterwards.”

“All right,” once more assented Roy, though the cottage was swimming and his ears were buzzing with fatigue. He stood up, and promptly divested himself of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean brought from the same corner a small bottle of dark liquid, which he mixed with a little water in a basin, and then dyed Roy’s hair and eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that even his mother might almost have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this operation, as to discompose the operator.

“Tenez, M’sieu! Taisez-vous, donc, s’il vous plait! M’sieu, I entreat. I assure Monsieur it is no matter for laughter.”

“If you knew what it is to be free again, you’d laugh too,” declared Roy, and then his merriment passed into a big yawn. “But I’m awfully sleepy.”

“Deux minutes, and Monsieur shall rest. Monsieur is hungry.”

Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was even greater than the craving to eat. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and cheese and a glass of milk; and while Roy was occupied with the same, he proceeded to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and shabby but once gorgeous coat, with standing collar and gay buttons, which, as he informed Roy, had many long years before been the best holiday coat of his esteemed grandfather.

“I go to the wedding of my niece,” he remarked, with so much satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. “Does Monsieur perceive? And Monsieur will be the boy—Joseph—who goes with me in the little cart.”

“But where is the little cart?”

“All in good time, M’sieu. Now we have for the moment to get rid of these things.”

Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he disappeared out of the cottage for a few minutes. Roy conjectured that he might have buried it in the bushes, or under heaps of black rubbish, abundance of which lay ready to hand. Jean then took Roy into the outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and faggots of wood—the winter supply—piled together.

“Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?”

“Oui, M’sieu. The gendarmes will not easily find you there.”

“And you too?”

“Non, M’sieu. I betake myself to the soupente.”

The soupente in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.

“And if they find you there——”

“M’sieu, if they find me, they will not know me—see, in this dress! I am not like the Jean who chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to draw their attention from M’sieu! Voyez-vous?”

Roy wrung his hand. “I don’t know what makes you so good to me,” the boy said huskily. “I—I don’t think it’s fair upon you, though. And—I can’t think why!”

“It is not difficult to tell M’sieu why!” Jean looked abstractedly at the roof of the wood-hut. “It is for the sake of my mother—for the sake of that kind Monsieur le Capitaine, who would not leave her unhappy. Does M’sieu remember—how Monsieur le Capitaine regarded my mother that day?”

Roy remembered—and understood.

“Now, Monsieur! We may not lose time. The light grows fast.”

Jean pulled down and hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a kind of little cave or hollow far back, where Roy could creep in and lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped round him an old coat, for warmth; and then, when he had laid himself down, threw light black rubbish over him as an additional security, before carefully heaping up anew the logs and faggots, till not the faintest sign remained of any human being beneath. Jean did his utmost to deface all tokens that the wood-pile had been disturbed.

“M’sieu must lie still,” he said. “On no account must M’sieu move or speak. If by chance I should have to go away, M’sieu must wait till nightfall, when the cart will come to take M’sieu elsewhere.”

“But I say, Jean—you must not get into trouble for me,” called Roy, his voice sounding far and muffled.

“Bien, M’sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can M’sieu breathe easily?”

“Rather stuffy, but it’s all right.”

“Au revoir, M’sieu. I go to the soupente. M’sieu will remain in the bûcher, till I or my friend come again.”

Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted the front door, climbed up into the little soupente, drawing the ladder after him, and there laid himself flat, under a pile of loose rubbish. Soon he was or pretended to be asleep.

Roy’s sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed, and the “stuffiness” of the limited atmosphere which he had to breathe, despite fear of gendarmes and risks of discovery, he was very soon peacefully sound asleep, and knew no more for the next two hours.

Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake; his heart thumping unpleasantly against his side.

The gendarmes had come.

Roy of course could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard a good deal more than might have been expected from his position, since his senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment. Also, the men made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes. Roy imagined that three or four of them must be there.

They made their way first into the cottage, surprised to find the door on the latch, and nobody within. The fact of finding the door thus tended to allay their suspicions, as Jean had hoped. On the face of matters, nothing was less probable than that fugitives hiding within should not so much as have drawn the bolt. They walked round the one room, knocking things about a little. One of them looked vaguely about for a ladder, but seeing none he did not trouble himself further as to the soupente.

Then they left the cottage, and entered the bûcher, where the wood was solidly and firmly piled together, as for the winter’s use. No signs here of human life. Roy below the pile lay motionless, every faculty concentrated into listening. One of the men kicked down a few faggots, and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they were making their way to where he was. But the search stopped at last, after what seemed to Roy a small century of suspense, and they took themselves off. He heard them mount their horses and trot away.

“Safe!” murmured Roy, and in his heart there was a fervent “Thank God!” not spoken in words.

He wondered whether Jean would come to him; but Jean remained absent; and Roy obeyed orders, staying where he was. Presently he dropped asleep again, and remembered nothing more for hours.

How many hours he had no means of knowing. Where he lay, he was in pitch darkness. When he woke, he had the consciousness which we often have after sleep, of a considerable time having elapsed; but whether it was now morning or afternoon or evening he could not even guess. He only knew that he was growing frightfully weary of his constrained position, longing to get out and exert himself. To sleep more was not possible. He waited, minute after minute, wondering if the long slow day would ever come to an end. At length a voice sounded—

“M’sieu!”

“All right,” called Roy.

“Can M’sieu wait a little longer? I hope to get Monsieur out soon—after dark. It is not safe before then.”

“I’ll wait, Jean. Only as soon as possible, please.”

“Oui, M’sieu.”

Jean disappeared anew. Roy put a question, and had no answer. He was wildly hungry, but there was nothing to be done except to endure.

The wisdom of Jean’s caution became apparent. Before darkness settled down the same party of gendarmes again galloped up and sprang to the ground. They walked as before through cottage and shed, once more kicking the furniture about. This time one of them found the ladder, went up it, and stepped inside the soupente; but Jean had betaken himself to another hiding-place outside the cottage, and the search bore no fruit. The men entered the wood-hut again, in a perfunctory manner, knocking down a log or two carelessly, and using one to another rough language as to the escaped prisoner, which boded no gentle treatment for Roy should he fall into their clutches. Then they vanished, and silence settled down anew upon the scene.

“Not likely to come again, I hope,” murmured Roy. “O I am tired of this!”

One more hour he had to endure; and then came the welcome sound of Jean removing the wood-piles.

“Can M’sieu stand?” asked Jean.

Roy crept out slowly, made the effort, and fell flat. Jean pulled him up, and held him on his feet.

“All right, I’m only stiff,” declared Roy. “They won’t come back, I suppose.”

“Non, M’sieu.”

“Why, it’s night, I declare! Been so dark in there, I didn’t know the difference between night and day. There, now I can walk.” Roy managed to reach the cottage on his own limbs unassisted. “What a desperately long day it has been.”

“M’sieu has found it wearying, sans doute.”

“But as if that mattered! As if anything mattered—only to get away safely!” Roy said energetically. “Jean, you are a good fellow! Is this for me to eat? I’m as hungry as a bear! Jean, I shall always think better of Frenchmen for your sake.”

“Yet M’sieu will doubtless fight us one day.”

“I shall fight Buonaparte, not the French nation. I like some of your people awfully—some at Fontainebleau, and some at Verdun. And Mademoiselle de St. Roques most of all.”

“Oui, M’sieu. M’sieu had better eat.”

“All right, I’m eating, and you must too. Oh, lots of French have been as good and as kind to us détenus as they possibly could be. And I only know one single lodging-house keeper who behaved like a brute. Most of them have been just the other way. Why, they have kept on lodgers month after month, out of sheer kindness, when they couldn’t pay anything because no money reached them from England. I know all that! And I like the French—only not Boney!”

Jean smiled to himself.

“Cependant, M’sieu, the army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers.”

“Can’t help that,” retorted Roy. “And they can’t help it either, poor fellows—most of them. I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. Where did you manage to hide it away, so as to keep it from the gendarmes? Jean, were you long at Bitche? Tell me about it.”

Jean was cautious. He evidently preferred not to enter into details. It was better for Roy’s own sake that he should not know too much. It seemed, however, that on Jean’s arrival at Bitche, he had found one of the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this gendarme, not through his soldier-friend, he had obtained a temporary post in the fortress. A man who did rough work, chopping and carrying wood and so on, had fallen ill and had gone home for a fortnight to a neighbouring village. Meanwhile, Jean was allowed to undertake his work.

This gave Jean a good opportunity to study the fortress and to make himself acquainted with the surrounding country. He did not fully explain to Roy the maturing of his plans during that fortnight, nor precisely what those plans had been. The careful manner in which he avoided speaking of his soldier-friend made Roy pretty sure that the said friend had had some sort of hand in aiding his escape; but he put no more questions in this direction. Jean had had two or three glimpses of Roy from time to time; but he had held carefully aloof, until he saw his way to action. Then he contrived to be sent into the yard just when the better class of prisoners was assembled there; and the rest Roy knew.

“Why was I sent to that upstairs room?” demanded Roy.

“M’sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that one should not know all the reasons that may exist,” observed Jean meditatively. “What if, perhaps, somebody had known of the intended escape, and had tried by that means to save M’sieu from danger?”

“Jean, was it you?”

“Non, M’sieu!”—decidedly. But whether Jean spoke the truth on this point, whether Jean might or might not have had a hand in the wire-pulling which led to that event, Roy had no means of knowing. He felt that further questioning would be unfair. He had but to be thankful that he was free.

By the time hunger and thirst were satisfied, Roy’s spirits had risen to a pitch unknown to him during eight months past. Then, the land being shrouded in darkness, a rough little cart drawn by a rough little pony and driven by a charcoal-burner came to the door. Roy spoke a few grateful words to him, as well as again to Jean, for their generous help. After which, he and Jean started in the cart, taking a small lantern with them.

This next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than that of the night before. The pony was both strong and willing; and all through the hours of darkness they were getting farther and farther away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked hat of being the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired boy in a rough blouse of being their prisoner, Roy Baron.

For greater safety, both that day and the next, they found a retired spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse and rest on some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and calling for it later. One way and another, the dreaded pursuit was eluded; and, as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed free and on the road for Home.

“Why should you not come with me to England, Jean? I can promise you that you’d be well looked after there by my friends,” urged Roy. He had grown sincerely fond of this kind, thoughtful Frenchman.

They were now fast nearing the coast, and their next halting-place was to be at a farm-house within sight of the sea. There they would have to remain until an opportunity should occur for Roy to cross the Channel. Since he had no passport he could not attempt to journey by the ordinary routes. But even here Jean’s resources did not fail, and the owners of the said farmhouse were near relatives of his own.

“Non, M’sieu. I should feel strange in another country. Also—have I not promised to let Monsieur le Capitaine, and Monsieur votre Père, and Madame votre Mère, hear of your safety? Could I disappoint them?”

“But, I say, will it be safe for you to go back to Verdun? What if they find out that you have helped me to get away?”

“They will not find out, M’sieu. It was known that I should leave Bitche that night—and my friends will have diverted suspicion from me. Moreover, it is no such hard matter to make a little disguise of myself—if need be.”

Then they reached the farm, and Roy found himself among friends, ready all to shield him for Jean’s sake. It was decided that he should work as a boy upon the farm, sufficiently to draw no attention upon himself, since the waiting for a passage might be long. Roy was willing to be or to do anything, if only he might at last escape to England.

The farmer’s eldest son, a soldier by conscription in the army of Napoleon, had been a prisoner in England; and he, like Roy, had made his escape, getting safely back to France. Roy, immensely interested in this story, plied the farmer and his wife with questions as to the experiences of the young fellow in an English prison—questions which they were not loath to answer. They had, of course, the whole story at their fingers’ ends.

It was at a place called “Norman’s Cross” that their Philippe had been confined—somewhere not far from the eastern coast of England. About seven thousand prisoners of war, chiefly Frenchmen, were there kept under close surveillance. The prison and the barracks were built on high land, healthy enough—yes, certainly, as to that, the farmer said—with plenty of fresh air. And the prisoners were guarded more by sentinels in all directions, than by fortifications, walls, moats, or dungeons.

“Not like Bitche!” interjected Roy.

Well, no, certainly—Monsieur spoke correctly. The place—Norman’s Cross, and the old farmer made a funny sound of these two words—was not precisely like Bitche. As to arrangements, Philippe had had no fault to find with the food provided. It was good of its kind; and cooks were chosen from among the French prisoners by themselves, being paid for their work of cooking by the English Government. Also, when Philippe fell ill, he found the hospital well managed. A school for prisoners was kept going; and several billiard-tables as well as other amusements were provided.

But, ah, the poor Philippe, he had been unhappy in captivity! Was it not natural? Had not Monsieur himself experienced the same? He had longed to be free—to return to his own country once more. And though on the whole the prisoners had been fairly well treated, at all events in that particular place, yet of course there had been cases of roughness and of harsh treatment. Moreover, there was much to make a prisoner sad—the desperate gaming, the perpetual duelling, among his fellow-prisoners were of themselves sufficient.[1] So, after more than a year of captivity, always more and more hopeless, with no token of the war drawing to a close, he had at last resolved to make his escape. And, through great dangers, privations, difficulties, he had actually succeeded.

Where was Philippe now? Ah—pour cela—he had rejoined his regiment, and was again at his old occupation. Fighting, fighting—who could say for how long? Perhaps to be again taken prisoner, and once again to be at Norman’s Cross! Who could foretell?

(To be continued.)

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

Lilium Brownii.

Japan is the home of lily culture. Not only are the Japanese Islands rich in native lilies, but their inhabitants, imbued with a love of flowers, which to our Western minds is almost incomprehensible, have introduced into their country all the prominent plants of Eastern Asia. And with a knowledge which we possess in but a small degree, they have modified and beautified both their own plants and those that they have introduced from foreign countries.

The culture of the lily in Japan has reached a high stage of development, and most of our best varieties of lilies owe their origin to Japanese gardeners.

Foremost among the lilies of Japan is the one which bears the name of its native place. Lilium Japonicum Odorum is one of the very finest of the lilies, and in the strength of its perfume it is absolutely without a rival.

The true L. Japonicum, or, as it is now more generally termed, L. Japonicum Odorum is but little known in England, but an allied species, L. Brownii, is well known, and though not grown so frequently as it should be, it is deservedly popular.

It has always been a question whether L. Japonicum and L. Brownii are but varieties of the same plant. Certainly there is a great similarity between them, but there are points in which the two plants differ and these differences are very constant.

In Dr. Wallace’s little book on lily culture the differences between these two lilies are detailed in tabular form, and for ourselves we are fully convinced that L. Brownii and L. Japonicum are distinct but very nearly allied species.

The bulb of L. Japonicum is white or yellowish, but never brown. The scales are narrow and are very loosely connected with the base. The bulb is always rather loose and the scales divergent, but good bulbs have a very firm centre. The bulb of L. Brownii is usually reddish and the scales are broad. The base is very small, and the whole bulb has a curious and very characteristic shape.

The shoot of L. Japonicum is greener and blunter than that of L. Brownii. The shoot of the latter lily very much resembles thick asparagus.

During growth it is easy to distinguish between these two lilies, for the stem of L. Japonicum is green, while that of L. Brownii is brown.

There is not very much difference in the flowers of these lilies. L. Brownii often bears three blossoms, and in one case, recorded in The Garden, five blossoms upon one stem. Two blossoms are very frequently present on the same stem. We have never known L. Japonicum to bear more than one blossom on each shoot.

Lilium Longiflorum.

The flowers of L. Japonicum are a rich custard yellow while they are opening, but in the fully expanded blossom the colour of the interior is a rich creamy white. The pollen is reddish brown. The exterior of the perianth is thickly streaked with chocolate colour. The scent of this flower is very strong, resembling that of the Jasmine.

The flowers of L. Brownii never show the deep yellow colour which is present in the partially opened buds of L. Japonicum. The pollen is deep brown and the exterior of the blossoms is more streaked with brown than are those of L. Japonicum. We cannot recognise any difference in the smell of these two lilies, but Dr. Wallace contends that the smell of L. Brownii is only moderately strong, like that of L. Longiflorum; while other authors have denied to L. Brownii any scent whatever!

There is but little reason in the naming of any plant nowadays, and the foolish and unscientific methods of naming plants after some person who has discovered, or described, or who has often done nothing more than bought a specimen of the plant, is unfortunately very rife. Scientists have tried and are still trying to put down this absurd nomenclature, but they are thwarted in every way by gardeners and others. Mr. Jones, Nurseryman, has just flowered a lily. He does not know its name. What does he do? Does he trouble to find out if the plant is known to science? Not he! He labels it Lilium Jonesii. Mrs. Smith, a very aristocratic lady and a great patron of Mr. Jones, comes along, sees, admires and buys that lily. She asks Mr. Jones to send her the plant, and it arrives labelled, “Lilium Jonesii var. Smithii.” So much for gardeners’ floral nomenclature!

Can anyone tell us who is the Mr. Brown after whom L. Brownii is named? As far as we can find out that gentleman is quite unknown to science. Perhaps some wag might suggest that the name originated through ignorance. The man who discovered the lily—or rather who thought he had discovered it, for the plant has been cultivated in Japan for centuries—perceiving that the colour brown was very characteristic of the flower, wanted to name the lily with a Latinised version of “The Brown Lily,” but his classical education, having been somewhat neglected, he knew not the Latin for brown, so he named the plant Lilium Brownii or Browni to cloak his ignorance.

As no one is certain of the origin of the name Brownii, so no one knows the original habitat of this species. All our specimens come from Japan, but it is very doubtful whether it is a native of that land.

Have you ever seen a clump of L. Brownii in flower? Last July there was a bed of this lily at Kew in full blossom, and as the weather had been remarkably suitable to the plant, and its blossoms had not been injured by rain, the sight of that bed was one of the loveliest sights we can remember.

This lily has lately become more popular than formerly, but it is very far from enjoying that universal admiration which it amply deserves. One reason for its comparative scarcity is its tendency to degenerate, a tendency which we strongly suspect is due to improper culture.

It is usually stated that this lily should be grown in very light sandy soil. We have grown it in such a soil and also in a strong, well-manured, peaty loam—a soil as different from a light sandy soil as can be well imagined. Those lilies grown in the light soil became diseased and died without flowering. Those in the heavy soil grew strong and very tall, never showed any trace of disease, and each spike produced two perfect blossoms.

The depth of the colour of the exterior of the blossoms varies with the amount of light in which the lily is grown. Specimens grown indoors usually have a pure white exterior. The blossoms are very tender and are often cankered by rain at the flowering time.

Both L. Brownii and L. Japonicum make admirable pot plants, and their blossoms last a long time as cut flowers.

The variety of L. Brownii called Leucanthum lacks the brown coloration of the blossoms. We cannot distinguish it from the ordinary variety when grown indoors. There are several other so-called varieties.

All the lilies which we have described are natives of Asia, but now we come to one which inhabits our own continent.

Lilium Candidum, the white, or Madonna, or St. Joseph’s Lily, is unquestionably the lily. And when we mention the lily, this is the plant which is usually meant.

Common as this lily has been in English gardens for very many centuries, it is not a native plant, and has very rarely escaped from cultivation. We have only once seen this lily growing wild. This was in a wood in Surrey, and it was probably a garden escape. There was but one spike of blossoms in 1895 when we first saw it. Next year it produced one solitary flower, but since that period it has entirely disappeared.

Why this lily has never become wild in England is not very obvious, for though it never seeds in our Island, it very rapidly increases by off-sets formed round the bulbs, and hundreds of these must be thrown away yearly.

Perhaps it is that the lily is not really hardy in our climate, and though it will flourish when tended in the garden, it is unable to hold its own in the strife with our native plants.

Where the white lily will grow, it is one of the loveliest of garden plants. Always better where it has been long established and undisturbed for years, it is in old gardens that this lily is seen in perfection.

Unlike the lilies we have already considered, the Lilium Candidum bears from four to thirty blossoms on each stem. It is true that one very rarely sees an umbel of more than ten blossoms, but a plant bearing only this number is a very marked feature in a garden.

This lily differs from every one of its colleagues in many points. Its bulb which we figured in our first part is very characteristic. About the end of October the white lily begins to throw up an autumn crop of leaves. This alone marks it off from all other lilies, for though one or two species do sometimes send up a stray leaf or two in autumn, none of them do so regularly. But with L. Candidum the autumn leaves are never absent, and they remain green and fresh till long after the flower shoot has appeared.

The flowers of the white lily are very different from those of L. Longiflorum and its allies. They are very short, widely-expanded and very numerous. The pollen is yellow. The flowers have a pleasant though rather strong perfume.

Though this plant has been grown for centuries in gardens, there are but few varieties of it.

One variety named Aureo-Marginatis has its leaves bordered with golden-yellow and the autumn growth looks very striking in winter.

Three other varieties are recognised. Monstrosum or Flora-pleno, has double flowers. But the flowers themselves never develop, the bracts becoming a greenish-white. It is an ugly and worthless plant and is deservedly neglected. The two other varieties are called peregrinus and striatum. In the latter the flowers are streaked with purple. Neither variety is of any value.

The white lily is one of the oldest of all garden plants. It was certainly cultivated by the Romans, and is in all probability the origin of the “Fleur de Lys.”

If you turn up L. Candidum in any book of gardening, you will find something like this: “The Lilium Candidum will grow anywhere, provided the soil is of a light sandy nature.” If you follow this advice, you will probably lose every one of your plants.

We cannot, alas, tell you how to grow this lily to perfection, for the simple reason that we cannot do so ourselves. We can only tell you how not to grow it and how we have obtained moderate success.

The bulbs must be planted early in autumn. It is best to plant them in late August or early September. If you defer planting till December or later, the bulbs will not produce an autumn crop of leaves, they will not send up a flower spike next season, and will probably lie rotting in the ground.

Except in very exceptional circumstances this lily will not flower well the first year it is planted, for it needs several years to accustom itself to new surroundings.

When once this plant is established and flowers well, it should never be disturbed.

The bulbs should be planted about a foot deep. Often when the bulbs have been in the ground for some years, they will work their way to the surface. Even if this happens it is best to leave them alone, if they flower well. But if the blossoms begin to deteriorate, take up the bulbs and replant them.

Now about the soil. L. Candidum won’t grow in sand and does not like a sandy soil at all. It must have a rich moderately heavy loam of good depth. It is in the black heavy loam of the Thames valley that we have seen this lily at its best. It likes lime in the soil, but dislikes peat.

If this lily is grown in light sandy soil, it grows beautifully till about the middle of May. Disease then commences and kills all your lilies with rapid strides, so that out of one hundred spikes you may get perhaps three half-rotten flowers. This has been our experience of growing this lily in the orthodox way, and we have lost very many hundreds of flowers through following the generally received opinions.

Lilium Candidum makes a fairly good pot-plant, if the pot in which it is placed is very deep.

This plant is grown in nearly every cottage garden, and is very cheap to purchase. About ten shillings a hundred is the ordinary price of the bulbs.

Since we wrote our account of the diseases of lilies we have heard of a new method of treating the bulbs of Lilium Candidum, when year after year the spikes become diseased. The bulbs are washed and then baked in a cool oven. We have heard that though this method does, to a certain extent, check the disease, it very materially interferes with the growth and blossoming of the plant.

Resembling L. Candidum in the form and number of its flowers, but differing from it in almost every other particular, the next lily, “The Lily of Washington,” is a species which taxes the resources of the lily-growers to their utmost.

Lilium Washingtonianum is the first lily which we meet with from the great Western Continent. It inhabits California and the North West, growing upon the rocks and mountain slopes of its native home.

The bulb of this lily is different from that of any other. It is long, oblique, and rhizomatous. Its peculiar ovoid shape is due to the fact that it grows at one end only. The flower-spike always appears from near the growing end. The far end of the bulb gradually decays as the near end grows. Bulbs of this lily are often five or six inches long and two inches broad. The only other lily which bears a bulb in any way resembling this is L. Humboldti, a native of the same places.

The leaves of L. Washingtonianum are arranged in whorls, and are quite different from any other Eulirion except Lilium Parryi, the next species.

The flowers are borne in a dense raceme. Good specimens often bear as many as twenty or thirty blossoms, but only too commonly but one or two flowers are borne on each stem.

Individually the flowers are not much, being small, thin, and of a pale purple, fading to the deeper shades of purple. The pollen is yellow. There is a variety of this species, called Purpureum, in which the flowers are upright. In this type the upper flowers look upwards, the middle ones are horizontal and the lower flowers droop. Although the variety is called Purpureum, the flowers are by no means always purple, but vary from pure white to deep violet.

Beautiful as this lily is when seen in perfection, we cannot regard it otherwise than as a fraud. It is one of the most difficult to grow; it is very liable to disease; it rapidly degenerates, and it is expensive. The bed of these lilies at Kew was the least effective of all the groups of lilies.

If you wish to grow this lily, you must carefully study its native climate, and the habits of the plant when at home.

It is a moderately hardy lily, but will not stand excessive frosts. Neither will it stand great heat. For this reason the bulbs should be planted very deeply. In its native land the bulbs live at the depth of twelve to thirty inches below the surface, and though we do not recommend so great a length as the latter, twelve inches should be the minimum depth at which the bulbs are planted.

A very rich soil is required, but sharp drainage is essential. The latter may be obtained by mixing gravel with the soil.

Whatever you do, the lilies will probably fail, or if they do live, they will give you one or two poor blossoms to repay you for your trouble.

In pots the culture of this lily is rather more satisfactory. The pots must be of good depth and sharp drainage is essential.

The last group of the Eulirions contains three lilies which possess drooping bell-like flowers.

Lilium Parryi is an American species coming from the same place as L. Washingtonianum.

It is a little lily with citron-yellow coloured blossoms and deep orange pollen-grains. The blossoms, of which there are rarely more than three on each stem, are small but pretty and curious.

L. Parryi should be grown in the same way as L. Washingtonianum. It is a difficult plant to flower, but is more satisfactory than its showy ally.

It is rather a rare plant and has not been grown in England for very long.

The second of the drooping Eulirions is also yellow. It is a native of Nepaul and takes its name, L. Nepaulense, from its native place.

This lily in its growth resembles the other Himalayan lilies, especially Lilium Wallichianum. It is not very commonly grown in this country, but it is an interesting species and deserves more attention than it has received.

It grows at the height of five and ten thousand feet, and so should prove as hardy in our gardens as L. Giganteum has done. But its hardiness, as far as we are concerned, remains to be proved.

The flowers are about the size of those of L. Candidum, but are of a deep yellow colour, deeply striped and spotted on the interior with rich purple. The flowers are drooping and somewhat resemble those of L. Giganteum in form, but they are shorter, thicker and more revolute. We have never seen more than two flowers on one stem. It requires similar treatment to L. Wallichianum.

In The Garden for April 19th, 1890, was reproduced a plate of “Lilium Napaulense var. Ochroleuceum.” If this plate is accurate, this variety is indeed a fine lily, being yellowish-white on the exterior with a deep primrose inside. To our minds this plate recalls L. Brownii more than any other variety of lily that we are conversant with.

We must also go to a plate in The Garden for the last of the nodding Eulirions. This lily is L. Lowi, and hails from Burmah.

It resembles L. Nepaulense in shape and growth, but the flowers are white, densely spotted with rich claret-colour on the interior.

We have never seen the plant, and though we tried hard to obtain a bulb of this species we were unsuccessful in our quest. So of its culture we know nothing.

(To be continued.)

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART VI.

CORN OR STRAW.

“Let us draw near with a true heart.”

Hebrews x. 22.

I think we may spend an hour profitably, my dear girl friends, in contrasting the fair-seeming part of our lives with that which is real, true, and thorough.

It is good to be real in all things. True to the core. In thought, word, and deed to be the same human being as we wish our friends to think us. On this subject of reality I will tell you a story to begin with.

I dare say most of us joined in harvest thanksgiving services after we returned home last autumn; probably many of you joined in preparing for them, and in arranging the offerings sent by the congregations.

It was in autumn, but not this year, and in city and village churches the “Feast of Ingathering” was being kept. Daily songs of thanksgiving were going up to the God of harvest, in acknowledgment of the bounteous provision He had made to supply the wants of the teeming millions dependent on Him for their daily bread.

A number of young people, mostly girls, were busily engaged in decorating a church for the Harvest Festival services on the following day. Flowers, fruit, vegetables, loaves of all sizes and corn in sheaves, or shaped into miniature stacks, had been sent in abundance. The poorest members of the congregation were not the least willing givers. They could not offer hot-house grapes or fruits that were costly to mature, but they brought of their best from cottage gardens and in no stinted measure. The clean, ruddy carrots, white turnips, cauliflowers in their nest of green leaves, with other homely vegetables, the best of their kind, added much to the picturesqueness of the offerings.

The pulpit and font were bordered with green moss on which were pretty devices in scarlet berries, and below these hung a fringe of oats, dainty-looking, light and graceful as lace. There was a foot of this fringing to finish when the material ran short.

“More oats wanted,” said the worker. “Bring me some, please.”

But none were forthcoming.

“You have used them all,” was the answer.

“I cannot fill this space with anything else. The design would be spoiled. There seemed to be any quantity of oats, but this fringe takes so much. Who will give us some more?”

Nobody seemed to know and time was precious. At last a girl spoke, though in a rather shamefaced way and in a hesitating tone.

“I know who would give us a bundle of oat straw. We could pick out the best pieces and by mixing them in with the unthreshed corn, the length could be made up. There would be some undoing and working up again, but I don’t think anybody would notice the difference.”

There was a short uncomfortable silence, soon broken by the tremulous voice of the youngest helper present—a mere child.

“Oh, we must not, we must not do that. It would be horrid to pretend to give the best corn that has been grown, to try and show God how thankful we are, and then for Him to see that there is ever so much empty straw amongst it. It’s all very well to say that we could make the fringe look as if it were real corn and nobody would find out, but God would know, and——”

The child speaker could not utter another word. The trembling voice broke into a sob that was more eloquent than the simple words which had however gone home to the hearts of the elder ones present.

“You are right, Nelly darling,” said one of these as she drew her little friend to her side and kissed her tenderly. “There must be no ornamental shams amongst our thank-offerings to God. We should not like our neighbours to know that a portion of the fringe ought to be labelled ‘Only straw,’ should we?”

“No, indeed,” was the answer from all the rest, and one said, “How could we bear to look at it and think that it was a miserable counterfeit? Better no fringe than straw where corn should be.”

To this all the workers heartily assented. I do not remember how the little difficulty was got over, but I know it was not by the substitution of straw and empty husks for corn. I know, too, that all present learned a solemn lesson from the child who, out of the fulness of her heart, spoke on the side of truth.

It was indeed a question of truth or untruth, reality or pretence, which had so stirred the young speaker. The child’s words and the circumstances under which they were uttered have often recurred to my mind during intervening years, and I believe that in repeating them I shall have done good service to you, my dear girl friends.

Does not the very thought of that little scene suggest self-examination? Are we not inclined to ask ourselves how much of what we may well call “straw” is mingled with our offerings to God? When we kneel with every appearance of devotion and even our lips repeat the familiar words of praise, is our worship always what it seems to be? Do not you and I know that often, when the knee has been bent and the head bowed in apparent reverence, and when our lips have moved in prayer or response, or our voices have rung out tunefully in psalm or hymn, our hearts have had little share in our seeming worship?

It has been a poor, mechanical thing in which true reverence, penitence, faith and the spirit of love, thankfulness and praise, have been almost entirely absent. It has seemed to our neighbours like true corn, but has been mostly empty straw. I say mostly, because it would be hard to think that there was no reality in it. Even amongst the straw cast aside from the threshing machine, a few grains of corn will always be found, each of which contains the germ of a new and fruitful life.

If, in looking into our own hearts, we find out the poverty of our worship, the barrenness of our life service, the vast proportion of coldness and indifference when compared with the little spark of genuine love to God and man which finds a place there, we cannot help acknowledging that only a grain of true corn is to be found here and there, amid the poor straw of our daily lives.

Let us, nevertheless, take courage. A single grain of true wheat may be the fruitful parent of grand harvests to come—of a handful of grain at first, each corn of which, fructifying in turn, will yield more and more until, as the years pass on, whole fields of waving gold will mark their increase.

Look carefully, dear ones, for the little grains of true corn in your natures. The little grain of love to God will grow if you let your hearts dwell on the thought of His great love for you. If we do not think about it we cannot realise it, but when we do, we are so filled with a sense of its vastness, that the living grains of love, gratitude, thankfulness, praise, joy and longing to prove our love by service, all fructify and become the parents of glorious harvests in our future lives.

God’s love is such a generous love. He gives everything to His children. In Christ, God has given to you and me the very best that even He could give. “Shall He not also with Him freely give us all things?” “No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.”

Seeing then that God has given us the best gift of all, and that all good things are promised us on the one condition that we walk uprightly, does it not become us to expel all that is false from our worship and our lives? To be true to the core? To let words and actions be the harvest springing from the living grain of holy love in our hearts, watched, watered, cherished, guarded assiduously, lest it should die and our worship become a mere outward thing—straw, in place of true corn, the poor sham which human eyes could not detect, but the worthlessness of which is known to Him who is of purer eyes than to behold evil or to “look upon iniquity”?

When we think of it, does it not seem strange that “feigned lips,” wandering thoughts, outward reverence without any real adoration, can be permitted to pass current in our minds? We know that, in God’s sight, one little act of kindness done for His sake, one spark of love fanned into a flame which illumines the life of a fellow creature who is sitting in darkness and the very shadow of death; one honest effort after righteousness; one sentence of true prayer uttered with a sense of need by longing lips; one note of true, spontaneous praise and thanksgiving from a grateful heart; one cry for strength, light and needed grace, spoken in the fewest words that can express desire; each and all of these, though small in a sense, are precious and will not be forgotten. Mere grains they may be, but they are living grains—the seeds whence come grand harvests to God’s glory and our own good.

I have taken the higher and more important part of our subject first, but we will come down to a lower level and speak a little about carrying the same spirit of truth and thoroughness into our everyday work.

I hope we all feel that we ought to render of our very best to God, and to do this with full sincerity of purpose and of heart. Surely the same spirit should enter into all our dealings and intercourse with our neighbour. Whatever work may be entrusted to us, do not let us think how little will pass muster, but what is the best we can do, and then resolve on doing this.

We must never forget that whoever truly loves God will love his neighbour also, and will prove this in daily life and intercourse.

I want you, my dear girl friends, to be animated by this spirit in the home, whether you are a daughter or one who, in serving, serves also the Lord Christ. In the work-room too, where so much of the character and success of the employer depends on the thoroughness and conscientiousness of the workers.

Do not give the mother, the mistress, or the outside employer cause to complain that you put no heart into your work, or that, if you can do it without immediate loss to yourself, you will bestow less pains upon the portion which is below the surface and not likely to be so carefully examined as the rest. To act in such a manner is to render the merest eye-service. It is giving straw from which nearly all the golden grain has been taken away. It is fair-seeming, but unreal and untrue.

Little things sometimes illustrate important lessons. Some time ago, two girls undertook to dress a couple of dolls which were exactly alike and intended as presents for twin sisters, seven years old. Both were equally anxious to give pleasure to the little people, but they set about it in different ways. Each had the same amount to spend on clothes, which was not to be exceeded, but the details were left to themselves.

The one chose her materials less for show than for real fitness, and said to her friend, who was lost in choice amongst remnants of rich silks, “My doll is going to be just a little girl, not a fine lady.”

“My fine lady will be the more attractive,” said the other. “Both the children will want it, and that will be the worst of it all.”

The other did not answer, but set diligently to work, and gave time, pains, and patience in no stinted measure. She made complete sets of beautifully finished little garments, both for day and night wear. Every string and button was in the right place, and every article could be taken off and put on as easily as a real child’s. All would bear washing and be none the worse for it.

The second girl bought rich silk for a frock, dainty boots, and tiny silk stockings, and succeeded in making a little picture hat, evening cloak and dress in suitable style. Altogether the lady doll made a distinguished appearance; but below the shining dress there were the poorest shams for garments, which, once taken off, would not be worth replacing.

Naturally, both children at first turned longing eyes on the gaily-attired doll, and seemed anxious to possess it. But the unselfish nature of one triumphed, and whilst her sister grasped the showy toy, she whispered, “I’ll have the other, please!” and lifted her rosebud mouth to kiss the giver.

We know the endless joy a child finds in playing “little mother.” She never tires of dressing and undressing her doll, of setting up a washing day for its garments, or smoothing them with a tiny iron—under supervision.

The little twin maidens soon decided that the doll, whose clothes could be treated exactly like their own, was a treasure indeed, and the curly heads bent over it, shared in maternal cares, and found delightful occupation therein for many a day.

The fine garments were, after all, but as straw in comparison with corn. They were just to be looked at and admired, then put aside. They gave the “little mother” no change. She could do nothing for a fine lady.

To the girl who had given of her best, the sight of the children’s pleasure was reward enough. As to the other, she said, “I meant well, you did well; but I have learned a lesson. Even a child soon finds out the difference between what is thorough and what has only a fair outside. I saw my gaily-dressed toy lying neglected, whilst one ‘little mother’ was hushing her sham baby to sleep and the other child was folding away its day clothes. They saw my eyes turning towards my neglected handiwork, and, fearing I should be hurt, one said, ‘She’s very nice to take out for a walk; but she’s a fine lady, you know, not a baby to nurse, and her things won’t take off, so we can’t put her to bed.’ I said to myself, ‘No more shams even in doll dressing. My work shall be real all through.’”

So the fine lady was not without use after all. As to the other doll, it did more than give pleasure. It was a mute lesson which seemed to be always saying, “If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well.” It was an example of neatness, orderliness, industry and ungrudging labour to the small people, who were taught by those about them to take care of what had cost so much painstaking to produce.

I think I hear one of you ask, “Has not straw its value also? Could it be done without? Is it not necessary for the production of the grain itself?”

Certainly it is a most valuable thing and fills a most important place. It could be ill spared from Nature’s storehouse. Its uses are manifold, and would take long to enumerate. You will remember that, at the very beginning of our talk this evening, we showed the straw in use, along with the grain it held, both as an offering and a decoration in the house of God. It was only when it was proposed to put straw in place of “the full corn in the ear,” that it was objected to as an empty sham.

There is a great deal of straw mixed with our social intercourse that might well be thrown aside, and there are other cases in which we should be sorry to part with it. The visits which are paid merely because we owe them, without the slightest wish to see the individual and only to get rid of a feeling of debt, are straw of one kind.

We have all heard the remark, “I got through such a number of calls to-day. It was so fine that nearly everybody was out, as I thought they would be.”

The calls made in the expectation and hope of finding our acquaintances out, are surely a kind of social straw that we could well dispense with. The invitation given, not because a guest is really wanted, but because it “would not do to leave her out,” is straw of the same kind.

But there are many kind words said and little thoughtful actions performed which are only straw, in a sense; but we should miss them sadly if they were omitted.

Supposing that one of you received two gifts of equal intrinsic value at the same time. A curt line or a telegram announced the one, a lovingly-worded letter, or kind expressions uttered in a tone and with a look of good will accompanied the other. In neither case would the value of the gift be affected; but—oh, what a difference there would be in the feelings of the receiver!

The prettily-worded letter or message would linger in the memory and the pleasant smile would be recalled whenever the gift was in sight. They were but the straw that enfolded it, but it was precious straw which had its right place and value.

Much that I have said to-night, dear girls, is intended to suggest thought—not to exhaust the subject, for that would be difficult. But I trust it will help us all to discriminate between the false and the true, the thorough and the fair-seeming, and strengthen our determination to give of our best to God above all, and, for His sake, to our neighbour also.

(To be continued.)

THE GUITARIST.

SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.

Now that the guitar has again become a favourite and fashionable instrument, many girls are searching out and bringing to light guitars which their mothers, aye, and even their grandmothers, played on in days gone by, and they endeavour once more to awake the long silent strings (if any survive) with more or less musical and unmusical results. Presuming that our readers have learnt the rudiments from their master or mistress, or even if they have found them out themselves from such clear tutors as De Marescot’s (Metzler), or Madame Sidney Pratten’s (Boosey), they will find themselves soon able to undertake the accompaniments in a collection of twelve songs arranged for the guitar with much taste and discrimination in album form (1s. 6d.), by Lily Montagu (J. Williams). These include Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia,” Godard’s “Song of Florian;” songs by Cowen, Cellier and A. Horrocks, who sets Charles Kingsley’s wistful lines:—

“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”

The poor damsel was lost in the heath one day, and, after bitter lamentation, she was found a terrible wreck long after by her faithful mistress, to whom

“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,

The prettiest doll in the world.”

Most of us have gone through the triste era of our girl-life, when we were obliged to confess to ourselves that we had “grown too big for dolls.”

Vol. I. of Alfred Scott Gatty’s well-known plantation songs (Boosey) are now published for guitar, and they “go” capitally.

There are some duets for two guitars by Madame Pratten, and their effect is quite charming; we think too that Messrs. Schott still have the old but delightful Opus 87, by Joseph Küffner, namely, twelve (short) duos for two guitars for the use of beginners.

To those who wish to add the many Spanish graces there are to their guitar playing, we thoroughly recommend a really clever little 3s. book, particularly dealing with this difficult subject for description. It is entitled “Brilliant Effects on the Guitar,” by Edith Feilden (J. Blockley). Most teaching photographs show the hands in different positions on the guitar, and its dainty exterior is so gaily and well coloured by a representation of the Spanish flag, that it is attractive for a gift book. It is to be obtained of Miss Feilden, Feniscowles House, Scarborough.

Mary Augusta Salmond.

A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.

By A MAJOR’S DAUGHTER.

It was not because I am a major’s daughter that an invitation came to me one bright autumn morning, but because I was the curate’s wife. We were seated at breakfast when the “command” to meet their Excellencies was handed up. Just like the proverbial curate’s family we were laying in a foundation of stirabout, only our porridge was swimming in thick yellow cream, and was daintily served. On the table, besides, was the purest heather honey, a few golden peaches, and hot rolls of crispy bread.

“Thank goodness! a clergyman is always in full dress!” quoth the dear curate, as he pulled down his silk M.B. waistcoat. “But you, my dear Eileen, had better meditate on chiffons.”

And meditate I did, until I was fairly puzzled. There was the white silk, and the pink one, the yellow brocade, with its beautiful train, and the simple muslin. I was very young at the time, and dearly loved finery.

The real vital question of suitability turned on what the invitation meant. Were Lord and Lady L—— coming as royalty, or simply as themselves? The duchess alone could interpret her card, and so to the duchess I went.

“Did you not notice that R.S.V.P. was omitted? Put on feathers and veils, and your best bib and tuckers,” said the dear old hostess. “’Tis as King and Queen their Excellencies come.”

So, of course, the yellow brocade it had to be, with its low neck, and short topaz-trimmed sleeves.

Now, though the curate’s wife was fairly well-to-do in the world, the curate would keep no carriage. It was quite out of the question to drive in a pony-trap to the Castle, so the duchess “loaned” one of her own state chariots! She did more, a few hours before dinner-time a square box was handed in at the Clergy House, containing a mass of copper-coloured William Allen Richardsons, arranged in the newest mode by the duchess’s head-gardener.

Most of the house-party were assembled in the huge drawing-room when Mr. Giles, accompanied by his attendant satellites, threw open the door and announced—

“The Reverend and Mrs. Smith.”

It was blazing, too, with electric light, and sweet with perfume as I walked forward, to be encouragingly greeted by my dear old friend and patron.

“Their Excellencies are not down yet,” she said kindly; “but you are just in time——”

With this, the door was suddenly flung open again, and everyone stood up, whilst something like a cannon-ball plunged into the room! It was the Lord-Lieutenant! I found out, during the course of the evening, that this was his way of hurrying in, in order that the company might re-take their seats as soon as possible. A few more seconds, then a vision of loveliness in white satin and crystal, and a whole stomacher of magnificent pearls, walked in. It was sweet Lady L——. There were no introductions, and every usual order of procession into the dining-room was reversed. For the duchess went in first, leaning on the Lord-Lieutenant’s arm, immediately followed by the Duke, leading her Excellency. The rest of the company—thirteen couples—followed in stately order, the curate’s wife being last with some insignificant honourable.

But she had her revenge! Her husband was the first to speak, as he was called upon by a rap to say grace, and she found herself on Lord L——’s right hand. In order to show why she was there, I must explain that the royal chairs were placed in the centre of the long table, not at each end, and that their Excellencies and our hosts occupied the middle of the room. In a few minutes I had time to notice that their own footmen stood behind the regal party, but that the rest of us were served by the duke’s servants.

What a sight was that whole party! Every earl wore his star, and every countess her coronet. Jewels galore glittered everywhere. All the same, the most striking-looking man there was the curate, in his plain black dress, with his beautiful face just as usual—calm and radiant and spirituelle.

I do not think that dinner was quite a success, though a chef had been engaged to cook it and two others at a fee of £100. The game was burned, and the ice-puddings were in lumps. There were long pauses between the rêlêves, and an ominous wait before all the twelve courses were handed round. I was so much taken up with the scene that I frequently laid down my knife and fork, even before I had tasted the morsels set before me, and found everything whisked away in a second.

Nearly two hours that dinner occupied. Then, from behind a palm, our hostess nodded to the other end of the table, and his Excellency stood up. For this moment I had waited in fear and trembling. I knew we had to make the tour of that long table, then back out of the room, for royalty must never see behind the scenes.

I had practised a sweeping curtsey before the pier-glass at home. I had gracefully backed from before it over and over again, but when my turn came I grew the colour of my copper roses, and nearly tumbled over my train.

Nobody seemed to notice, however, not even James Giles, the major-domo, so I was fairly cool by the time the duchess took me by the arm to introduce me to her Excellency.

“It is as good as a presentation at Court, my dear,” she whispered, “and will give you the entrée.”

I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very frigidly. Behold the contrary.

Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her; and I really think she admired the yellow brocade.

“I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.”

Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the curate’s wife and she her Excellency.

Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I never saw Giles laugh.

As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.

“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.

“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.

“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.

“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me. “You are frozen.”

So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XXIV.

t was one o’clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door of the Larches, and Mrs. Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the night’s festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to wait until the next day before flying to Peggy’s side.

“No, no!” she cried. “You must not hinder me. If I can’t drive, I will walk! I would go to the child to-night if I had to crawl on my hands and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be spared this awful—awful news!”

Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought the young people home.

Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in eager welcome.

“You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse——”

“And—my Peggy?”

Lady Darcy’s lips quivered.

“Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it seems that she has saved my darling’s life. They can’t tell us about it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying ‘Peggy! Peggy!’ and we thought she meant that it was Peggy’s fault. We had heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were dressing her arms. I think she will know you——”

“Take me to her, please!” Mrs. Asplin said quickly. She had to wait several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add, “And Rosalind, how is she?”

“There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not serious. Peggy——”

She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent over the bed, and looked down on Peggy’s face through a mist of tears. It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow that Mrs. Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs. Asplin bent down to catch the faintly-whispered words—

“The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don’t tell Arthur!”

“‘The twenty-sixth’! What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur’s examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for his work?”

An infinitesimal movement of the head answered “Yes,” and she gave the promise in trembling tones—

“No, my precious, we won’t tell him. He could not help, and it would only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don’t trouble about it, darling. It will be all right.”

Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing remained but pain, and weariness, and mystery. Those of us who have come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it, and the weary waking.

Peggy lay in her little white bed and heard voices speaking in her ear, and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly as it appeared, a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it with languid curiosity wondering what manner of thing it could be, it would melt away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it would grow larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions, and she cried out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a weary puzzle in her brain, an effort to understand, but everything seemed mixed up and incomprehensible. She would look round the room and see the sunshine peeping in through, the chinks of the blinds, and when she closed her eyes for a moment—just a single, fleeting moment—lo! the gas was lit, and someone was nodding in a chair by her side. And it was by no means always the same room. She was tired, and wanted badly to rest, yet she was always rushing about here, there, and everywhere, striving vainly to dress herself in clothes which fell off as soon as they were fastened, hurrying to catch a train to reach a certain destination; but in each instance the end was the same—she was falling, falling, falling—always falling—from the crag of an Alpine precipice, from the pinnacle of a tower, from the top of a flight of stairs. The slip and the terror pursued her wherever she went; she would shriek aloud, and feel soft hands pressed on her cheeks, soft voices murmuring in her ear.

One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams—the vision of a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud which enveloped her on every side—a beautiful face which was strangely like, and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world which she had well nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden hair fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed over the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choirboys which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out a well-known name.

“Rosalind!” it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared and was seen no more.

There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than dishonour.

One day when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure he laughed, the hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, “Poor little love!” which was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so exceedingly stupid in their conversation!

Now and again she herself had something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and pains, the only answer which she received was a soothing “Yes, dear, yes!” “No, dear, no!” or a still more maddening “Yes, darling, I quite understand!”—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not know what she was saying. As a matter of fact it was exactly the other way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a sleep when she neither dreamt, nor slipped, nor fell, but opened her eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs. Asplin sitting by a table drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting slice of cake.

“I want some cake!” she said clearly, and Mrs. Asplin jumped as if a cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement—

“Wh—wh—wh—what?”

“Cake!” repeated Peggy shrilly. “I want some! And tea! I want my tea!”

Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes like so many marionettes!

Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew tired again, and rolling round into a soft little bundle among the blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.

(To be continued.)

GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS.

A Short Sketch of “Kent House,” the Y. W. C. A. Home for Students and Others at 91, Great Portland Street, London.

By the Hon. SUPERINTENDENT.

Their number is so great now that the most old-fashioned and conservative of us are bound to recognise women workers as a separate factor in our national life.

There has been a gradual, though very evident, upheaval in our social system during the last few years; new occupations are opening to women on every side, and girls flock to London and other large centres to fit themselves for these. They are the women of the future, keen, eager for the fray, with fresh interests, hopes and ambitions—a motley crowd gathered from every section of middle-class society.

It is both a happiness and an education to come into close personal touch with fresh young lives whose work will so greatly affect the well-being of England in the near future. For in each life there lie elements of the eternal and the divine, capacities for good or evil. It is a time for building. Character, tastes, habits, faith, may either be unformed or in a transition state. When the floods rise and storm winds blow, strong foundations laid at the outset of a girl’s independent career will help her to resist and stand firm.

We are a large community of women at Kent House, most of us young and untried, though among the older ones we are glad to number a few lecturers, teachers, and writers, besides nurses from one or other of the great nursing associations of London. Friends in need these last, especially in the winter-time, when chills and other small ailments attack our ranks like foes to be fought and conquered.

“Such a lot of women living together, and so little bickering and snarling!” a visitor exclaimed the other day. But I think most of us are too busy to be cantankerous, and our common womanhood, lived out in homelike surroundings, links us too closely together for petty word-wars.

Happy, well-filled student life forms the principal element of the household, though I was amused one day to find that even students may be unlearned in the etymology of words. One of our candidates for admission emulated the immortal M. Jourdain, who talked prose without knowing it, by remarking doubtfully, “I am not a student. I only go to Bedford College for classes.”

Most of the girls sleep in cubicles separated by thin wood partitions, the rooms being reserved for the older ladies, except two or three double rooms apportioned to girls who chum together.

Conversation is carried on freely “over the cubicle wall,” and listeners may sometimes overhear scraps illustrating the good comradeship and bonhomie of student life.

“Oh, Molly,” cries one girl to her mate next door, “when you leave the Slade and set up a studio, and Harold and I are earning enough to marry on, won’t we have many a jaw about jolly old Kent House left behind!”

Kent House prices are framed to meet slender resources. For twelve shillings weekly a girl can provide herself with a snug little cubicle and good breakfast and supper. The dining-hall menu is of a varied order, always tea, coffee, and cocoa without stint, a roast joint, and two or three made dishes, fish or soup, bread and butter, and jam or marmalade.

Dinner and afternoon tea are not included in the fixed board tariff, but paid for at table, restaurant fashion—uniform charge 9d. and 4d., respectively.

Anyone who orders “five o’clock tea” is served with a pot freshly made for each person, bread and butter, muffins, or tea-cake. We are glad to welcome non-residents to both these meals.

“But how can you make the concern pay at such prices?” asks some cynical political economist.

I answer, illogically of course, as I am a woman, “We do make it pay.”

Conversation at meals is by no means confined to the English tongue, for visitors of all nationalities throw themselves on the hospitality of Kent House. English “as she is spoke” by French and Germans makes many a quaint piece of word-painting.

A Dutch lady, describing her struggles with the letter “h,” raised a merry laugh at one of the supper-tables.

“I go to the Wood Saint John,” she remarked, “and I say to the gend’arme, ‘Which bus, if you please, sare, take I?’ He say to me quite short ‘Hatless’; but I find it not. Then I ask one other. He say to me, ‘You would mean Atlas—no?’ But I say, ‘No, I do not think—it is Hatless.’ He smile and he tell me, ‘The English peoples they goes without umbrellas, but without hats—oh, no, nevare!’”

It has been a work of great difficulty to establish and keep going a Home in the very centre of London on liberal housekeeping lines which yet should be self-supporting. Perhaps it has been even more difficult to keep in close personal relationship with girls and women who need society, friends, sympathy, amusement, yet whose freedom must in no sense be interfered with.

Without a sursum corda I believe both would be impossible. With it we have surmounted many difficulties and lived through many dark days. And as morning after morning we gather together as a household to give the first freshness of our thoughts to God, there may be many denominations amongst us, but there is one Christ, and there is a sacred unity underlying every variety of dogma or ritual—the unity of His spirit in His bond of peace.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

PART VI.

We now have to consider cottages erected of different materials and constructed in a totally different manner to those which we have hitherto described, and this variety in methods of building naturally leads to a distinct treatment of details and decoration.

AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.

We find all along the Kentish sea-coast houses and cottages, the chief materials entering into the construction of which are flint, sometimes cut so as to form the surface of their walls, and sometimes left irregular in shape, and the wall surfaces chiefly formed by the mortar in which the stones are embedded. This is called flint rubble. Where the flint is cut to a surface the angles, doorways, and window openings are constructed of stone or brick, and these are the portions of the building which receive ornamentation and give the character to the design, but where the flint is uncut and used as rubble, not unfrequently the whole surface is covered with a coating of plaster which is adorned in various ways, sometimes by simply drawing over it a toothed implement like a saw, sometimes by stamping or “pargeting,” and occasionally by mixing the plaster with coloured materials of several shades and arranging them in patterns.

This last method is somewhat akin to what the Italians call “sgraffito.” I do not think that genuine sgraffito was ever executed in England, but that in some parts of this country they obtained a very similar effect by other means. In genuine sgraffito a layer of dark coloured plaster is placed over the wall, and when that is dry a layer of white or lighter coloured plaster is spread over it while wet: this second coating is scraped away in places so as to form a pattern or design over the darker material.

The ornamentation of which we give a sketch from Calais-Court, near Dover, appears to have been done by coloured plasters placed side by side, not one over the other. We are not, however, quite sure about this, as the lower portions of the work have either been destroyed or never executed, so that it is difficult to examine it closely. The two wheel patterns are very curious and are probably inspired by the wheel windows of ancient churches. One of them is not unlike the east window of Barfreston church a few miles away. This kind of imitation of wheel windows is not uncommon in old decoration. The church of Chastleton in Oxfordshire has a floor of encaustic tiling entirely composed of this ornamentation. It is difficult to ascribe any exact date to this work at Calais-Court; it is probably not earlier than the sixteenth century. The house or cottage has been so much pulled about and altered, at later periods, that it is impossible to say whether it forms a portion of a larger structure or was always of its present humble proportions.

The first example we give is from a farm called “Hundred Elms,” between Harrow and Sudbury. It is now used as a stable with a loft over it. I think it was originally a dwelling-house, though as the whole of the interior has been dismantled and altered, its purpose cannot be distinctly traced; its great peculiarity is that everything is constructed of brick, the window-mullions and tracery being very neatly cut out of that material and put together with no little skill. It is thought that the Archbishops of Canterbury, in early times, had a residence at Hundred Elms (in the fourteenth century), and that afterwards they removed to Headstone, where there still exists a moated grange, now a farm-house.

AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.

The Rev. W. Done Bushell in the “Harrow Octocentenary Tracts” has entered into all the arguments connected with the question, and they are very interesting, but too long to quote here, nor would they help us in ascertaining the history or purpose of this interesting little building, as the Archbishops must have left Hundred Elms farm some two centuries before it was built, as it is evidently a sixteenth century work.

Brickwork in England, it should be observed, is rarely found in houses before the commencement of the sixteenth century. Although brick-making was never quite abandoned, yet it was very little used during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. The only important brick church erected during this period is Holy Trinity at Hull, which is of fine red brick. The thirteenth century walls of Yarmouth show dressings of white brick, used like stone, and brick vaulting constructed exactly after the manner of stone is to be seen in the ground floor of the Bishop’s Palace and the Chapter House of the Blackfriars monastery at Norwich. At the commencement of the sixteenth century brick was probably regarded as a luxury and was more expensive than stone. This explains the fact that the palaces and great mansions of the nobles are erected of this material in all districts where it could be procured. In the second quarter of the century, it became the practice to build all the better class of houses of brick in the eastern and home counties of England, though not so in the north or west where fine building stone was much more easily procurable. It is, however, very remarkable that even in the eastern counties, where beautiful brick was to hand, we scarcely ever find this material used for churches. There was evidently an idea prevalent in the minds of our forefathers that churches should be built of stone, and houses of brick, and this prejudice, to a great extent, prevails to the present day, and is very curious because it does not pertain in any other country in Europe. I think nearly all girls and women dislike brick churches, yet why they should do so it is difficult to understand. We should like some of our clever girls to tell us.

(To be continued.)

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER III.

It was Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs. Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them turn and look at each other in surprise.

“Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage.

“I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind.

How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things!”

Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer, for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that a visitor was approaching.

“Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at No. 27.

With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her visitor’s winning smile.

“I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will you not go on arranging your flowers?”

“I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and again during the performance.”

“Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my favourite flowers.”

“And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste. Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.”

“They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.

“How pure and true it looks!” she mused. Those large clear hazel eyes, with their black lashes, and delicately-pencilled dark eyebrows, the refined features, and rose-leaf skin, crowned by the rebellious fair hair which, in spite of all Marielle’s efforts, persisted in standing out round her shapely head, like a veritable golden halo—all these made up a picture which, once seen, was not likely to pass out of mind.

And the girl herself, with her tall, dainty figure, was as good and true as her face indicated.

Little wonder then that Mrs. Heritage thanked God every day on her knees for the precious gift of her daughter. Her flowers all disposed of into the various vases, Marielle slipped away to wash her hands, and to give a few directions concerning afternoon tea. Ann was to be sure to put the pretty new cloth worked by Marielle’s busy fingers on the table, and Mysie must not forget to send up some of her delicious hot scones, and the shortbread which she was famous for making.

Mysie, who nearly worshipped the young girl she had known from a baby, promised to do her best, and Marielle ran upstairs to remove the flower-stains from her fingers, humming as she went the air of a favourite song.

In the meantime the elder ladies, left alone, found themselves rapidly progressing towards intimacy. They had many tastes in common as they soon discovered, and each had known a great sorrow in the loss of one very dear to them. We know that in the one case, viz., that of Mrs. Heritage, it was the husband who had been taken away, while in that of Mrs. Duncan, it was the daughter.

It was not long before the conversation turned upon Marielle’s singing, and her mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the warm tribute of praise bestowed upon the girl by her new acquaintance.

Mrs. Duncan was proceeding to enlarge upon the pleasure it had given them all to hear her, when she was interrupted by the girl herself, and shortly after, the tea made its appearance.

The hot scones and shortbread were duly discussed by the three ladies in a manner that made old Mysie beam again when told of it by Marielle.

After extracting a promise from Mrs. Heritage and her daughter to the effect that they would soon come and see her, Mrs. Duncan took her departure. But all the way home she seemed to be haunted by the fair face, clear hazel eyes, and ringing laugh of Marielle Heritage.

“I like Mrs. Duncan, mother, don’t you?” asked the girl after their visitor had gone.

“Very much, darling, as far as I can tell at present,” replied Mrs. Heritage, fondly regarding her daughter as she ensconced herself upon a footstool at her feet, and prepared for a cosy talk in the firelight. “She has known trouble too, poor thing, she lost her only daughter two years ago.”

“Oh, did she, mumsie? How sorry I am! Perhaps that is what makes her look so sad at times.” For Marielle had noticed the wistful look that had crept over Mrs. Duncan’s face when regarding herself.

“It may be that she envies me my daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Heritage proudly. “Yet I do not think she is sad, for she told me that this Eastertide had been the happiest she had ever known.”

“I wonder why?” speculated Marielle.

“Perhaps we may learn the reason some day, darling. But here comes Ann with the lamp, and you must leave me in peace as I have several letters to write before post time.”

“And I must try over that new work for the Chester concert,” replied Marielle, and very shortly both the ladies were absorbed in their respective occupations.

Three months had come and gone, and the acquaintance begun between the Duncans and Heritages had rapidly ripened into a warm friendship. Scarcely a week now passed without, at any rate, the ladies of the two families meeting at one house or the other, and Mrs. Duncan had begun to feel that she should sorely miss either Mrs. Heritage or Marielle should anything occur to cause their removal from Manningham. True, the remark was frequently made to Marielle, “Oh, you ought to be in London!” But the girl so far had only smiled and answered very justly:

“Why should I go to London when I can find plenty to do here. There I should be only one among hundreds, while here I already have a position and name in the musical world.”

The force of her argument was undeniable, and the Heritages remained in Manningham.

One hot afternoon in July a telegram came to No. 27, York Road, from a pupil, to ask Marielle if she could give a lesson at Forman’s at five o’clock.

Marielle grumbled a little, not unnaturally, as it would necessitate her breaking a promise she had made to accompany her mother and Mrs. Duncan in a walk to the High Park at that hour. But the pupil was one whom it would not do to offend, so she wired back that she would give the lesson, and persuaded her mother not to give up the walk on that account, but to go notwithstanding her own absence.

“You will get your walk just the same, mother darling, won’t you? For I know Mrs. Duncan would be greatly disappointed if you did not go. It would seem as if you only cared to go when I was with you, and that would never do!”

Mrs. Heritage gave the required promise, and duly set forth at the time appointed.

The lesson over, Marielle glanced at her watch. It wanted five-and-twenty minutes to six.

“I know what I will do,” she said to herself as she closed the piano and drew on her gloves. “I’ll take a Roxton Road tram, and get out at the park gates. I am sure to find mother and Mrs. Duncan in the Rose-walk, they always gravitate in that direction”—smiling, as she pictured their surprise at her unexpected appearance. “I wonder I did not think of it before. I shall be in time to walk home with them in any case, if only I do not have to wait long for my tram!”

Good fortune awaited her in this respect, and the hands of the clock in the park tower were pointing to six as she sped along towards the Rose-walk. Presently she descried the two ladies she sought sitting together on a bench, but they were evidently far too much occupied with one another to take any heed of Marielle’s approach, if, indeed, they heard her footsteps on the grass. No one else was in sight, and the girl drew nearer until when within a few yards, her mother looked up and saw her.

“Why, Marielle darling, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Heritage exclaimed, but her voice sounded tremulous, and Marielle, coming closer still, scrutinised the faces of the two friends. The eyes of both were full of tears, which, as the girl gazed, overflowed. Not a little alarmed, she hurriedly asked what was the matter.

“Come and sit here between us, dear, and you shall know,” answered Mrs. Duncan for them both, smiling and making room on the bench beside her.

Puzzled, and it must be confessed, extremely curious, Marielle did as she was requested, and Mrs. Duncan began:

“I have just been telling your dear mother, Marielle, what it has often before been my wish to make known to her; but one naturally feels a little shy about speaking of such matters until sufficiently intimate with anyone to warrant doing so. What I had to tell was simply this, that under God, to you, dear girl, I owe the greatest happiness of my life. Your singing at St. Jude’s on the last Sunday in Lent, of ‘There is a green hill,’ was the means of opening my dear husband’s eyes to his need of a Saviour, and he has been a changed man ever since. Not that he was ever anything but good, kind, and true, but his belief was not a living faith, and his soul might be said to have been almost dead within him. Now all is different, and John and I, who had been at one upon every other point except religion, are now at one upon that too. I repeat that I have to thank you, dear girl, for the greatest happiness of my life, under God,” and taking Marielle’s hand in hers, Margaret Duncan pressed it affectionately.

For a few moments not a word was spoken, for Marielle could not control her voice sufficiently. She was moved beyond expression, and realised more fully than ever she had done what a gift had been entrusted to her by God, in that glorious voice and high musical talent. Presently however she turned to Mrs. Duncan with glistening eyes, and remarked simply:

“I shall always consider what you have told me, as my greatest reward, since no amount of money could ever be worth to me what the knowledge of the good I was the instrument, in God’s hands, of doing, will ever be.”

(To be concluded.)

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

By C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER III.

THE POOR ITALIAN PEASANT, ROSA GOVONA.

I was lost in thought, and dreaming of the incidents I had been permitted to see, when the vast hall and its dark recesses recurred to my mind, and the radiant angels, the recorders of noble actions, were again before me, lofty figures of light holding back the cloudy draperies, and bringing before me now an Italian countryside, hilly, rocky, its distant town, and campanile, the angelus sounding in the air; up the mountains and rugged hillsides a few peasants’ huts, and in woods and valleys, brooks and waterfalls making a music of their own, through which the angelus seemed to breathe the peace and rest of religion.

The evening sunshine threw a golden glow over woods and mountain, valleys and chestnut woods, and in one of those huts I saw a woman—a working woman past the first bloom of youth—alone, noted for her skill in needlework, one of dignified, calm, and modest demeanour. She was troubled at the distress of a friend, a young orphan girl who was forsaken and helpless, and, unfortunately, too young to live in that country without some responsible protector. She had come to Rosa in her trouble. “Come to me,” Rosa said. Her name was Rosa Govona. “Here shalt thou abide with me. Thou shalt sleep in my bed, thou shalt drink of my cup, and thou shalt live by the labours of thine own hands.”

I saw the young guest docile and industrious, a success and a comfort. Her safety and happiness became evident, and I saw inmate after inmate, young, helpless, and orphaned, gathered into Rosa’s home in the hills, working and learning, adding one industry after another amidst calumny and persecution. Ignorance and Vice lost no time in attacking them, and only their silence and patience, loyalty to their Head, and blameless lives, could, and did at last, quiet their enemies.

I saw, after a while, the authorities of the town (Mondovi) offer Rosa, whose community had grown too large for the little village where they first lived, a large house in the flowery plains of Carcassonne, but the foundress of the home still could not receive all who flocked to her. Lonely and poor girls, exposed to so many temptations of want and evil, pleaded for admission to the shelter and order of her home, and a still larger house at Brao rose, with its serene religion, its peaceful order, its intelligent work, its ceaseless industry.

Years went by, and lo! another scene arose before me—Turin, the bright capital of Piedmont, girt with its snow mountains, Monte Viso and the lesser heights around it—Turin, its stately palaces and white streets; and into this city came a poor working peasant, Rosa Govona, on whose wisdom and goodness a large household now depended, her suite two or three of the poor friendless orphan girls whom she had saved and befriended.

“I saw the Fathers of the Oratory of St. Philip moved for the love of God to give her a few rooms, and the soldiers at the barracks, roused to enthusiasm by the reports ringing through the town of the good work she had done, ransacked the place for straw mattresses and tables.

“Blessing and praising God, the little army of working women and girls march into Turin, and in a short time large buildings which belonged to a suppressed monastery are given over to Rosa and her people. The buildings are large, but they are soon filled with forsaken orphan girls, and the King (Charles Emanuel III.) considers and approves the judicious rules laid down by Rosa, and orders the factories of the establishment to be organised and registered by the magistrates who regulate commercial matters.

“I see this vast organisation under the special patronage of the Sardinian Government.”

Two great factories under the Rosinas (so called in honour of their foundress) have risen into public usefulness, the one of cloth for the army, the other of the best silks and ribands.

Thanks to this single-handed, poor working woman, Rosa Govona, I see three hundred women, without dowry, without any resource save their own labour and their conscientious discipline, earning an honest and comfortable livelihood, and able to provide in youth for the comfort and independence of old age.

I see houses depending on that at Turin established at Novara, Fossano, Savigliano, Saluzzo, Chieri, and St. Damian of Asti.

I see over every house which she founded, engraved over the entrance, the words she addressed to her first guest, “Tu mangerai col lavoro delle tue mani”—“Thou shalt live by the labour of thine own hands.”

I see twenty-one years spent in going over the provinces of Piedmont, and founding asylums for the unprotected and industrious poor of her own sex, until, exhausted by her labours, she died at Turin.

I see her remains deposited in the chapel of the establishment, and there, on the simple monument which covers them, may still be read the following epitaph:—

“Here lies Rosa Govona of Mondovi. From her youth she consecrated herself to God. For His glory she founded in her native place and in other towns, retreats, opened for forsaken young girls, so that they might serve God. She gave them excellent regulations, which attach them to piety and labour. During an administration of thirty years she gave constant proofs of admirable charity and of unshaken firmness. She entered on eternal life on the 28th day of February in the year 1776, the sixtieth year of her age. Grateful daughters have raised this monument to their mother and benefactress.”

I saw this noble and dignified life come to a close amidst those she had saved and blessed. “They say of her that she was ever doing, ever thoughtful and silent. In aspect she was grave, earnest, and resolute. I beheld her as they describe her, a serious and beneficent apparition. A plain cap, a white kerchief across her bosom, and a brown robe constituted the attire of the foundress of the Rosinas. She imposed no tie upon her people. They can leave their abode and marry if they wish, but they rarely do so.

“I saw, in a later vision of the Rosinas, they are still prosperous and happy. They are admitted from thirteen to twenty. They must be wholly destitute, healthy, active, and both able and willing to work. The old and infirm are supported by their younger companions.[2] To preserve the spirit of the modest and retired life which Rosa wished her daughters to lead, no commercial matters are transacted save at the establishment in Turin, which governs the other houses.

“The labours of the Rosinas are varied and complete. Whatever they manufacture they do with their own hands from beginning to end. They buy the cocoons in spring, and perform every one of the delicate operations which silk undergoes before it is finally woven into gros de Naples, levantines, and ribands. Their silks are of the best quality, but plain, in order to avoid the expense and inconvenience of changing their looms with every caprice of fashion. They also fabricate linen, but only a limited number of Rosinas can undergo the fatigue of weaving. In order not to interfere with the silk establishment at Turin, the manufacture of woollen stuffs is now carried on at Chieri. Government buys all the cloth of the army from the Rosinas. They even manufacture all the necessary ornaments, and make up the uniforms, with one cut out for them by tailors. Gold lace and the rich vestments of priests are likewise produced by these industrious women ... who are renowned for their skill in embroidery.

“There is a large magazine at Turin where the produce of their labours is gathered and sold by trustworthy persons, and is patronised by Government and by the population, for their goods are excellent in quality and fair in price, and there is a general preference for the work of these pure and innocent women. The house in Turin alone spends eighty thousand francs a year. It holds three hundred women, and is governed by six mistresses and one director, a woman, and an ecclesiastic administers and directs it; and it is frequently visited by the Queen, who grants it a special protection and interest.”

And this was the work of one poor and obscure workwoman, inspired by love of her orphan and helpless sisters, and in her devotion to her God.

(To be concluded.)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

Maddalena.—Yes; you had better see a medical man. Your symptoms may be due to anæmia, nervousness or heart disease. Of these the last is infinitely the least likely. Anæmia is the probable cause, and is, moreover, the simplest to cure.

Ailing.—There are two questions that we ask every dyspeptic—how long do you take over your meals? how much do you eat at each meal?

One of Five.—1. Dilute the sulphur ointment with an equal quantity of lanoline. Otherwise follow out exactly the advice we gave to “Fair Isabel,” April 9, 1898. You are at the age when acne is most common in girls.—2. The white marks on the nails which trouble your sister are very commonly found. The only way to prevent them is to trim the nails carefully; but do not scrape the nails, as this of itself will sometimes produce opaque patches. About once a week rub the nails over with vaseline or cold cream.

Much Frightened.—On page 63 of the present volume you will find an “answer” dealing at some length with the question of the causation of typhoid fever by oysters.

Minerva.—1. There is no objection to using cocoanut oil for the hair if you like it.—2. No; five feet two inches is by no means short for a girl of fourteen and a half—rather the reverse, in fact. During childhood and adolescence people increase chiefly in weight during the winter, and chiefly in height during the summer.

A Reader.—“Headache” is one of those symptoms which are met with in a very large number of affections. It is not a specialised symptom pointing to one organ definitely as the seat of disease. It is chiefly met with in the following ailments:—1. Injury, or disease of the brain. In this headache is nearly always present—it is a persistent, intense pain. 2. Abnormal states of the blood. In the infectious fevers headache is extremely common. In typhoid fever it is always present at the beginning of the disease. Under this class of headaches from abnormal states of the blood must be considered the headaches of Bright’s disease, of anæmia, and of indigestion and biliousness. 3. Headache due to mental fatigue. According to which of these causes is at work, the seat of the headache will vary. If the head aches on top, anæmia is the probable cause. Aching of the back of the head is often associated with errors of refraction of the eyes—an extremely common cause of mental fatigue and headache. The various forms of biliousness give rise to headaches in different localities. Frontal headache, occipital headache, and a sense of fulness deep within the skull are all commonly met with in indigestion and biliousness. Fatigue of the brain is a common cause of headaches, and it is, we believe, the cause of your trouble. Overwork, too little sleep, innutritious food, badly-ventilated rooms and errors of refraction of the eyes, all produce fatigue of the brain and headaches. Then there is the “nervous headache,” about which nobody knows very much. To treat headaches it is first necessary to find out what produces them. If you suppress the cause, the headaches will go. In treating headaches it is very necessary to prevent the bowels from becoming confined. Eat well, sleep well, and ventilate your rooms well.

Constant Reader.—The treatment of debility is one of very great difficulty. For the condition, though alas! so very common, is not well understood, and we have no sound working hypothesis as to its cause. The most plausible theory is that debility is loss of nervous energy—that in this condition the nervous system is in the same state as the blood is in anæmia. The best way to treat the condition is by a strong tonic treatment to stimulate the flagging nervous system. The word “tonic” naturally brings up visions of quinine and iron to most persons. Quinine is a tonic, but it is not the tonic which is required in debility. The medicinal tonics are drugs which stimulate for a short time. But in debility we want something which will stimulate for weeks or months, and the Pharmacopœia does not provide us with drugs wherewith to do this. But we can get a strong tonic treatment without drugs in the following way:—Eat well of highly-nutritious food, plenty of meat and green vegetables, custards, milk, etc. Avoid food which fills you up without giving you sufficient nourishment, such as excessive quantities of starchy food, dried peas and beans, soups, etc. Eat as much as you wish. For drinks, the best are milk or milk and soda. Beef essences taken as stimulants are sometimes useful. Cod-liver oil, maltine, cream, etc., are also very helpful. These are definite foods and not drugs. Tea and coffee may be taken in moderation. You should also take plenty of sleep, and plenty of healthy, but not severe, exercise; and, if possible, a change of air and scene.

Optimist.—Some years ago an ingenious person made the remark that there existed on the earth vegetable productions which could cure all human diseases; that we had only to find the trees and we should have a specific for every ailment. Quite so. We have only to find the trees. But it is a significant fact that although we have explored at least nine-tenths of our planet, and have tried almost all vegetable productions for the treatment of disease, we have not yet discovered one single specific for any disease. We see there are something over ten thousand ways by which a man can lose his life. We suppose therefore that we are to discover ten thousand trees with ten thousand separate actions. True, the vegetable kingdom has given up many valuable drugs, but not one single specific has it supplied to us. The mineral kingdom has given us the nearest approach to a specific, i.e., iron for anæmia.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

Miss Vardon (India).—Do not be disappointed when we tell you that we think it is better to wait for a correspondent until the plague, of which you speak, has ceased raging. You have been inoculated, your house is free, and doubtless there is no danger whatever, but your correspondent or her elder friends might feel a little uneasy. Besides, we have received so many letters offering correspondence with the lady in question that we fear yours would be too late.

Sissie Redmond.—1. Write about your farthing to the authorities of the British Museum or of South Kensington Numismatic Department. We thank you for your letter. As you grow older you will not mind “having your hair up” and so forth, but the feelings you express are natural enough for your age.—2. If we had “easier puzzles,” we should have so many solutions that the Puzzle Editor would be wholly buried alive under manuscripts, instead of only half buried, as he is at present.

A Lover of the “G.O.P.”—1. The whole sonnet by Archbishop Trench is as follows. We commend its advice to you with much sympathy:—

“Thou cam’st not to thy place by accident;

It is the very place God meant for thee;

And shouldst thou there small scope for action see,

Do not for this give room to discontent;
Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent
In idly dreaming how thou mightest be,

In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free

From outward hindrance or impediment.
For presently this hindrance thou shalt find
That without which all goodness were a task

So slight, that virtue never could grow strong:

And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,
The Imposer’s—over-burdened thou shalt ask,
And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.”

Archbishop Trench’s Poems are published by Macmillan.—2. We do not think your writing is, as you say, “very bad.” The tails of your g’s and y’s are not bold enough for the rest of it. The only way to improve is daily to copy some model you admire, and never to let yourself write carelessly.

C. G.—1. Many thanks for your pleasant letter. We have no knowledge of the word “crofts,” in the sense in which it is quoted, and should think it must be a misprint for “cups” or “crockery”; but if it is a local expression, you would gain information by writing direct to the author of the article in question.—2. If you cannot read an English play with your party of thirty German girls—and we see your difficulty—could you spend the time in working and reading some very interesting English story aloud in turn? If that would not do, the only alternative seems to be, to play English games. Of these there are a great variety. “Subject and Object” is a good game. Two go out of the room, and return personating a character in history or fiction, and some thing or animal well known in connection with the character, such as King John and Magna Charta; Una and the Lion. The others, by questioning them, have to guess who and what they are. Any English handbook of games, or The Girls’ Indoor Book (56, Paternoster Row) would be useful. Two questions are our limit, but we could not in any case help you about the translations.

Pansy.—If you had told us in what part of England you live, we could have helped you more definitely. There are numbers of schools and classes all over the kingdom where girls can be trained as teachers in any branch of technical instruction, and we can only advise you to write for exact information to the Secretary, Board of Technical Education, St. Martin’s Lane, London, W.C. You may also refer to Mrs. Watson’s articles in The Girl’s Own Paper, for 1897, on “What the County Councils are doing for Girls.”

F. L. J.—Your verses are very immature. For instance, you say “is come” and “has come” in close connection; your lines are of irregular length, and verses ii. and iii. dispense with rhymes, excepting in the chorus. Your metaphors are mixed—sea, blast, battle, &c., are all applied to life, in a confusing manner. We do not wish to be severe, but it is necessary to observe the laws of composition and of versification in attempting poetry.

Ancient.—It is impossible to value old Bibles without seeing them. Yours is probably a reprint of the Geneva version and not valuable. If, however, you would like to forward it to J. Arnold Green, Esq., 56, Paternoster Row, London, E.C., he will be happy to give you advice respecting it. Or you might apply to a firm of booksellers—Messrs. Sotheran & Co., 140, Strand.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Cookie (Barcelona).—Perhaps the following recipe would suit you. Take one pint of wholemeal, one teacup of milk, butter of about the size of a walnut; add a few small raisins and a teaspoonful of baking powder. Mix well, and bake for about half an hour. To make good soda buns, take of flour half a pound, butter three ounces, of sugar three ounces, of candied orange-peel one ounce (or more, cut in small pieces), one small teacupful of milk, the yolks of two eggs and white of one, of carbonate of soda a small teaspoonful (not heaped), and a little grated nutmeg. Beat and blend all well together, butter an oven-tin, and drop the mixture into it, and bake for fifteen or twenty-five minutes in a moderate oven. This will make about a dozen small buns.

A. M. Gard.—If the man to whom you are attached has told you that he cannot at present marry, on account of his circumstances, and says, in addition, that the oftener you meet each other, the harder it is for you, and begs you not to fret, it is clear that he considers it expedient for both to be free, and to keep apart. Under these circumstances it would be both honourable and unselfish to keep out of his society. We should always look for Divine leading, and pray for it; and the indications in this case (quite out of your control) are very clear, and point to retirement on your part.

A Berkshire Reader.—Take eight eggs for the rice cake. Tea, loaves and biscuits are to be obtained of any baker or grocer.

September.—1. The meaning of the name Cicely is “blind.” It is derived from Cecil, a male name, from the Latin Cæcillius, a diminutive of cæcus, “blind.” The original woman’s name was Cecilia, and Cicely is a corruption of it.—2. Your question is very vague, and you do not say in what part of London you wish to reside. The Young Women’s Christian Association has many Homes for women in business. Apply for information at the head office, 26, George Street, Hanover Square, W.

Lora.—This name is a form of Laura, and is found as early as 1208 A.D. Laura is derived from laurus, a laurel or bay-tree. Laura corresponds with the Greek name Daphne.

May Morey.—The description you give sounds like the old willow pattern, which was manufactured at Stoke-upon-Trent, by the first Josiah Spode, about 1780. But we think perhaps the plate may be porcelain, in which case the name Spode would be that of the second Josiah Spode, who introduced the manufacture of porcelain in 1800. If the mark be painted in red, blue or purple, the plate is porcelain; if impressed on the clay, it is not. The first Josiah Spode introduced the blue printed china. We could not say what the value is, unless we knew its condition.

Christabel.—1. We should be afraid that the letters were not genuine. The people who offer large sums of money on condition of a million or more stamps being collected, are usually not to be found when the subject is inquired into. But why not put an end to the nuisance by writing a postcard to the sender and asking her to send no more “chain letters” to you, as you will forward no more?—2. The two books you inquire about are not of very great value. The Milton, by John Gillies, was published in 1788, and went through three editions. If yours be the one of 1793, it is number two, and is worth about 2s. The Shakespeare, or rather The History and Antiquities of Stratford-on-Avon, by R. B. Wheler, 1806, 8vo., is worth about 16s., if in good condition, as it is a standard work on Warwickshire. Many thanks for your kind wishes which we fully reciprocate.

Beattie.—The uncle has no legal authority at all, unless a guardian or trustee, save that a near relative and an older man may have. The duties of trustees are to see all the accounts of the trust, know all the investments, and never to sign any papers they do not fully understand.

Mother Kitty.—1. White felt hats can be cleaned with flour, and will look quite well after rubbing. Of course all the trimming should be taken off, and when finished, the flour must be well beaten out, so that it may not come off on everything.—2. Handwriting is clear and neat—what is called a “running hand.” Why do you put a knot at the ends of the t’s? It is incorrect.

Cookmaid.—1. The date appears to be 1744, if your letters be right. We cannot say of what value it is, because you omit the author’s name.—2. The snuff-box is of value as a curiosity, but we could not say of how much. A great deal of the wood of the Royal George was used for such things.

Mayblossom.—The name of David’s mother is unknown, as we have often said. His grandmother was Ruth.

A Lover of the “G.O.P.”—It is always better to err on the side of kindness, and if you have had a conversation on business matters, and are constantly meeting, you will find it awkward, and it would be impolitic if you did not bow when you see him in the street. This does not entail any further intimacy.

Marigold.—The best German yeast is very good for making bread. The “D.C.L.” brand is what we prefer for our own home use. We should employ this in preference to brewers’ barm.

Noel.—The name Noel is derived from the Latin Dies Natalis—Christmas. It may mean born on Christmas Day. The French is Noel, Italian Natali, Spanish and Portuguese Natal. And this last brings us to the origin of the name of one of our South African colonies, Natal, which was bestowed by Vasco da Gama, because he discovered it on Christmas Day.

Le Duc.—We think your letter a very charming piece of effrontery, and even the commendation you are kind enough to lavish on us does not blind our eyes to the fact that you are a boy. We are glad to see, however, that you say “only a boy” in your letter; so we will, in consideration of that humility, overlook the fact that your place is in the “B.O.P.” Strange to say, we have a great many boys who like our paper, and we are glad to know they take an interest in what their sisters are doing. The Diary you inquire about, Write as you like It, is issued by Charles Letts & Co., so you can order it through your stationer. About the pens, we regret we cannot help you, as we hear the same complaint from others. But an Italian lady tells us that the only good ones are to be purchased in Italy, which might form a good excuse for going there. Any ordinary blank book will do for a diary; there are many kinds described in the article of Feb. 1897.

Monah Stairs.—We do not think matters can be as bad as you say; and you have your aunt and both your brothers to consult, and no one will, we are sure, coerce you. You have also the doctor of whom you speak; so we hope, by this time, you have cheered up and are looking on the brighter side of things.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] All this from a Frenchman’s account.

[2] From Women of Christianity, by Julia Kavanagh, p. 326.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX. NO. 1003, MARCH 18, 1899 ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

- “OUR HERO.”

- OUR LILY GARDEN.

- IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

- PART VI.

- SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.

- A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.

- ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS.

- OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES; OR, VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

- PART VI.

- HIS GREAT REWARD.

- CHAPTER III.

- A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

- CHAPTER III.

- ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

- MEDICAL.

- STUDY AND STUDIO.

- MISCELLANEOUS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE