{289}

THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

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

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

A BRIDAL SONG.

“GOD SPEED THEE!”

All rights reserved.]

{290}

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

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

CHAPTER XIX.

ORDERED TO BITCHE.

Roy forgot everything
except the
affair on hand.
He dashed upstairs
and into
the salon at a
headlong pace,
knocking over a
chair as he entered.
It fell with
a crash, and Roy
stopped short. Denham was on the
sofa, no one else being present except
Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if
she were going out, had just taken an
empty cup from his hand.

“Roy, you unkind boy,” she said,
turning with a look of positive anger.
“How you can do it!”

“O I’m sorry. I didn’t remember.
Isn’t Den better?”

“Not remember! But you ought to
remember. So without thought. It is
selfishness.”

For Lucille to be seriously displeased
with Roy was an event so new in
his experience, that Roy gazed with
astonished eyes.

“No matter,” interposed Denham.
“Had a good time, Roy?”

“I’ve seen lots of people. Den, I’m
sorry, really. I didn’t mean——”

“No, of course not. It’s all right.”

“Where is my father?” Roy asked in
a subdued voice.

“Gone out—but ten minutes since,”
said Lucille. “General Cunningham
sent to see him on business. And
Colonel Baron has to go with him somewhere,
and cannot return soon. So
dinner is put off till six.”

“And mamma?”

“Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the
same direction. Captain Ivor thought
he might get half-an-hour’s sleep. Roy,
be good, I entreat. Do not fidget, and
knock over chairs, and talk, talk, talk,
without ending.”

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards
the door, adding, as she went,
“I also have to see someone, but I
shall be back soon.”

Roy sat down in a favourite attitude,
facing the back of a chair, and wondering
what to do next. Would it be right
to tell Denham what had happened?
Would it be wrong to put off telling?
Curtis had enjoined him to speak at
once; but Curtis had not known the
posture of affairs. The matter might
be of consequence, or it might not.
Roy was disquieted, but not seriously
uneasy; and he hesitated to worry
Denham without cause.

“Seen anybody?” asked Ivor.

“Yes; numbers.”

Then a break.

“Found Curtis?”

“Yes. And Carey too. Would you
like to hear all about it?”

“By-and-by, I think. It will keep.”

Silence again, and Roy debated
afresh. What if his action should
mean bringing Curtis into trouble?
That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips
the preliminary “I say, Den!” and
three times he refrained. The third
time some slight sound escaped him, for
Denham asked drowsily, “Anything
you want?”

“Lucille told me not to talk. Does
it matter?”

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half
hoped. He was evidently dropping off,
and Roy decided that a short delay was
unavoidable. He took up a volume that
lay near; and, being no longer a book-hater,
he became absorbed in its contents.
General Wirion, chips of wood,
the Imperial nose, and irate landladies,
faded out of his mind. The matter was
no doubt a pity, but after all it meant
only—so Roy supposed—a pull upon his
father’s purse. Boys are apt to look
upon parental purses as unlimited in
depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy
kept as motionless as any girl; not that
girls are always quiet. An hour passed;
another half-hour; and he began to
grow restless. Might it be possible to
slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet,
in the hall below, broke into the stillness,
and Denham woke up. “This is
lazy work,” he said wearily. “Roy—here
yet! What time is it?”

“Nearly five. Dinner isn’t till six.
Head any better?”

“Yes. I’m wretched company for you
to-day. Different to-morrow, I hope.”

“You can’t help it. You’ve just got
to get rested—that’s all. I say, what a
noise they are making downstairs.
Frenchmen do kick up such a rumpus
about everything.”

The door opened hurriedly, and
Lucille came in, wearing still her bonnet,
as if just returned from a walk.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I do
not know what it means, but I must tell.
I have no choice. O it surely must
be a mistake, it cannot be truly——”

Lucille startled herself no less than
her listeners by a sharp sob. She
caught Roy’s arm with both hands,
holding him fast. “Roy—Roy—what
is it that you have done? O what have
you done?” she cried.

“Is it that bosh about the cast? O
I know. They want to be paid, I
suppose. Lucille, Den has been asleep,
and I’ve been as quiet as anything—and
then for you to come in like this!
Den, you just keep still, and I’ll go and
speak to them. I’ll settle it all. I
know my father will pay.”

“No, no, no—stay—you must not
go,” panted Lucille. “Stay—it is the
gendarmes! And they come to arrest
you—to take you away!”

The word “gendarmes” acted as an
electric shock, bringing Denham to his
feet in a moment.

“What is it all about? I do not
understand.” He touched Roy on the
shoulder, with an imperative—“Tell
me.”

“It was only—I’d have told you
before, only I didn’t like to bother you.
It was at Curtis’. There was a bust of
Boney on the mantelshelf, and I just
shied bits of wood at it, in fun. And I
said ‘À bas Napoléon,’ or something of
that sort; and then I threw a ball, and
the idiotic thing tumbled down and
broke into pieces. And the landlady—she’s
a regular out-and-out virago—happened
that very moment to come in,
and she saw and heard. And she
vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried
to explain things away, and I offered to
pay, but she wouldn’t listen. She went
on shrieking at us, and said it was an
insult to the Emperor, and Wirion
should know of it. She’s a Bonapartist—worse
luck! Curtis made me hurry
off, and said I was to tell my father at
once. But he was out, and you—you
know——” with a glance at Lucille,
who wrung her hands, while Ivor said,

“Roy, were you utterly mad?”

“I—don’t know. Was it very stupid?
Will it matter, do you think? I’m
sorry about you—most. I thought they
would wait till to-morrow; but I suppose
they want me to go and pay
directly. Is that it?” looking towards
Lucille.

“No, no, no,” she answered, again
wringing her hands. “It is to take—to
take Roy—to the citadel!”

“To the citadel!” Roy opened his
eyes. “O I say, what a farce! For
knocking down a wretched little image,
not worth fifty sous!”

“For breaking a bust of the Emperor,
and for shouting—‘À bas——’”
Lucille could not finish.

“You mean—that they will keep him
there to-night?” Denham said.

She looked at him with eyes that were
almost wild with fear. “Oui—oui—the
citadel to-night! And to-morrow—they
say—to Bitche.”

“To—Bitche!” whispered Roy. He
grew white, for that word was a sound
of terror in the ears of English prisoners,
and his glance went in appeal to
Ivor.

“Stay here, Roy. I will speak to
them.”

Ivor crossed the room with his rapid
resolute stride, and went out, meeting
the gendarmes half-way downstairs.
Lucille clutched Roy’s arm again, half
in reproach, half in protection. “Ah,
my poor boy! mon pauvre garçon! how
could you? Ah, such folly! As if there
were not already trouble enough! Ah,
my unhappy Roy!”

“Shut up, Lucille! You needn’t jaw
a fellow like that! It can’t mean anything
really, you know. Wirion just
thinks he can screw a lot of money out
of my father. And that’s the worst of
it,” declared Roy, in an undertone. “I
hate to have done such a stupid thing—and{291}
I hate the worry of it for Den, just
now when he’s like this. But you know
they couldn’t really send me to Bitche
only for smashing a paltry image. It
would be ridiculous.”

“Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what
it means to be under a despot,
such as—but one may not dare to
speak.”

Lucille’s tears came fast. They
stood listening. From the staircase
rose loud rough voices, alternating with
Ivor’s not loud but masterful tones.
That he was prisoner, and that they
had power to arrest him too, if they
chose, made not a grain of difference
in his bearing. It was not defiant or
excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty;
and Lucille, just able to see him from
where she stood, found herself wondering—did
he wish to go to prison with Roy?
She could almost have believed it.

“Eh bien, messieurs. Since l’Empéreur
sees fit to war with schoolboys,
so be it,” she heard him say sternly in
his polished French. “To me, as an
Englishman, it appears that his Majesty
might find a foe more worthy of his
prowess.”

“But, ah, why make them angry?”
murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came
back. One look at his face made
questions almost needless.

“Then I am to go, Den?”

“I fear—no help for it. The men
have authority. You will have to spend
to-night in the citadel. But I am coming
with you, and I shall insist upon seeing
Wirion himself.”

“But you—you cannot! You are
ill!” remonstrated Lucille. “Will not
Colonel Baron go? Not you.”

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

“Roy must take a few things with
him—not more than he can carry himself.
I hope it may be only for the one
night. They allow us twenty minutes—not
longer. That is a concession.”

“I will put his things together for
him,” Lucille said quickly.

“One moment. May I beg a kindness?”

“Anything in the world.”

“If Colonel Baron does not return
before we start—and he will not—would
you, if possible, find him, and beg him
to come at once to the citadel? Then,
Mrs. Baron——”

Ivor’s set features yielded slightly;
for the thought of Roy’s mother without
her boy was hard to face. Lucille
watched him with grieved eyes.

“I will tell her, but not everything—not
yet as to Bitche, for that may be
averted. I will stay with her—comfort
her—do all that I am able. Is this what
you would ask?”

“God bless you!” he said huskily,
and she hurried away.

“Den, must I go with those fellows
really?” asked Roy, beginning to understand
what he had brought upon himself.
“I never thought of that. Can’t you
manage to get me off? Won’t they
let me wait—till my father comes
back?”

“They will consent to no delay. He
will follow us soon. And, Roy, I must
urge you to be careful what you say.
Any word that you may let slip without
thinking will be used against you. I
hoped that you had learnt that lesson.”

A listener, overhearing Denham with
the gendarmes, might have questioned
whether he had learnt it himself; but
Roy was in no condition of mind to be
critical. Dismay grew in his face.

“And if you can’t get me off—— If
I am sent to Bitche——” with widening
gaze.

“If you are”—with much more of an
effort than Roy could imagine—“then
you will meet it like a man. Whatever
comes, you must be brave and true
through all. Keep up heart, and
remember that it is only for a time.
And, my boy, never let yourself say or
do what you would be ashamed to tell
your father.”

“Or—you”—with a catch of his
breath.

“Or me!”—steadily. “Remember
always that you are an Englishman—that
you are your father’s son—that you
are my friend—and that your duty to
God comes first. For your mother’s
sake, bear patiently. Don’t make
matters worse by useless anger. And—think
how she will be praying for
you!”

Denham could hardly say the words.
Roy’s lips quivered.

“Yes, I will! Only, if you could get
me off!”

“My dear boy, if they would take me
in your stead——”

“Den, I’m so sorry! I’m not
frightened, you know—only it’s horrid
to have to go! Just when you’ve come
and all! And it would have been so
jolly! And it’s such a bother for you,
too! I do wish I hadn’t done it!”

Ten minutes later the two started—Roy
under the gendarme-escort, Ivor
keeping pace with them.

Lucille then hastened away on her
sorrowful mission, leaving a message
with old M. Courant, in case either
Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return
during her absence—not the same
message for Mrs. Baron as for the
Colonel.

Half-an-hour’s search brought her
into contact with the latter, and she
poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier
and heavier grew the cloud upon his
face. He knew too well the uses that
might be made of Roy’s boyish escapade.
At the sound of that dread word—“Bitche”—a
grey shadow came.

“Captain Ivor went with Roy to the
citadel. He ought not—he has been so
suffering all day—but he would not let
Roy go alone. And he asked, would
you follow them as soon as possible?
For me, I will find Mrs. Baron, and
will stay with her.”

The Colonel muttered words of thanks,
and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able
to do anything? Would they even be
admitted to the presence of the autocratic
commandant? Denham might
talk of insisting; but prisoners had no
power to insist. If he did, he might
only be thrown into prison himself!
Was that what he wanted—to go with
the boy?

“Ah, j’espère que non!” Lucille
muttered fervently.

And if they were admitted, what
then? Would money purchase Roy’s
immunity from punishment? General
Wirion’s known cupidity gave some
ground for hope. Yet, would he neglect
such an opportunity for displaying
Imperialist zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself
as she flew homeward. On the way she
met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one
moment stopped in response to the
other’s gesture.

“Is it true?” Mrs. Curtis asked, with
a scared look. “They tell me Roy has
been arrested. Is it so? My husband
could do nothing. The landlady was
off before he could speak to her again.
He thought that Roy and the Colonel
would be coming round directly, and so
he waited in. But they did not come.
And now two gendarmes are quartered
in our lodgings, and Hugh may not stir
without their leave. It is horrid! But—Roy?”

“I cannot wait! Roy is taken
to the citadel! I have to see to
his mother! Do not keep me,
Madame.” And again Lucille sped
homeward.

As she had half hoped, half dreaded,
she found Mrs. Baron indoors before
herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy
at Captain Ivor’s absence.

“He ought not to have gone out,”
she said. “He will be seriously ill if
he does not let himself rest. It is Roy’s
doing, I suppose—so thoughtless of
Roy! I must tell Denham that I will
not have him spoil my boy in this way.
It is not good for Roy, and Denham
will suffer for it. You do not know
where he is gone?”

“Oui!” faltered Lucille, and Mrs.
Baron looked at her.

“You have been crying! What is
it?”

As gently as might be, Lucille broke
the news of what had happened; and
Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy—her
Roy—in the hands of the pitiless
gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the
citadel! Lucille made no mention of
Bitche; but too many prisoners had
been passed on thither for the idea not
to occur to Mrs. Baron.

“And it was I who brought him to
France! It was I who would not let
him be sent home when he might have
gone! O Roy, Roy!” she moaned.
Lucille had hard work to bring any
touch of comfort to her.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a
messenger arrived with a pencil note
from Colonel Baron to his wife—

“Do not sit up if we are late. We
are doing what we can. I cannot
persuade Denham to go back.”

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor
Lucille could dream of doing anything
else. This suspense drew them together,
and Lucille found herself to be one with
the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and at
length eleven o’clock. Soon after came
a sound of footsteps. Not of bounding,
boyish steps. No Roy came rushing
gaily into the room. Lucille had found
fault with him that afternoon for his{292}
noisy impulsiveness; but now, from her
very heart, she would have welcomed
his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron
and Ivor entered.

The Colonel’s face was heavily overclouded,
while Denham’s features were
rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

“Roy?” whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken
question. Colonel Baron stood with
folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham
moved two or three paces away,
and rested one arm on the back of a
tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep
himself upright.

“Roy!” repeated Mrs. Baron, her
voice sharpened and thinned. “You
have not brought—Roy!”

A single piercing laugh rang out.
She stopped the sound abruptly with
one quick indrawing of her breath, and
waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and
no sound came. Denham remained
motionless, not even attempting to raise
his eyes.

“Oui!” Lucille said restlessly. “Il
est—il est——”

The Colonel managed a few short
words. There was no possibility of
softening what had to be said.

“To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to
Bitche!”

“To Bitche!” echoed Lucille.
“Ah-h!”

To Bitche—that terrible fortress-prison,
the nightmare of Verdun
prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to
Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly
as if on the verge of fainting. Roy,
her petted and idolised darling—her
boy, so tenderly cared for—to be hurried
away to Bitche!

Lucille hardly could have told which
of the two she was watching with the
more intense attention—Mrs. Baron,
stunned and wordless, or Denham, with
his fixed still face of suffering.

“And nothing—nothing—can be
done?” she asked.

“We have tried everything!” the
Colonel answered gloomily.[1]

(To be continued.)

A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.

No true child-lover would
maintain that all children
are equally lovable,
or indeed, in
some—though, I
think, rare instances—lovable
at all.

But in this, speaking
for myself, I detect no
inconsistency, no falsity
to one’s colours.
For the qualities or deficiencies
which make
a child unlovable may
be summed up in one
word; they are such
as make it unchildlike.
And this, not necessarily,
if at all, as regards
a child’s mental
qualities. It is the
moral side of child-nature
that attracts—the
heart, the spirit.
For painful as it is to meet with precocity of
mind in some instances, especially the precocity
of the kind forced upon the children of the
poor not unfrequently, this, unchildlike as it
is, is by no means incompatible with great
sweetness and beauty of the moral character,
great power of affection, delightful candour,
even that most exquisite of childlike possessions—trustfulness.

Yes, the root of a child’s nature, the
essential groundwork of it, to be lovely and
lovable, must be childlike. But a literal
meaning must be given to the pretty adjective.
I would not even altogether eliminate from it
certain qualities which might, strictly speaking,
be perhaps more correctly described as
childish, seeing that if we limited the
word too narrowly, we should lose others of
the great charms of children, their queer,
delightful inconsistencies and exaggerations,
their quaint originality, their grotesque
imaginings, all of which, in more or less
degree, a real child, even a dull or stupid one,
possesses.

Take, for example, the unconscious egoism,
almost amounting, logically speaking, to
“arrogance,” of most children. The world,
nay, the universe, is their own little life and
surroundings; their house and family are the
rules, the proper thing, all others exceptions.
It is not, in most instances, till childhood is
growing into a phase of the past, that the
sense of comparison is really developed, or
that the young creatures take in that other
circumstances or conditions besides their own
may be what should be, that they themselves do
not hold a monopoly of the model existence.

There is something pretty as well as absurd
in this—to my mind, at least, in certain
directions, something almost sacred, which it
would be desecration to touch with hasty or
careless fingers; which, one almost grieves to
know, must pass, like all illusions, however
sweet and innocent, when its day is over.

To recall some recollections of my own
childish beliefs—if the egotism may be
pardoned, on the ground that one’s own
experiences of this nature cannot but be the
most trustworthy. I often smile to myself,
with the smile “akin to tears,” when I look
back to some of the faiths, the first principles,
of my earliest years.

Foremost among these was the belief in the
absolute perfection of my father and mother.
I thought that they could not do wrong, that
they knew everything. I remember feeling
extremely surprised and perplexed on some
occasions when, having involuntarily—for I,
like most children, but seldom expressed or
alluded to my deepest convictions—allowed
this creed of mine to escape me, the subjects of
it—though not without a smile—endeavoured
tenderly to correct my estimate of them.

“There are many, many things I do not
know about, my little girl,” my father would
say, adding once, I remember—for this remark
impressed me greatly—“I only know enough
to begin to see that I am exceedingly
ignorant.” And my mother was even more
emphatic in her deprecation of our nursery
fiat that “mamma was quite, quite good.”

Not that these protestations shook our
faith. In my own case I know that the
unconscious arrogance with regard to family
conditions extended to ludicrous details. I
thought that the Christian names of my parents
were the only correct ones for papas and
mammas; I believed that the order in which
we children stood—there were six of us, boy,
girl, boy, girl, boy, girl—was the appointed
order of nature, that all deviation from these
and other particulars of the kind was abnormal
and incorrect, and I viewed with condescending
pity the playmates whose brothers and
sisters were wrongly arranged, or whose
parents suffered under “not right” names.

Gradually, of course, these queer, childish
“articles of belief” faded—melted away in
the clearer vision of experience and developing
intellect. But they left a something behind
them which I should be sorry to be without;
and they left too, I think, a certain faculty of
penetration into infant inner life, which
circumstances have shown themselves kindly
in preserving and deepening. I have learnt
to feel since that nearly all children have
their own odd and original theories of things,
though many forget, as life advances, to
remember about their own childhood’s beliefs
and imaginings. And this is not unnatural,
when we take into account the rarity and
difficulty of obtaining a child’s full confidence,
for uncommunicated, unexpressed thoughts
are apt to die away from want of word-clothing.
One really learns more about
children from the revelations of grown-up
men and women who “remember,” and have
cherished their remembrances, than from the
children of the moment themselves.

Still, queer ideas crop out to others sometimes.
Not often—if it happened oftener we
should be less struck by their oddity, by their
grotesque originality. A few which, in some
instances, not without difficulty and the
exertion of some amount of diplomacy, I have
succeeded in extracting—no, that is not the
right word for a matter of such fairylike
delicacy—in drawing out, as the bee draws
the honey from the tiny flowers—occur to me
as I write, and may be worth mention.

A small boy of my acquaintance, after a fit
of extreme penitence for some little offence
against his grandmother, whom he was very
fond of, added to his “so very sorry,” “never
do it again, never, never,” the unintelligible
assurance, “I will be always good to you,
dear little granny, always; and when you
have to go round all the houses, I’ll see that
our cook gives you lots and lots of scraps—very
nice ones—and nice old boots and shoes,
and everything you want. I’ll even”—with
a burst of enthusiastic devotion—“I’ll even
go round with you my own self.”

Grandmother expressed her sense of the
intended good offices, but gingerly, with my
assistance, set to work to find out what the
little fellow meant—what in the world he had
got into his head; and it was no easy task, I
can assure you. But at last we succeeded.
It appeared that the confusion in the boy’s
mind arose from the, in a sense, double
meaning of the word “old.” He associated
it, naturally enough, with the idea of poverty,
material worthlessness, in conjunction with that
of age and long-livedness. Every human being,
he believed, had to descend, “when you gets
very old,” to a state of beggardom; his dear
granny, like everybody else, would have to
wander from door to door with a piteous tale
of want; but from his door she should never{293}
be repulsed; nay indeed, he himself would
take her by the hand and lead her on the
painful round. Nor did he murmur at this
strange order of things; to him it was a
“has-to-be,” accepted like the darkness that
follows the day; like the gradual out-at-toe
condition of his own little worn-out shoes;
and I greatly doubt if our carefully-worded explanation
of his mistake carried real conviction
with it. I strongly suspect that he remained
on the look-out for granny in her new rôle for
a good many months, or even years, to come.

Some other curious childish beliefs recur to
my memory. I knew a little girl who
cherished as an undoubted article of faith a
legend—how originated who can say?—perhaps
suggested by some half poetical talk of her
elders about the aging year, the year about
to bid us farewell and so on, perhaps entirely
evolved out of her own fantastic little brain—that
on the 31st of December the “old year”
took material human form and strolled about
the world in the guise of an aged man, though
unrecognised by the uninitiated crowd. She
had the habit on this day of taking up her
quarters in a corner of the deep, old-fashioned
window-sill of her nursery, and there, in
patient silence, gazing down into the street
till Mr. Old-year should have passed by.
Nor were her hopes disappointed. She
always caught sight of him and nodded her
own farewell, unexpectful of any response.

“He couldn’t say good-bye to everybody;
he wouldn’t have time,” was her explanation
to the little sister to whom she at last confided
her odd fancy, and through whose indiscretion
it leaked out to the rest of the nursery group.

“But how do you know him?” she was
asked. “Is he always dressed the same?”

“Oh, no,” was the reply, “he sometimes
wears a black coat and sometimes a brown;
and one year he had a blue one with brass
buttons. That was the first year I saw him,
and I have never missed him since. He has
always white hair, and he walks slowly,
looking about him. I always know him,
almost as well as you’d know Santa Claus
if he came along the street, though, of course,
he never does. He comes down chimneys,
and I don’t think children ever do see him,
for they’re always asleep.”

The little woman was, wisely I think, left
undisturbed in her innocent fancy. How
many more times she ensconced herself in her
window on the 31st of December I cannot
say. The belief in the poor Old-year’s lonely
wandering interested her for the time and did
her no harm, then gently faded, to be revived
perhaps as a story of “When mother was
a little girl,” when mother came to have
little girls of her own to beg for her childish
reminiscences.

This personification of abstract ideas is a
peculiarity, a speciality of children, as it
was no doubt of the children of the world’s
history—our remote ancestors. And I have
noticed that among abstract ideas that of
time has a particular fascination for imaginative
little people. Many years ago I happened
to be staying in a country house when
a group of children arrived from town to
spend their summer holiday with the uncle
and aunt to whom it belonged. Entering the
room where these little sisters were quartered,
early in the morning after their journey, I was
surprised to find the trio wide awake, each
sitting up in her cot, in absolute silence as if
listening for something.

I too stood silent and still for a minute or
two, till yielding to curiosity I turned to the
nearest bed, which happened to be that of the
youngest, a girl of five or six.

“What is it, Francie?” I inquired. “Are
you trying to hear the church bells”—for
it was Sunday morning—“or what?”

With perfect seriousness she turned to me
as she replied—

“No, auntie dear. We are listening to
time passing. We can always hear it when
we first come to the country. In London
there is too much noise. Meg”—her mature
sister of ten—“taught us about it. So we
always try to wake early the first morning on
purpose to hear it.”

Another friend of mine, now an elderly, if
not quite an old, woman, had a curious fancy
when a very young child, in connection with
which there is a pretty anecdote of the poet
Wordsworth, which may make the story
worth relating. This little girl believed that
during the night before a birthday a miraculous
amount of “growing” was done, and on
the morning on which her elder brother attained
the age of six, she, his junior by two
years, flew into the nursery when he was being
dressed, expecting to see a marvellous transformation.
But—to her immense disappointment—there
stood her dear Jack looking
precisely as he had done when she bade him
good-night the evening before. Maimie’s
feelings were too much for her.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, bursting into tears,
“why haven’t you growed big? I thought
you’d be kite a big boy this morning.”

Jack and nurse stared at her. I am afraid
they called her a silly girl, but however that
may have been, her disappointment was vivid
enough for the remembrance of it to have
lasted through well nigh half a century, and
her tears flowed on. Just then came a tap
at the door, followed by the entrance of the
cook, a north countrywoman and a great
favourite with the children. A glance at her
showed Maimie that she was weeping, and
when their old friend threw her arms around
the little people, and kissed them, amidst
her sobs Maimie felt certain that the source
of her grief was the same as of her own.

“Is you crying ’cos Jack hasn’t growed for
his birthday?” asked the little girl. But
Hannah shook her head.

“I don’t know what you mean, my sweet
one,” said the old woman. “I’m crying
because I’ve got to leave you. This very
morning I’m going, and I’ve come to say
good-bye.”

This startling announcement checked
Maimie’s tears, or if they flowed again it was
from a different cause.

“Oh, dear Hannah,” the two exclaimed,
“why must you go if it makes you so unhappy?
Doesn’t mamma want you to
stay?”

“Oh, yes, dearie,” was the reply, “but it’s
my duty to go to my old mistress. She’s ill
now and sad, and she thinks Hannah can
nurse her better than anyone else.”

So with tender farewells to the children
she was never to see again, poor Hannah went
her way.

Her “old mistress” was Miss Dorothy
Wordsworth. And though Jack and Maimie
never saw the faithful servant any more, they
heard from, or rather of, her before long. For
only a few weeks had passed when one morning
the postman brought a small parcel
directed to themselves, and a letter to Jack,
Hannah’s particular pet. The letter and the
addresses were in a queer, somewhat shaky
hand-writing, that of Mr. Wordsworth himself,
now an aged man, for it was within a few
years of his death; the parcel contained a
tempting-looking volume, bound in red and
gold—“Selections for the young”—of the
laureate’s poems, with Jack’s name inscribed
therein, and even more gratifying, from the
kindly thoughtfulness it displayed, a little
silk neckerchief in tartan—the children’s
own tartan, for they belonged to a Scotch
clan—for Maimie. And the letter, written to
the old servant’s dictation, for she could not
write herself, told of her consultation with her
master as to the most appropriate presents
to choose for her little favourites.

Almost more touching than the trustfulness
of children is their extraordinary endurance—a
quality often, I fear, carried to a painful and
even dangerous point. It has its root, I suspect,
in their innate trust, their belief that
whatever their elders deem right must be so;
also perhaps, in a certain almost fatalistic
acceptance of things as they are. But on few
subjects connected with childhood have I felt
more strongly than on this. No parent is
justified in “taking for granted” the moral
qualifications, even the suitability of the persons
in charge of their little boys and girls,
however unexceptionable may be the references
and recommendations they bring. It
takes tact and gives trouble, but it is among
the first of the duties of mothers especially to
make sure on such points for themselves. For
besides their trust in their elders and their
natural resignation to the conditions about
them, there is an extreme sense of loyalty in
most children, a horror of “tell-taling,”
such as are often far too slightly appreciated
or taken into account.

As these remarks are professedly a
“ramble” I may be forgiven for reverting to
that beautiful trustfulness, by relating an
incident which, though trivial in the extreme,
has never faded from my memory. We were
returning, late at night, or so at least it
seemed to me, from some kind of juvenile
entertainment at Christmas time. It was a
stormy evening; I was a very little girl, and
since infancy, high wind has always frightened
me, and that night it was blowing fiercely. I
was already trembling, when the carriage
suddenly stopped. My father at once sprang
out, for there was no second man on the box;
there was nothing wrong, only the coachman’s
hat had blown off! He got down and
ran back for it, and my father replaced him
and drove on slowly, for the wind had made
the horse restless.

“Oh, mamma,” I exclaimed, “I am so
frightened. The coachman has gone away.”

“Yes, darling,” said my mother, “but
don’t you see papa is driving?”

I shall never forget the impression of
absolute comfort and fearlessness that came
over me at her words.

“Papa is driving,” I repeated to myself.
“We are quite, quite safe.”

And all through the many years since that
winter night, the impression has never faded;
often and often it has returned to me as a
suggestion of the essential beauty of trust,
the germ of the “perfect love” towards
which we strive.

Not a propos of the foregoing reminiscences,
yet not, I hope, mal a propos in a
roundabout paper, two anecdotes of a different
kind, of children, recur to me, showing the
odd directions that their cogitations sometimes
take.

A little boy of my acquaintance, partly
perhaps from nervousness, was subject to
violent fits of crying, most irritating and perplexing
to deal with. Once started—often by
some absurdly trivial cause—there was literally
no saying when Charley would leave off. One
day, after an unusually long and exhausting
attack, to his mother’s great relief, the floods
gave signs of abating; she left the room to
fetch him a glass of water. On her return the
sobs had subsided.

“Oh, Charley,” she said, with natural but
ill-advised expression of her feelings, “you
have really worn me out. If ever you have
children of your own, who cry like you, I
hope you will remember your poor mother.”

Forthwith, to her dismay, the wails and
tears burst out again, and it was not till some
time had elapsed that the child would listen
to her repeated inquiries as to what in the
world he was crying for now. At last came
the little looked-for reply.

“It wasn’t because of this morning,”{294}
(what had started the fit I do not remember)
“I’d left off crying about that. It was you
thinking I would bring up my children so
badly.”

Anecdote No. 2 relates to a more exalted
personage than Master Charley.

Several years ago I was gratified by hearing
from a friend then resident in Italy and
acquainted with the Court circle, that one of
my earliest books for children, Carrots,
had found great favour in the eyes of the
young Crown Prince, then a mere boy. His
exact sentiments on the subject were conveyed
to me in a letter written at his request.
The story had amused and interested him at a
moment when he was specially in want of
entertainment, for it was just at the date of
the death of his grandfather, the great Victor
Emanuel, and his little namesake had not been
allowed to go out riding or driving as usual
for several days. He did not know how he
would have passed the time but for
Carrots, he said. He wished Mrs. Molesworth
to know this, and he also wished to
make a request to her. Would she write
another book as soon as possible—(not, as
one might have expected, of further details of
my little hero’s boyhood, but)—to tell how
“Carrots” brought up his own children when
he became a big man and was married!

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Something has happened!
Something
terrible has
happened to the
child! And she
was left in our
charge. We are responsible.
Oh, if
any harm has happened
to Peggy,
however, ever, ever,
can I bear to live
and send the news
to her parents——”

“My dearest, you
have done your best;
you could not have
been kinder or more
thoughtful. No
blame can attach to
you. Remember
that Peggy is in
higher hands than yours. However far
from us she may be, she can never stray
out of God’s keeping. It all seems very
dark and mysterious, but——”

At this moment a loud rat-tat-tat
sounded on the knocker, and with one
accord the hearers darted into the hall
and stood panting and gasping while
Arthur threw open the door.

“Telegram, sir!” said a sharp,
young voice, and the brown envelope
which causes so much agitation in quiet
households was thrust forward in a
small cold hand. Arthur looked at the
address and handed it to the Vicar.

“It is for you, sir, but it cannot possibly
be anything about——”

Mr. Asplin tore open the envelope,
glanced over the words, and broke into
an exclamation of amazement. “It is!
It is from Peggy herself!—‘Euston
Station. Returning by 10.30 train.
Please meet me at twelve o’clock.—Peggy.’
What in the world does it
mean?” He looked round the group
of anxious faces, only to see his own
expression of bewilderment repeated on
each in turn.

“Euston! Returning! She is in
London. She is coming back from
town!” “She ran away to London,
to-night when she was so happy, when
Arthur had just arrived! Why? Why?
Why?” “She must have caught the
seven o’clock train.” “She must have
left the house almost immediately after
going upstairs to dress for dinner.”
“Oh, father, why should she go to
London?”

“I am quite unable to tell you, my
dear,” replied the Vicar drily. He
looked at his wife’s white, exhausted
face, and his eyes flashed with the
“A-word-with-you-in-my-study” expression,
which argued ill for Miss
Peggy’s reception. Mrs. Asplin, however,
was too thankful to know of the
girl’s safety to have any thought for herself.
She began to smile, with the tears
still running down her face, and to draw
long breaths of relief and satisfaction.

“It’s no use trying to guess at that,
Millie dear. It is enough for me to
know that she is alive and well. We
shall just have to try and compose ourselves
in patience until we hear Peggy’s
own explanation. Let me see! There
is nearly an hour before you need set
out. What can we do to pass the time
as quickly as possible?”

“Have some coffee, I should say!
None of us have had too much dinner,
and a little refreshment would be very
welcome after all this strain,” said
Arthur, promptly, and Mrs. Asplin
eagerly welcomed the suggestion.

“That’s what I call a really practical
proposal! Ring the bell, dear,
and I will order it at once. I am
sure we shall all have thankful hearts
while we drink it.” She looked appealingly
at Mr. Asplin as she spoke,
but there was no answering smile on
his face. The lines down his cheeks
looked deeper and grimmer than ever.

“Oh, goody, goody, goodness, aren’t
I glad I am not Peggy!” sighed
Mellicent to herself, while Arthur
Saville pursed his lips together, and
thought, “Poor little Peg! She’ll
catch it. I’ve never seen the dominie
look so savage. This is a nice sort of
treat for a fellow who has been ordered
away for rest and refreshment! I wish
the next two hours were safely over.”

Wishing unfortunately, however, can
never carry us over the painful crises of
our lives. We have to face them as
best we may, and Arthur needed all
his cheery confidence to sustain him
during the damp walk which followed,
when the Vicar tramped silently by his
side, his shovel hat pulled over his eyes,
his mackintosh coat flapping to and fro
in the wind.

They reached the station in good
time, and punctually to the minute the
lights of the London express were seen
in the distance. The train drew up,
and among the few passengers who
alighted the figure of Peggy, in her
scarlet trimmed hat, was easily
distinguished. She was assisted out of
the carriage by an elderly gentleman, in
a big travelling coat, who stood by her
side as she looked about for her friends.
As Mr. Asplin and Arthur approached,
they only heard his hearty, “Now you
are all right!” and Peggy’s elegant
rejoinder, “Exceedingly indebted to you
for all your kindness!” Then he
stepped back into the carriage, and she
came forward to meet them, half shy, half
smiling, “I—I am afraid that you——”

“We will defer explanations, Mariquita,
if you please, until we reach home. A
fly is waiting. We will return as quickly
as possible,” said the Vicar frigidly,
and the brother and sister lagged behind
as he led the way out of the station,
gesticulating and whispering together
in furtive fashion.

“Oh, you Peggy! Now you have
done it! No end of a row!”

“Couldn’t help it! So sorry. Had
to go. Stick to me, Arthur, whatever
you do!”

“Like a leech! We’ll worry through
somehow. Never say die!” Then the
fly was reached, and they jolted home
in silence.

Mrs. Asplin and the four young folks
were sitting waiting in the drawing-room,
and each one turned an eager,
excited face towards the doorway as
Peggy entered, her cheeks white, but
with shining eyes, and hair ruffled into
little ends beneath the scarlet cap. Mrs.
Asplin would have rushed forward in welcome,
but a look in her husband’s face
restrained her, and there was a deathlike
silence in the room as he took up
his position by the mantelpiece.

“Mariquita,” he said slowly, “you
have caused us to-night some hours of
the most acute and painful anxiety
which we have ever experienced. You
disappeared suddenly from among us,
and until ten o’clock, when your telegram
arrived, we had not the faintest notion
as to where you could be. The most
tragic suspicions came to our minds.
We have spent the evening in rushing to
and fro, searching and inquiring in all
directions. Mrs. Asplin has had a
shock from which, I fear, she will be
some time in recovering. Your brother’s
pleasure in his visit has been spoiled.
We await your explanation. I am at a
loss to imagine any reason sufficiently
good to excuse such behaviour; but I
will say no more until I have heard what
you have to say.”

Peggy stood like a prisoner at the bar,
with hanging head and hands clasped{295}
together. As the Vicar spoke of his
wife, she darted a look at Mrs. Asplin,
and a quiver of emotion passed over her
face. When he had finished she drew
a deep breath, raised her head and
looked him full in the face with her
bright, earnest eyes.

“I am sorry,” she said slowly. “I
can’t tell you in words how sorry I am.
I know it will be difficult, but I hope
you will forgive me. I was thinking
what I had better do while I was
coming back in the train, and I decided
that I ought to tell you everything, even
though it is supposed to be a secret.
Robert will forgive me, and it is Robert’s
secret as much as mine. I’ll begin at
the beginning. About five weeks ago
Robert saw an advertisement of a prize
that was offered by a magazine. You
had to make up a calendar with quotations
for every day in the year, and the
person who sent in the best selection
would get thirty pounds. Rob wanted
the money very badly to buy a microscope,
and he asked me to help him. I
was to have ten pounds for myself if we
won, but I didn’t care about that. I
just wanted to help Rob. I said I
would take the money, because I knew
if I didn’t he would not let me work so
hard, and I thought I would spend it
in buying p—p—presents for you all at
Christmas.”—Peggy’s voice faltered at
this point, and she gulped nervously
several times before she could go on
with her story.—“We had to work very
hard, because the time was so short.
Robert had not seen the advertisement
until it had been out some time. I printed
the headings on the cards; that is why I
sat so much in my own room. The last
fortnight I have been writing every
morning before six o’clock. Oh, you
can’t think how difficult it was to get it
finished, but Robert was determined to
go on; he thought our chance was very
good, because he had found some beautiful
extracts, and translated others, and the
pages really looked pretty and dainty.
The MS. had to be in London this morning;
if it missed the post last night
all our work would have been wasted,
and at the very last Lady Darcy took
Rob away with her, and I was left with
everything to finish. I may have slept
a little bit the last two nights; I did lie
down for an hour or two, and I may
have had a doze, but I don’t think so! I
wrote the last word this morning after
the breakfast-bell had rung, and I made
up the parcel at twelve o’clock. I
thought of going out and posting it
then; of course, that is what I should
have done, but”—her voice trembled
once more—“I was so tired! I thought
I would give it to the postman myself,
and that would do just as well. I didn’t
put it with the letters because I was
afraid someone would see the address
and ask questions, and Rob had said
that I was to keep it a secret until we
knew whether we had won. I left the
parcel on my table. Then Arthur came!
I was so happy—there was so much to
talk about—we had tea—it seemed like
five minutes. Everyone was amazed
when we found it was time to dress,
but even then I forgot all about the
calendar. I only remembered that
Arthur was here, and was going to stay
for four days, and all the way upstairs I
was saying to myself, ‘I’m happy, I’m
happy; oh, I am happy!’ because, you
know, though you are so kind, you have
so many relations belonging to you
whom you love better than me, and my
own people are all far away, and sometimes
I’ve been very lonely! I thought
of nothing but Arthur, and then I opened
the door of my room, and there, before
my eyes, was the parcel; Rob’s parcel
that he had trusted to me—that I had
solemnly promised—to post in time——”

She stopped short, and there was a gasp
of interest and commiseration among the
listeners. Peggy caught it; she glanced
sharply at the Vicar’s face, saw its sternness
replaced by a momentary softness,
and was quick to make the most of her
opportunity. Out flew the dramatic little
hand, her eyes flashed, her voice thrilled
with suppressed excitement.

“It lay there before my eyes, and I
stood and looked at it … I thought of
nothing, but just stood and stared. I
heard you all come upstairs, and the
doors shut, and Arthur’s voice laughing
and talking; but there was only one thing
I could remember—I had forgotten Rob’s
parcel, and he would come back, and I
should have to tell him, and see his
face! I felt as if I were paralysed, and
then suddenly I seized the parcel in my
hands, and flew downstairs. I put on
my cap and cloak and went out into the
garden. I didn’t know what I was
going to do, but I was going to do
something! I ran on and on, through
the village, down towards the station.
I knew it was too late for the post office,
but I had a sort of feeling that if I were
at the station something might be done.
Just as I got there a train came in, and
I heard the porter call out ‘London
express.’ I thought—no! I did not
think at all—I just ran up to a carriage
and took a seat, and the door banged
and away we went. The porter came
and asked for my ticket, and I had a
great deal of trouble to convince him
that I had only really come from here,
and not all the way. There was an old
lady in the carriage, and she told him
that it was quite true, for she had seen
me come in. When we went off again,
she looked at me very hard, and said,
‘Are you in trouble, dear?’ and I said,
‘Yes I am, but oh, please don’t talk to
me! Do please leave me alone!’ for I
had begun to realise what I had done,
and that I couldn’t be back for hours
and hours, and that you would all be so
anxious and unhappy. I think I was
as miserable as you were when I sent off
that telegram. I posted the parcel in
London, and went and sat in the waiting-room.
I had an hour and a half to
wait, and I was wretched, and nervous,
and horribly hungry. I had no money
left but a few coppers, and I was afraid
to spend them and have nothing left.
It seemed like a whole day, but at last
the train came in, and I saw a dear old
gentleman with white hair standing on
the platform. I took a fancy to his
appearance, so I walked up to him, and
bowed and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, I
find myself in a dilemma! Will you
allow me to travel in the same carriage
as yourself?’ He was most agreeable.
He had travelled all over the world, and
talked in the most interesting fashion,
but I could not listen to his conversation.
I was too unhappy. Then we arrived,
and Mr. Asplin called me ‘M—M—Mariquita!’
and w—wouldn’t let you
kiss me——”

Her voice broke helplessly this time,
and she stood silent, with quivering lip
while sighs and sobs of sympathy echoed
from every side. Mrs. Asplin cast a
glance at her husband, half defiant, half
appealing, met a smile of assent, and
rushed impetuously to Peggy’s side.

“My darling! I’ll kiss you now.
You see we knew nothing of your
trouble, dear, and we were so very, very
anxious. Mr. Asplin is not angry with you
any longer, are you, Austin? You know
now that she had no intention of grieving
us, and that she is truly sorry——”

“I never thought—I never thought—”
sobbed Peggy; and the Vicar gave a
slow, kindly smile.

“Ah, Peggy, that is just what I complain
about. You don’t think, dear, and
that causes all the trouble. No, I am
not angry any longer. I realise that the
circumstances were peculiar, and that
your distress was naturally very great.
At the same time, it was a most mad
and foolish thing for a girl of your age
to rush off by rail, alone, and at nighttime,
to a place like London. You say
that you had only a few coppers left in
your purse. Now suppose there had
been no train back to-night, what would
you have done? It does not bear thinking
of, my dear, or that you should have
waited alone in the station for so long,
or thrown yourself on strangers for protection.
What would your parents have
said to such an escapade?”

Peggy sighed, and cast down her eyes.
“I think they would have been cross
too. I am sure they would have been
anxious, but I know they would forgive
me when I was sorry, and promised that
I really and truly would try to be better
and more thoughtful! They would say,
‘Peggy, dear, you have been sufficiently
punished! Consider yourself
absolved!…’”

The Vicar’s lips twitched, and a
twinkle came into his eye. “Well,
then, I will say the same! I am sure
you have regretted your hastiness by this
time, and it will be a lesson to you in the
future. For Arthur’s sake, as well as
your own, we will say no more on the
subject. It would be a pity if his visit
were spoiled. Just one thing, Peggy, to
show you that, after all, grown-up
people are wiser than young ones, and
that it is just as well to refer to them
now and then, in matters of difficulty!
Has it ever occurred to you that the
mail went up to London by the very
train in which you yourself travelled,
and that by giving your parcel to the
guard it could still have been put in the
bag? Did not that thought never occur
to your wise little brain?”

Peggy made a gesture as of one
heaping dust and ashes on her head.
“I never did,” she said, “not for a
single moment! And I thought I was so
clever! I am covered with confusion!”

(To be continued.)

{296}

WILD
ROBIN
AND
OAK-LEAF.

LINNÆA;

THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.

CHAPTER I.

Yes, Linnæa March was the dunce of the
school. She was neither pretty nor attractive,
nor did she seem to wish to be either.
Nobody understood Linnæa. She made
friends with no one, and no one made friends
with her. Even the teachers said she was a
girl nothing could be done with, and concluded
to leave her alone.

One new governess, Miss Golding, had
brought a look of interest to the girl’s face
over a story of Indian life, and had determined
to follow up her advantage and make friends
with this solitary pupil; but her next advance
had been met with such decided coldness that
Miss Golding went over to the opinion of the
other teachers, that “it was best to leave
Linnæa March alone.”

The truth of the matter was that Linnæa
had overheard a remark from the lips of the
wit of the school—“Golding is trying to
cultivate the March hare. Don’t you wish
she may succeed?” This name had been
given her by the same girl, Marion Edwards,
very soon after she came to school. Marion
was not a girl who actually meant to be
unkind, but she had a ready tongue, and,
when she saw a chance to make a witty
remark, did not trouble herself to consider
anyone’s feelings.

How cruel schoolgirls are to each other
without knowing it! And these were not
hard-hearted girls—some of them developed
into the very sweetest and best of women.
Had they known or thought what a lonely
life Linnæa had had, they might have taken
more trouble to approach her; but it was the
fashion of the school to shun her, and she
certainly gave no one any encouragement to
do otherwise.

No one came into Linnæa’s cubicle to
discuss some little bit of gossip before going
to bed; no one gave a playful tap on the
wooden partition, which divided her room
from the next, as was done to everyone else
now and then. Friends kissed each other
when they met in the morning; no one
dreamed of kissing Linnæa, unless it was the
governesses, who did it to all as a matter of
form.

Did she miss it, do you ask?

She said vehemently to herself over and
over again that she did not—she loved none
of them, and wanted nobody’s love. Nobody
knew it, nobody suspected it, but—ah, what
a wealth of love lay dormant in that lonely
heart!—what a hungering after affection that
seemed doomed to be for ever denied!

She nursed and fostered an intense love for
the mother she had never seen, unless in
babyhood. She had been born in India,
where her parents still were, and her mother
had been so ill for a long time after the birth
that it had been deemed wise to send the
delicate baby of eighteen months home to
England to be brought up by a maiden aunt,
as, in any case, she must very soon, like all
Anglo-Indian children, leave the trying climate.
Thus Linnæa could not remember the face of
her mother, but she cherished a photograph
of her, and her letters were the bright spots in
an otherwise colourless life.

Miss March had no love for the child
committed to her care, and made no pretence
of any. Her comfort and training were
strictly looked after—no suspicion of neglect
could be breathed—but the love which is
necessary to the happiness of a child’s life was
a-wanting.

“Such a very unattractive child!” Miss
March described her to her acquaintances,
even at times in the presence of the little girl,
so that she grew up with the idea firmly
rooted in her mind that she was plain, stupid,
and that no one cared for her. Companions
she had none—in fact, was not allowed to
have—for her aunt could not tolerate any
noise or disorder in her well-regulated house.
Mrs. Sedley, the Rector’s wife, had invited
the solitary child to come and have a romp
with her lively boys and girls; but the
invitation had been refused, because Miss
March could not think of having them at her
house in return.

Mrs. Sedley’s motherly heart was glad
when she heard it had been decided that
Linnæa should go to a boarding school.
“She will have companions now, poor child;
and lead a much brighter life than she has
led here.” But the life she led now was little
if any brighter than the other had been.

The first morning after her arrival in school
Linnæa was introduced to her companions by
Miss Elder, the principal.

“This is a new companion for you—Linnæa
March. I hope you will all be friendly to her
as she is a stranger yet.”

Plainly dressed to severity, her face more
forbidding than usual from the fact that she
felt shy but would not show it, Linnæa sat on
a chair near the door, and the other girls did
their duty by staring at her unmercifully.

One governess was in the room and, unfortunately,
not a very judicious one. After a
few minutes had passed, she looked over at
the newcomer and said—

“Now, little girl, don’t look so sulky. You
must put on a nice pleasant face, so that your
companions will like you.”

{297}

It was an unhappy remark. Some of the
more forward girls tittered, and the forlorn,
lonely child felt even more isolated and
friendless than she had felt in her aunt’s
house.

“Come away over here,” said the governess
again, “and tell us how old you are and where
you come from.”

“From the Ark, I should guess!” whispered
one girl, who was supposed to be witty by
some—herself in particular.

Linnæa was forthwith subjected to a string
of small questions, which she answered mostly
in monosyllables. The whispered remark had
been overheard by the sensitive child, and her
heart had begun to harden towards girls and
governess alike.

Some of the pupils made advances at first,
but Linnæa met them all with a suspicion and
distrust that chilled and disappointed. Therefore,
incredible as it may seem, at the age of
sixteen, and after seven years at Meldon Hall,
Linnæa March was utterly without a friend in
the school.

CHAPTER II.

THE “NEW GIRL.”

“And was her grandfather really an earl?”

“And shall we have to call her Lady
Gwendoline when we speak to her?”

“I wonder what she is like; I am dying to
see her!”

“She is coming to-night; but perhaps Miss
Elder won’t trot her out until to-morrow.”

What an excited hubbub was going on in
Meldon Hall schoolroom. The girls had
been told that a new pupil would arrive that
night. This alone, in mid-term, would have
been enough to arouse some interest, but
when it got abroad by some means or another
that the importation was a beauty, an heiress,
and related to an earl, their excitement
knew no bounds.

Marion Edwards, perched on the back of
a chair, gave out what she had heard, and a
little more, to an admiring audience who
took Marion’s words for vastly more than
they were worth. In every school there are one
or two leading spirits, and Meldon Hall had
at present two leaders—Marion Edwards and
Edith Barclay. Edith was the clever,
studious girl of the school; and amongst those
who were inclined to be industrious, she was
looked up to with great reverence. Marion
was handsome, rich, and had an aptitude for
making witty remarks, which made her at once
admired and feared by her “set.” The two
leaders were quite friendly; they were in no
wise rivals of each other, being altogether
different in disposition and aims. Edith loved
study for study’s sake, and had secret thoughts
of entering a profession. Marion cared
nothing for her lessons, but easily managed
to get along in a superficial way; she was an
only daughter and rich, and was looking
forward to entering society after she left
school. Marion’s feelings were divided between
pleasure at the prospect of knowing a
girl whose grandfather was an earl, and a
secret fear that this rich beauty might want to
queen it even over her, and that her set might
forsake her for the greater light.

The only one who was really indifferent to
the new arrival was Linnæa. She had had
her times of hidden excitement over an
expected newcomer, and vague longings that
she might be “nice,” but these feelings were
over and done, with long ago. Successive
disappointments had embittered her, and now
it was a matter of little moment to her who
came and went. This night she had a slight
headache and felt tired of her schoolfellows’
chatter and not inclined to face the introduction
of a new girl, proud and haughty, who
would doubtless criticise her looks and
manners and set her down—as all the others
had done—as hopelessly unattractive. She
therefore slipped quietly away to her room.

“Oh, I do wish Miss Elder would bring
her in to-night!” said one; and, as if in
response to her wish, the door opened and the
principal entered, followed by the new girl.

“This is Miss Gwendoline Rivers,” said
Miss Elder, introducing a few of the girls who
were nearest her by name. “I shall leave
her with you for twenty minutes, but after
that she must go to bed, as she has come a
long way to-day.”

Shyness was not one of the new pupil’s
failings, and she asked more questions than
she answered. Soon she had found out all
the rules and regulations of the school, and
had taken mental note of a few of the
characters around her. Report had been
correct as far as her beauty and wealth were
concerned—her connection with the earl was
a little more remote—she was indeed a lovely
girl. Her dark eyes were large and lustrous,
and her face had an almost southern richness
of colouring. Her appearance was aristocratic
to a degree, and her clothes were expensive
and in the best of taste.

THE DUNCE OF THE SCHOOL.

“Are you all here?” she said by-and-by,
looking round on the group.

“All except two. Alice Melrose is in bed
with neuralgia, and Linnæa March has retired
for the night.”

“And, pray, why has Linnæa March retired
for the night? Had she not the curiosity
to wait up and see the newest thing in girls?
I suppose she knew I should arrive to-night,
as you all did, and I know you were all
dying for me to put in an appearance so
that you might deluge me with questions.
But I think I have got more out of you
than you have out of me. I find the only
way to avoid too many questions is to ask
a great many yourself. Tell me about Miss
March, please; I am quite excited. What
an outlandish name, too? She is altogether
very mysterious!”

“There is not much to tell about Linnæa
March, as you will soon know. You will find
the best way is to leave her alone, for, as sure
as fate, she will not trouble herself about you,
any more than she has about the rest of us.”

“But that is precisely what I never do! I
never allow anyone to be indifferent to me;
they may hate me, if they please, but they
shall not be indifferent!”

“You don’t know Linnæa. I don’t believe
she knows what love and hate are—love, at
least; she might manage to hate you,
perhaps!”

“I shall make her love me then!”

The girls laughed. There was something
very fresh and original about this young lady
who spoke as if the world and anything in
it were hers for the asking. It was easily
seen she had not been denied much during
her life, and most of them felt very much
inclined to carry on the spoiling process if
only they might be termed friends of this
beautiful and determined young woman; for
if there is anything young people worship, it
is determination. But to talk of making
Linnæa March love her was a little too absurd.

“How long is it since this unimpressionable
young lady left the company? She won’t be
in bed yet, will she? One of you go up to
her room and tell her the new girl wants to
see her, and bring her down.”

Really, this was most ridiculous! Who
was to go and give this extraordinary message
to Linnæa March? As if to-morrow were
not soon enough to see her! Whoever went
would not get a very great reception.

“Has she a chum here?”

“She has no chum at all.”

“Then do you go!” said the imperious
Miss Rivers, pointing to a pleasant-looking
girl beside her. “Listen to me,” said
Gwendoline, when the messenger had departed;
“I mean to make this Linnæa March
like me; in fact, I mean to make her fall over
head and ears in love with me, and none of you
must say a word to influence her in any way.
I have never yet made up my mind to do a
thing that I have not done, and I shall show
you that I can do this.”

The excitement of the school was aroused,
and the girls awaited with great interest the
development of the comedy to be enacted in
their midst. Would it be a comedy or a
tragedy? If, as she boasted, Gwendoline
Rivers were able to awaken the love which
lay dormant in that sensitive heart, woe to
Linnæa if she should discover the motive
which had called it forth; it would run a
chance of souring her whole after life.

After a few minutes the door opened and
the messenger returned, accompanied by
Linnæa.

“Now, you know, I don’t think it was nice
of you to go off to bed without waiting to see
me!” said Gwendoline, advancing towards
her with a smile and holding out her hand.

Linnæa’s sensitive face flushed.

“I am sorry if I appeared rude,” she said;
“I did not think of it.”

“You will be forgiven this time; but”—looking
serious—“I hope you have not a
headache; if so, I shall be sorry I brought you
down.”

“Oh, no, thank you! I am quite well. I
often go up earlier than the others.”

“Well, I sha’n’t keep you down long, for
I am going to bed myself. I shall go up with
you now and try if I can find my cubicle
again.”

Calling good-night to the others, Gwendoline
slipped her arm through Linnæa’s, and
the two walked away in the direction of the
stairs.

“How strange it is, coming in amongst a
lot of girls one has never seen before! It is
fortunate for me I am not shy, else, I suppose,
I should feel dreadfully put out. How long
have you been here?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years! Such a long time to be
away from home!”

“My father and mother are out in India.{298}
I shall go there when I am finished with
school.”

“Oh, how splendid! I should love to go
to India. I have a brother who went out last
year, and when I leave school I mean to pay
him a visit. Perhaps we may happen to go
together. Wouldn’t that be nice? Is this
your cubicle? Horrid, bare places, aren’t
they? I was warned about it and brought
some pictures and things with me; but I
sha’n’t unpack them to-night—I am too
sleepy. Shall we say good-night, then? I
somehow think we shall be friends.”

Gwendoline, as she spoke, leant over and
kissed Linnæa on the cheek, then ran away to
find her bedroom.

“Funny, quiet little thing!” said Gwendoline
as she went. “I wonder if I shall
make good my words? She seemed almost
workable to-night. I was prepared to brave
a few snubs to begin with.”

And what about Linnæa? She did not
begin to undress at once as usual. Why was
she so excited to-night? Something had
come over her, and it was nothing more nor
less than a subtle magnetism towards this
beautiful girl who had taken more notice of
her than of any of the others—who had kissed
her when she bade her good-night. Why
had she felt so wooden and stupid? Why
had she not returned the kiss? What must
this girl think of her?

She was in bed at last, but could not sleep.
She seemed to feel the kiss on her cheek and
hear the voice saying they might be friends.
By-and-by, when sleep came, she dreamt that
her father and mother had come to school to
take her home—the time she had looked
forward to through all the seven years—and
she told them she wanted to stay another year
because Gwendoline had come.

(To be continued.)

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

The letters of a favourite
daughter of George
III., and an aunt of
the Queen, whose life
extended through
the eventful period
1770-1840, make a
book of great interest
and permanent
value. The period
referred to takes in
some of the more momentous events in modern
history—the loss of the American colonies, the
French Revolution, the battle of Waterloo,
and the fall of Napoleon—as well as various
important parliamentary movements at home.
Letter-writing is now generally supposed to be
a lost art; but the Princess Elizabeth, as one
who “ever remained an Englishwoman to the
backbone,” wrote letters of the genuine old-time
order to her confidante. She imposed
wholesome restraint on herself in days when
party spirit was more violent than we can
realise; but being in fullest accord with her
father, who aimed at personal government, her
sympathy was rather for the cause of “Church
and King than for that of reform and progress.”
The Princess did not deal in scandal, however,
she was not a politician, and in other respects
she showed a delicacy of language not common
in those times.

In reference to his heroine, Mr. Yorke says
that “the familiarity of her style brings us
all the closer to her, and the more familiar it
is the more intimate becomes our friendship
for her. Sometimes it is the case that where
the style is most imperfect, there most
appear the individuality and originality of the
Princess, and her portrait drawn by herself
must be of more value and interest to us than
any accuracy or polish of diction.” The
Princess also loved her friends, and this led
her to write to them con amore, so that, as we
read, “a whiff of old times is breathed upon
us.” She was in the best sense a woman of
her own times, one who inherited her father’s
good qualities; and during the ailments of
youth she proved her good constitution by
surviving the medical treatment of the day.
A girl of fifteen in these days may still be liable
to congestion of the lungs, but what would she
now say to being bled five times in forty-eight
hours, to having to take “emetics every other
day,” and to having her “backbones rubbed
with musk?” In other respects the Princess
seems to have been subjected to very old-fashioned
treatment. Even at the age of
twenty-six she was not allowed to read a book
which her mother had not previously examined.
Nor does she appear to have possessed an
income of her own until she was forty-two
years old. The Princess was six years older
when she married Frederick VI. of Hesse-Homburg.

The attention which the Princess extended
to certain of her chosen friends, appears to
have been quite extraordinary. Thus, Lady
Harcourt, wife of the second Earl, says:
“Once, when I was ill and confined to the
house for six weeks, I received from her in
that time 143 letters.” The crosses of life,
its joys and sorrows, with adventures which
vividly show how different those times were
from our own, all in turn come in for a share
of attention. The journey between Windsor
and Weymouth was then a familiar one, and
it was possible even for Royalty to meet with
rough adventures on the road. On October,
3, 1792, the Princess writes: “Anything so
disgusting as the breakfast at Woodgate’s
Inn, on the way from Weymouth, I thank
God I never saw before and never wish to see
again. Bad butter, tea, coffee, bread, etc.;
nothing to eat but boiled eggs, which were so
hard that I could not eat them. So I returned
to the carriage just as I got out—starved.”
Anxieties connected with public affairs and the
wars gave far more serious trouble, however.
The brothers of the Princess, the Duke of
York, and the father of the present Duke of
Cambridge, were with the army on the
Continent in the summer of 1793, and when
news came that the heroes were “within
sixty yards of Valencienne,” their sister
turned sick at thought of the peril; but the
Queen, their mother, showed “such an
uncommon share of fortitude,” that she would
not even speak about it. Still more alarming
was the King’s being attacked by the mob
when on his way to open Parliament. A
bullet even entered the royal carriage, the
street crowd following “in an insolent manner,
moaning and screaming.” In private the
Queen cried over that adventure; “but I,
who naturally cry a great deal, scarcely shed a
tear,” remarks Elizabeth. “It was indeed
very horrid,” she adds; “and my poor ears, I
believe, will never get the better of the groans
I heard on the Thursday in the Park, and my
eyes of the sight of that mob!” A plot to
murder the King, and to attack the Tower,
the Bank and the prisons, and on account of
which Colonel Despard and six others were
executed, followed in 1801. In May, 1810,
the Duke of Cumberland was attacked while
in bed by a servant. “My brother, by all
accounts, has been mercifully preserved by the
interference of a wise and good Providence,
but sadly wounded,” remarks the Princess;
and then she adds, “We live in such a state
of constant anxiety, that upon my word when
I rise in the morning I feel, ‘What will
happen before night?’”

Things happened beyond what were looked
for, so hard and troublous were the times;
but the heaviest trials of the Royal family
culminated in the blindness and insanity of
the King and in the death of the Princess
Charlotte in November, 1817. As regarded
the old monarch, the distress occasioned by
his condition was for others rather than for
himself; personally, his bodily health was
good, he was happy in his mind, and found
something wherewith to amuse himself through
each day.

There is one letter relating to the death
of the Princess Charlotte which affords us a
vivid glimpse into the inner circle of the Royal
family in November, 1817—

“Just after we had set down to dinner
at six, Gen. Taylor was asked out; our hearts
misgave us; he sent out for Lady Ilchester,
which gave us a moment for to be sure
that something dreadful had happened: the
moment he came in my mother said, ‘I am
sure it is all over,’ and he desired her to go
upstairs. You may conceive that the horror,
sorrow, and misery was far beyond show, for
it struck the heart, and no tear would fall
after such a dreadful shock…. It is indeed
most tremendous, but it is the Lord’s doing,
and we must with great humility bow, and
kiss the rod, and remember that the Lord
giveth and the Lord taketh away, and that all
that proceeds from that hand is right; and
that He does all things for the best.”

This faith in God was as characteristic of
the King as it was of this favourite daughter.
It is true that at the time of Princess Charlotte’s
death George III. knew nothing of the
crushing sorrow which had come upon the
Royal family; but the King had very remarkable
lucid intervals in his insanity when
his Christian fervour never failed to find
expression. It had been so before his intellect
had become finally clouded, however.

At that crisis of danger from the mob
already referred to, the King sought to calm
the feelings of excited peers, when about to
step into his carriage after opening Parliament,
by saying—

“Well, my lords, one person is proposing
this, and another is supposing that, forgetting
that there is One above us all Who is disposing
of everything, on Whom alone we depend.”

After her marriage in 1818, the Princess
was thoroughly happy with her husband, the
Landgrave Frederick VI. of Homburg. Some
would ridicule the state and ceremonial of the
little court as being a mimicry of the Royal
magnificence of greater nations; but it was
picturesque, full of interest, and probably
gave far more satisfaction or enjoyment than
courtiers found either at London or Paris.
At all events, while she remained thoroughly
English, and never even quite conquered the
German language, the Princess would speak
of her own “dear little Homburg” in the
language of genuine affection. After the{299}
death of the Landgrave, who expired April
2, 1829, through influenza affecting an old
wound received in the wars, she refers to the
palace as “My own dear home, once the
happiest of happy homes.”

Certain fashionable people in London made
it their business to ridicule the Landgrave;
but all impartial readers will see that his
character was superior to that of his
detractors.

The Princess lived for about twenty-two
years after her marriage, and during half that
period she was a widow. In some respects,
to the English reader, this was the more
interesting period of a quietly interesting life.
Home life afforded genuine pleasure, and
while there may have been no pretentious
magnificence, gardens, pictures and books
afforded tasteful recreation, though the poor
were not forgotten. The Princess even lent
books to such friends as could be trusted with
them.

“If you wish to take any home, I shall be
happy to lend them, knowing you to be
careful,” she writes to Miss Swinburne. “I
have been obliged to give it up here, for if
you could have seen some that were returned
to me you would have been disgusted; I was
quite provoked.”

Unhappily, the ill-usage of books is not
confined to Germany. On many matters
strong common-sense opinions are expressed.
She does not accept exaggerated local gossip;
and though she never had measles, she says,
“I have no fears, I trust in God, and don’t
let myself think about catching anything,
otherwise I should be miserable.”

We have glimpses of Brighton as it was
sixty or seventy years ago, when the reigning
sovereign had a palace there.

“It appears as if it was a petty London,
and all the fine ladies come down in parties to
enjoy a few days of the sea and back again in
no time,” writes the Princess in December,
1832.

There was a great procession to celebrate
the town being made into a parliamentary
borough by the Reform Bill of 1832; but
“why they would not turn it at once into a
marine city or town, I cannot think. It was
large enough when I was there and now much
increased.”

Early in 1835 we find the Princess at the
Pavilion on a visit to her brother William IV.

“I generally drive out with my brother,”
she writes. “He goes out, and stays out till
the lamps are well lighted, when we come in;
to-day the dear Queen is gone with him, so
I may remain quiet.”

Political feeling still ran high, but Princess
Elizabeth confessed to hating politics. “I
had rather talk of winter potatoes, though a
very mealy subject.”

In 1833, being over sixty, she realised that
she was growing old.

“I am still from all accounts a fine old
lady,” she remarks. “My looking-glass tells
me at times rather tall, and I say to you with
truth that no one enjoys more their old age
than me, and am convinced that I have been
a much happier being since the spring and
summer of life are over—so many things I do
and can do without bearing anything unpleasant.”
She was able even to wear a
winter tippet which her sister Augusta presented.
“I look like a bear in it; but
what signifies looks when health is in
question?”

As time passed, Elizabeth had other reminders
that she was growing old.

“I blush to think how often I am late of a
morning, which is not like me, but my poor
legs require time,” she writes in November,
1833. “First I read my serious readings,
then write, and do what business I must do,
and of late I have had a good deal of what I
call parish business, settling work for the
poor and trying to content them if possible.”
She seems to have cultivated her mind in a
wholesome way without harbouring any foolish
ambitions. “I have taught myself to see
everything with pleasure and without envy,”
she remarks, and added later, “Without
religion there can be no peace, no order, no
blessing.”

The Princess was struck with the excess of
luxury in England in 1836. “More jewels
and more extravagance than ever.”

It was then that she saw the last of her
brother William IV., whose death in the
following year she sincerely deplored. Elizabeth
thus survived to see the opening of the
present reign; but she belonged too much
to a former age and to a different order of
things to have much sympathy with the new
and more promising outlook of the Victorian
era.

The memorial volume which Mr. Yorke
has so well edited is of considerable interest
and of permanent value.

G. H. P.

VARIETIES.

He Threw Away the Stone.

The haughty favourite of an oriental
monarch once in the public street threw a
stone at a poor dervish or priest.

The dervish did not dare to throw it back
at the man who had assaulted him, for he
knew the favourite was very powerful. So he
picked up the stone and put it carefully in his
pocket, saying to himself: “The time for
revenge will come by-and-by, and then I will
repay him for it.”

Not long afterwards this same dervish, in
walking through the city, saw a great crowd
coming towards him. He hastened to see
what was the matter, and found to his astonishment
that his enemy, the favourite who had
fallen into disgrace with the king, was being
paraded through the principal streets on a
camel, exposed to the jests and insults of the
populace.

The dervish, seeing all this, hastily grasped
the stone which he carried in his pocket.
“The time,” he said, “has now come for my
revenge, I will repay him for his insulting
conduct.”

But after considering a moment he threw
the stone away, saying: “The time for revenge
never comes, for if our enemy is powerful,
revenge is dangerous as well as foolish; and if
he is weak and wretched, then revenge is worse
than foolish, it is mean and cruel. And in all
cases it is wicked and forbidden.”

When Things go Wrong.

Why They Hanged the Dogs.

On one of the early visits to Scotland of
Sir Edwin Landseer, the famous animal
painter, he stopped at a village and took a
great deal of notice of the dogs, jotting down
rapid sketches of them on a bit of paper.

Next day, on resuming his journey, he was
horrified to find dogs suspended from trees
in all directions, or drowned in the river with
stones round their necks.

He stopped a weeping urchin who was
hurrying off with a pet pup in his arms, and
learned to his dismay that he was supposed to
be an excise officer, who was taking note of
all the dogs he saw in order to prosecute the
owners for unpaid taxes.

Charity as it ought to be.—If our
mercy to the poor is to be true mercy, it must
never be careless giving, dictated by mere
sentimental impulse. Sentiment may be
nobler than insensibility, but it often does
more harm. The Samaritan would have been
no good example for us if he had passed on
with an easy conscience after administering
the two pence and had omitted to consider
whether the special needs of the case did not
also require oil and wine.

The Average Woman.—We have been
favoured with this definition of the average
woman:—She is lovable but limited, for on the
north side she is bounded by servants; on the
south by children; on the east by her ailments,
and on the west by her clothes.

Take a Right View of Life.—It is a
sad thing to begin life with low conceptions of
it. It may not be possible for a girl to
measure life, but it is possible for her to say,
“I am resolved to put life to its noblest and
best use.”

Triple Acrostic I.

Ximena.

{300}

MISCHIEVOUS JACK.

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

I am gradually learning to estimate
rightly the responsibility
of having a jackdaw loose upon
the premises.

There is really no way of
circumventing Jack’s craftiness
except by keeping him
shut up all day in an outdoor
aviary. I feel sorry to be driven
to this course, and would far
rather let him roam where he
pleases; but his mischievous
pranks have become unendurable.

I thought to-day I had made a
great discovery, and that by placing
a large stuffed flamingo at the
open French window I should
effectually frighten the jackdaw
from entering.

I found him in the drawing-room
on my writing-table busy
about some evil deed, so I held
up the great stuffed bird, at which Jack
cast one horrified glance and then fled precipitately
out at the window as if his last
hour had come. Now, I thought, by placing
the flamingo near the window, I could leave
the room with an easy mind. Vain hope! I
came back after a few minutes and found the
impertinent jackdaw hopping about as happy
as a king. He had pulled to pieces a rare
foreign insect I had just been setting on a
piece of cork. He had overturned all the
small curios he could find, had pulled all the
pins out of a pin-cushion, and, worst of all, he
had opened a Mudie book and torn its map
and pages to ribbons. That book will have to
become my property and remain a monument
of Jack’s misplaced energy.

It was humiliating to think how he must
have chuckled at my flamingo. He had seen
through the device at once and had no idea of
submitting to be scared away by such a bogie.

During the winter months we do not often
have weather which will admit of open
windows, so Jack exercised his talent for
mischief out of doors by hiding the padlock
of the aviary, pulling up flower labels, and
drawing nails out of the walls. In these
varied occupations he managed to spend his
hours of idleness.

As a rare treat he was sometimes allowed
to bask on the fender before the fire, and,
charmed by the delicious warmth, he would
assume the various attitudes shown in the
illustration. His wings and tail expanded, his
head on one side and beak wide open, he looked
like a dying bird, but we knew that in reality
he was in a state of ecstasy.

When next summer arrived Jack was again
kept in the aviary, and I am sorry to have to
reveal a very dark page in his moral character.
He was usually content with raw meat and
sopped bread; but, alas, he much preferred
to catch his own dinner! And when, attracted
by his food, innocent little robins, chaffinches,
and sparrows found their way into his domain,
I grieve to record the dreadful fact
that none came out alive! Jack
feasted on their small bodies, and
left only a little bunch of
feathers to show what he
had been doing.

I have said
enough to
prove that Jack is
neither to be loved nor
respected; but he is
unquestionably clever,
and evidently has his
own thoughts and
ideas.

He will fly at one’s
hand like a fury even
when food is being
given him; but when
his mood changes and
he wishes to be caressed,
he picks up a
twig or a dead leaf.
This is a signal of
peace, and whilst he
continues to hold it in
his bill he is quite safe,
and may be stroked
and petted.

One day in the height of summer Jack was
perfectly electrified by a visit from six lively
young magpies. The aviary door happened
to be open, and these birds came hopping in
with their usual free and easy manner, chattering
to each other and coolly abstracting any
morsels of food which suited their taste. At
first Jack tried to drive out these audacious
visitors, but they ignored him altogether and
at last he had to stand aside and watch their
depredations, a very discomfited and astonished
bird. The magpies came at intervals for several
days in succession, and then I suppose they went
off to the woods, for we saw them no more.

It is rather curious that the mating instinct
has not led Jack into the bands of matrimony.
I have seen several attractive specimens of his
own kind making overtures to him, but he
treats them all with lofty disdain and elects to
remain a bachelor.

Perhaps next year he may yield to the
fascinations of a wild mate, and settle happily
somewhere in my woods. It would be the
best thing that could happen, only I
fear we should all eagerly bid him
good-bye without the addition of au
revoir.

Eliza Brightwen.

{301}

NEW DRIED FRUITS.

By DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.

Most of my
readers can
recall, I
fancy, the
days when
we had only
prunes and
Normandy
pippins in
the way of
dried fruits.
The dried
apricots,
apples, and
plums of the
present day
are very modern
and recent
gifts to
a grateful world. So recent are they indeed
that the ignorance about them is very great;
and, strange to say, the grocers who have them
for sale have not been supplied as they should
have been with small printed papers describing
how to cook them.

In using the term “dried fruits,” you will
notice, I hope, that I am dealing with what
may be called stewing fruits; for, though we
stew, or can stew, raisins, figs, and even
currants, I believe the first treatment of these
fruits is not to cook them in that manner.
Raisins and currants speak to us more distinctly
of our Christmas mince-pies and plum
puddings, and of a regular dessert dish
throughout the year in some houses, than of
any other kind of cooking.

The stewing of raisins was introduced, I
believe, by vegetarians, and in this form with
a flavouring of lemon-peel. They are not at
all bad when added to a milk pudding or
some blancmange.

The stewing of dried figs comes almost
under the same description, and their chief
objection lies in their extreme sweetness,
which is a cause of quite unmerited and
needless toothache at times. The best way
of cooking figs will always be in the way of
a fig pudding, which is an excellent though
rich dish.

Dried apples have always been a great
household requisite in cold countries like
Canada and the northern states of America,
and I remember that the making of them
constituted a very large part of the many
winter preparations which used to be necessary
when the country was less civilised than it is
now, the fruit less plentiful, and the means
of keeping it very imperfect.

It was not always easy to guard against the
frost, which penetrated the ground to a depth of
four or even five feet when the winters were too
snowless. On these occasions when the earth
is left bare and without her warm coating of
snow, the frost has been known to penetrate
even six feet into the ground in exposed places.
This fact is verified in cold countries like
Canada in a very painful manner when graves
have to be dug. So difficult is this that in
large cities where there are many to dig a
cemetery hall is built to contain the bodies of
those who die in the winter, so that the frost
may be out of the ground before the graves
are dug.

This will explain to you why in Canada all
kinds of root crops and apples must be so
carefully guarded from frost; and when the
country was less settled, and even to-day in
the less inhabited parts, the apples are still
dried in a primitive manner. They are peeled
generally by a small machine, then quartered
and cored, and strung on long threads by
means of a coarse needle. Then they are
dried, either near the stove or else in the sun;
but this last is not often possible, because of
the lateness of the season. The apples thus
dried are very good, but if cooked carelessly are
apt to be rather tough.

In Italy figs are dried in the sun by the
peasantry. Each fig is cut open, but not
divided, and carefully dried. Then, when
dried, they are closed together so as to look
like whole figs again, and strung one by one
on the long flexible mulberry twigs. They
are very good and are less sweet than the
dried fig of commerce, as no sugar is added
to them in drying.

Last year I saw quantities of figs dried
by the peasantry in this manner for sale in
Switzerland, where they appeared to be quite a
novelty. I could not find out where they came
from; but I daresay from the Italian canton of
Ticino, or, as the French call it, Tessin. This
is, of course, warmer than its sister cantons
on the northern side of the Alps. I have
not seen these yet in England, but there have
been some Californian dried figs that were
very good for eating, and perhaps we shall
see more of them in the future, as the market
for them grows more assured.

Dried figs are said by the scientists to
contain nerve and muscle food, heat and
waste, but to be bad for the liver. The same
is said of dried prunes, but they afford the
best and highest kind of nerve or brain food.
They also supply heat and waste; but they
are not muscle feeding.

All stone fruits are said to be injurious for
people who suffer from the liver and should
be used rather cautiously.

Apples are thought a most valuable food in
every way but one—they do not afford staying
properties, but they supply the highest nerve
and muscle food.

If you be fond of almonds, you may like to
know that they afford no heat, but give the
highest brain, nerve, and muscle food. I
hope this applies to the salted almonds which
are so popular.

The process of drying is called “desiccation”
or, usually in America, “evaporated.”
The original desiccator is an apparatus much
used in chemistry and physics and the word
comes from the Latin desicco, “I dry up”—meaning
that the water is evaporated out of
the fruit or any substance to be dried. This
idea was carried out into the drying up of the
water and fruit juices for commercial purposes.
An oven with trays in it to hold the fruit is
one of the forms of using heat, and in
Lower California the heat of the sun is
utilised for the drying of prunes. Some time
ago there were notices of the commencement
of this industry and the importation of work-people
from the neighbourhood of Tours.

The ordinary prunes sold in the shops are
the fruit of the St. Julian plum, a common
species which is grown everywhere in France
for the purpose. The best French or dessert
plums come from Provence, and the Californian
plums must be of the same variety as the
Brignole plum. The latest competitor in the
English market is Bosnia, and those which
I have tried were quite as good as the French
plums. Under Austrian rule, Bosnia has
developed wonderfully, and the climate is a
delightful one, well suited to fruit growing.

The best of all the French dried prunes
come from Provence, the land of poetry and
romance. They are made of the kinds of
prunes called the Perdrigon blanc, and Violette,
and Prune d’Ast. The two former come
under one category and are called Pruneaux
de Brignole, from the place where they are
prepared, the small town of Brignole, in
Provence, a name I am sure you will have
often seen on the boxes of prunes used for
dessert. The common kinds of prunes are
gathered by merely shaking the trees; but
those for preparing as French plums must be
gathered in the morning, before the sun is up,
by taking hold of the stalk without touching
the fruit and laying each plum very gently on
vine leaves in baskets. The latter must be
filled without the plums being allowed to
touch each other, and then they are carried to
the fruit-room and exposed to the sun and
air for three or four days, after which they
become quite soft. The next process is to
put them on trays into a spent oven and shut
up quite closely for twenty-four hours. Then
they are taken out, the oven is re-heated, and
made rather warmer, and the plums are put
in again for the same time; then they are
taken out, carefully turned over, and the oven
is heated to one-fourth hotter than it was
before, and the plums are returned to it again
for the third time, and after remaining the
twenty-four hours, are taken out and left
exposed till they become quite cold. Then
comes the most curious part of the process,
which, when once explained to me, was a
solution of an enigma over which I had much
wondered, namely, why the stones of the good
French plums are loose and unattached, while
those of the common prune are so much more
fixed in the fleshy substance of the fruit. This
part of the process is called “rounding,” and
is performed by turning the stones in the
plums without breaking the skins, and the
two ends are then pressed between the thumb
and finger to flatten the fruit. Then they are
once more laid on the sieves for drying and
placed in a rather hot oven for one hour, the
oven being closely shut. Lastly, they are put
again into a cool oven, left for twenty-four
hours, when the process is ended, and they
are packed in bottles or boxes for sale and
exportation. Now I have given this long
account, taken from a recent authority, because
I know my readers of the “G. O. P.” are
world-spread, and because this is the kind of
process adopted with any kind of dried fruit;
and an ordinary brick oven for bread-baking
can be perfectly well used for doing it. All
varieties of the plum can, I am told, be dried
in this manner, some, of course, with better
success than others.

After the prunes come the kind which, I
daresay, most of my readers have seen in the
grocers’ shops, namely, the crystal or dried
yellow plums, which are likewise said to be
from California. They are so-called silver
plums, and are yellow, not black, and
were first seen in 1897, I believe. They
require soaking over-night in just enough
water to swell them, and the next day should
be put into a prepared syrup, which has had a
little lemon peel boiled in it, and very slowly
stewed, without breaking them. I find a war
rages about this question of soaking dried
fruit over-night, as many people consider that
long slow stewing is equally good, or better.

Apricots are amongst the dried fruits that
have been introduced within the last few
years; and although they may be a novelty to
us, they have been used in the East in this
way for centuries. The apricot grows well as
a wall fruit in England, and is interesting
because it was brought here and first grown
in the gardens of Henry VIII. by his gardener,
Wolfe, who was a Roman Catholic priest,
and who brought it from Italy. Indeed, it
was during the reign of this monarch, and the{302}
subsequent Tudors, that horticulture began
to make such progress in England; and no
politics made them forget the interests of their
gardens, to which, as a family, they appear to
have been much attached.

The dried peach we have not yet seen, but
it is much used in that way in New Jersey,
Delaware, and in the Southern States; but
probably canning has rendered drying needless.
Dried pears are also of ancient origin,
and I find them excellent in the present day,
though I consider they need careful doing.
Any recipe for the stewing of winter pears
will answer for dried ones; and they must
be soaked over-night to ensure their being
tender. It is well to remember that the less
water used, the more flavour in the pear, and
the syrup should not be very abundant.

And now we come to that most useful of
all fruits—the apple. This has been dried in
many forms, and canned as well. The most
recent are the evaporated apple rings—the
apple cut into rounds horizontally through
the fruit. When these first came out they
were called “Alden apple rings,” probably
from the town or district where they were
grown. They are said to be made from
greenings—the best of American cooking
apples—and one pound of the apples rings is
said to represent six pounds of ordinary apples.
The best recipe for cooking these is an
American one, and in this the food is required
to be soaked in a pie-dish in cold water—just
enough to cover it—for four hours;
then, without pouring off the water, add
sugar, a little lemon rind or spice, and then
put the dish in a slow oven and stew very
gently till sufficiently cooked. If intended
for a tart, soak as directed and stew gently
in a slow oven for half an hour before adding
the crust, or the latter will be done before the
apples are sufficiently cooked.

The apples, which are dried whole, must be
rather differently treated. Take about a
dozen apples, place them in an earthenware
or porcelain-lined vessel, and add about a
pint and a half of water, and let them soak
for seven or eight hours. Then add sugar,
spice, and the rind of a lemon to your
taste; put them all together as they are into a
porcelain-lined saucepan, and stew gently for
an hour. If a more recherche dish be required
than merely the apples plainly stewed,
a little whipped cream may be inserted in the
place from whence the core has been taken,
and some cream poured round them in a glass
dish.

“It is simply absurd,” says a recipe writer
in an American paper, “to soak evaporated
apples over-night”; so, as this is a case of
doctors differing, I must give the directions
which follow. Place the evaporated apples
in a saucepan, cover with water, and boil till
done; flavour to taste, and use for sauce,
tarts or conserve. Now this recipe I have
also found good; and I know that the writer
considers that soaking or leaving the apple
rings too long in water renders them tasteless
and vapid.

It seems strange that the subject of dried
fruits, save and except the ancient pippins of
Normandy, should be quite ignored in our
cookery books; and yet there can be no doubt
of their value as foods, and adjuncts to other
things, at a time when fruit is dear and
scarce. They are always inexpensive; a
pound goes a long way, and, as a rule, if
well done, they are liked by the little folks.

But alas, the general remembrance of
stewed prunes, apples or apricots is enough
to make anyone dislike them, sent up as
they generally are in a slop of tasteless,
coloured, watery fluid. If we only examine
into the ordinary methods of cooking them,
we shall see the cook washing them first in
one water, and then in another; perhaps
letting them remain for half an hour in soak,
then putting them into more water, with a
cupful of sugar in a dirty saucepan on the
fire, where she boils it violently, and finishes
it in half an hour.

Now, from beginning to end, this is all
wrong. In the first place, you must remember
that the evaporated fruit took a long time
to do. The moisture was not removed from it
in one hour, nor two, but took a long time. So
if you want to restore it to them you must give
them time also. Thus, perhaps, you will agree
with me that the fruit must be soaked for
at least twenty-four hours, especially in the
case of apricots and peaches; and the water
should cover the fruit to the depth of an inch.
When you are ready to stew the fruit, take it
out and put it carefully into a porcelain-lined
saucepan; then pour the water in which they
have been soaking upon the fruit, leaving at
the bottom any dregs there may be. If not
sufficient to cover it, you must add a little
more, then give an hour’s very quiet boiling;
and a few minutes before you remove it from
the fire, add a little sugar, and use a silver
spoon to stir it in. I prefer to take the fruit
out when I add the sugar, for fear of breaking
and spoiling the look of the fruit; and then
the syrup is boiled up once or twice, and
poured over the fruit. Peaches require rather
more cooking than apricots.

Apples and pears need care in the cooking,
and also in the flavouring; and the best thing
for both is the juice and grated rind of a
lemon. But before flavouring, you should
taste the fruit after stewing, as you will then
judge whether you should add sugar, or the
rind of a lemon, and not the juice. The sugar
should be put in first and thoroughly dissolved,
and then the flavouring. If you flavour
first, and sugar after, you will need double the
amount of sugar. Prunes, raisins, dates, and
figs can all be stewed in the same way; and
if you will only remember that haste is not
possible in preparing dried fruit for table, you
will always be successful.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

Although we cannot with absolute certainty
point Dora to the first author who made use
of the expression, she may be interested to
know that it has its origin in antiquity.

Pliny the Elder (23-79 A.D.) says in his
Natural History (Book ii., Sect. 234)—

“Everything is soothed by oil, and this is
the reason why divers send out small quantities
of it from their mouths, because it smoothes
every part which is rough.”

Plutarch (46?-120?) asks in his Symposiacs
(Book viii., Question ix)—

“Why does pouring oil on the sea make it
clear and calm? Is it for that the winds,
slipping the smooth oil, have no form, nor
cause any waves?”

The Venerable Bede relates in his
Ecclesiastical History (completed in 735) a
story bearing on this point, which he says he
had from “a most creditable man in Holy
Orders.”

A young priest was to set out by land, but
return by water, to escort a maiden destined
for the bride of King Oswy. He sought a
farewell blessing from St. Aidan, Bishop of
Lindisfarne, who gave him a cruse of holy oil,
saying, “I know that when you go abroad, you
will meet with a storm and contrary wind; but
do you remember to cast this oil I give you
into the sea, and the wind shall cease
immediately.” A storm did arise, and the
young priest, pouring oil on the waves, reduced
them to a calm.

Apart from any suggestion of the miraculous,
the effect of oil on rough waters has been
observed in modern times. It is stated that
Professor Horsford, by emptying a vial of oil
on the sea in a stiff breeze, stilled the surface,
and Commodore Wilkes, of the United States,
saw the waves calmed in a storm off the Cape
of Good Hope by oil leaking from a whale
ship.

The pictorial application of this physical
fact is so obvious that it could not help passing
into popular usage.

In ways too many to particularise, “our
girls” are anxiously seeking this end. From
all quarters of the globe questions come to
us; not perhaps expressed in the same direct
fashion as the one above, but showing an
eagerness in some way to develop latent
faculty, to improve the whole nature. What,
then, is self-culture? It is briefly personal
cultivation of self; the bringing forth, or
“educing” talent and capability, the improvement
of taste, the storing of the mind with
what will elevate and help and inspire. There
is the same difference between a “cultured”
and an “uncultured” person as between a
cultivated and uncultivated plot of garden-ground.
The chief difficulty lies in having to
perform the affair for oneself. To yield
one’s nature to trained and skilful teachers is
delightful, but when no such teachers are at
hand, the task assumes a different complexion,
and looks well-nigh impossible.

But there are teachers whom everyone can
command. The girl to whom Newnham and
Girton are undreamed-of possibilities, whose
education at school has been only just long
enough to make her crave for more, can call
to her aid the greatest and wisest of mankind.
Self-culture by books is within the reach
of all.

What books? and how shall they be
studied?

The subject is too vast to be dealt with in
even the longest answer to correspondents,
and we can only say here to “Mercia,”
“The Would-be Wise One,” and “Nothing
but Leaves,” that we have begun in this volume
a series of articles by Lily Watson on “Self-Culture
for Girls,” which deal practically
and in detail with the books that should be
read, the method of studying them, and
everything that girls anxious to make the best
of their opportunities can wish to know.

{303}

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

{304}