THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

“OUR HERO.”

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

“‘PRAY FOR ME, THAT I MAY MAKE RIGHT DECISIONS.’”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXIX.

ROY BARON’S FIRST CAMPAIGN.

In the press and excitement of this
his first campaign, Roy did not lose
sight of Molly’s suggestion that he
should keep a slight journal of the
course of events. The plan commended
itself to him, and he carried
it out, albeit in somewhat fitful style.
His entries were brief and irregular,
yet in the future they might well prove
to be of interest to himself and his
friends.

The life that he had led, more especially
his Bitche experiences, had
tended to give him an unusually
thoughtful turn for his age; and he
was not troubled by the smallest difficulty
in expressing himself on paper.
To write was as easy to Roy as to
speak.

For very obvious reasons, however,
the journal was scarcely started before
he decided not to send any part
of it to Molly, but to write separate
letters to her, as occasion served, keeping
his memoranda for the present to
himself.

“Oct. 11th, 1808.

“At last the chief Command has
been bestowed where it should be;
and for five days past Sir John has
been at the Head of Affairs. Some
hope now that things will go right!
Jack says that when Sir John was first{450}
placed third in command, after being first,
he declared that fight for his Country he
would, and no man should Hinder him;
and if the King saw fit to bid him act as
Ensign, he would unhesitatingly obey.

“Strict Orders are issued that we
are to be excessive Polite toward the
Spaniards, they being somewhat warm
in their Tempers.

“Oct. 16th.

“Salamanca to be the general Rendez-vous.
The different Divisions follow
at intervals by different Routes. The
Spaniards are declared on all hands to
be gloriously enthusiastic—the French
weak, and far out-numbered by them.

“Oct. 28th. Sacavem.

“Early in the day still. Scarce an
hour since I came across Major Charles
Stanhope and Major Charles Napier
breakfasting together under an olive
tree.[1] They were talking eagerly—not
hard to guess the subject! I caught words
as I passed; and ’twas as I would have
conjectured, admiration of our General.[1]
What Moore is and what Moore may do
are the theme of all. Was ever man
more beloved than he?

“The three Napier brothers are gallant
fellows—which the more so ’twould
be hard to say. A little later, on my
way, I met Jack’s friend, George Napier,
who is Aide-de-camp to Moore, and had
some words with him—a fine fellow
indeed, and ardently devoted to our
General. ‘Any tidings from Verdun of
late?’ he asked me. I would there
were!

“Nov. 8th. Almeida.

“Nearing fast the borders of Portugal.
Reports continue to reach us of the immense
and warlike enthusiasm of the
Spaniards. Even the peasantry, ’tis
declared, are Ardent to fight. Sixty or
seventy thousand Spanish soldiers, under
their Generals, Blake and Romana, await
our advance, and they are said to be
‘full of contempt’ for the French. Jack
says contempt won’t help ’em so well as
hard fighting. Boney is no Enemy to be
despised. But at most there are, if
accounts be true, only some fifty thousand
French to be dealt with, and our
twenty-five thousand, backed up by the
entire Spanish Army, should be well
equal to that.[2]

“Nov. 11th.

“Little baggage allowed. Conveyance
the grand difficulty. Some grumbling
at this. A lot of young fellows
here, who have never been in the field
before, and who don’t know what to
make of Discomfort. Seem to expect that
everything should be as in Barracks
at Home! Good for me to have had
experience of a Bitche dungeon. That’s
like to knock the softness out of a fellow,
if anything would.

“The General toils night and day
unceasingly. What he gets through is
Amazing. Large number in our force
of untrained levies, and these have to
be, as Major Napier would say, ‘drilled
and rattled’ into shape. The difference
in ’em already wouldn’t be believed.
One man has had unfortunately to be
shot for marauding; otherwise discipline
is splendid, and everybody in the
Highest Spirits.

“The Portuguese nobles en route
have received Sir John well at their
private houses. Country we’ve come
through anything but beautiful. Villages
wretched. Roads not so bad
as reported beforehand by the Portuguese.
Red cockades ready—ordered
to be worn by the whole force so soon as
we cross the border, in compliment to the
Spanish.

“Nov. 12th. Ciudad Rodrigo.

“Here we are in Spain. Red cockades
in full swing. Little time for writing.
Everybody busy, and the General has
his eye on each one. Grand reception of
him here by the Spaniards; and shouts
of ‘Vivan l’Ingleterra y l’Inglese!’
Doing my best to get up a smattering
of Spanish. Find my knowledge of
French useful already; likely to be
more so.

“Rodrigo stands high; right bank
of the Agueda. Had time to take a
look at the ancient rampart yesterday
evening, Jack and I together. The
word ‘rampart’ brings Verdun to mind,
and all who are there. What wouldn’t
Denham give to be here!—and what
wouldn’t I give to have him! Yet I
often think how lucky it was I knocked
down that bust, and got myself sent to
Bitche! But for that, I might be kicking
up my heels at Verdun to this day.

“Nov. 13th. Salamanca.

“At the general Rendez-vous! Grand
sight to see the Regiments come in—splendid
fellows, ready for anything—and
the Colours flying. All long for
but one thing—to meet the French, and
have at ’em!

“General Moore has arrived this
afternoon—looking harassed and weary,
Jack says, who saw him; and he confesses
to feeling jaded. But there’s no
sort of rest for one in his position.

“Country-folk hereabout seem mightily
struck with Amaze at the Ways of our
Army, and everything being paid down
for as it is, after the manner they’ve been
handled by the French soldiers in the
past.

“Nov. 15th. Salamanca.

“French Army reported to be advancing,
and only 20 leagues off. Both
Spanish Generals retiring before ’em.
Question now is, whether Castanos,
commanding the third Spanish division,
will make any better stand. Our troops
are coming up in detachments; quicker
advance impossible, for lack of transport.
Three brigades of Infantry here,
and not one gun! I hear they can’t
hope to Concentrate the whole force in
less than a fortnight. Let’s hope the
French may leave us alone till then.

“If Castanos should run away too,
some say we may ourselves be forced to
retreat. But that’s not the common
expectation; and Retreat is the last word
that Moore will utter, without dire need.
Jack of course hears more than I do,
not only being Captain, and having
known Sir John in private life, but also
having more than one intimate friend on
the Staff. Privately he tells me he does
not believe Sir John to have any enormous
faith in Spanish enthusiasm; but
that is not known to most.

“Nov. 22nd.

“The way Sir John works! ’Tis
enough to make laggards ashamed!
Each morning regularly he’s up betimes,
between three and four, and lights his
own fire from the lamp kept burning in
his room. Then he writes hard till eight,
when the ‘Officers of the Family’ breakfast
with him. Breakfast over, he sees
the Generals and anyone who may have
business to communicate, and issues his
Orders. As he writes all his letters
with his own hand, he is often at that
a great part of the forenoon as well
as in the early morning—till he rides
out, either to reconnoitre or to review
the Troops. At dinner he has commonly
from fifteen to twenty officers at his
table, and he is then at his best, and
talks much and freely with them all. He
keeps a good table, but is himself a
most moderate eater, and drinks wine
sparingly. Dinner over, he is again at
his writing and despatches, and goes
to bed, if he may, at ten, but often he is
prevented. Our Chief lives indeed a life
of Toil. No marvel if at times he has a
worn look.

“Nov. 29th. Salamanca.

“Castanos has been beaten by the
French at Tudela; and ’tis now pretty
clear that the ‘retiring’ of the other
Spanish troops meant a thorough drubbing.
We hear that the Spaniards are
provided with neither clothing nor shoes,
arms nor ammunition, and for days together
have no bread. What can be
expected of them in such case?

“Some fear that Retreat on our part
may become needful; others scout the
notion. I heartily hope we may first
have a brush with the Enemy.

“Dec. 10th.

“At Salamanca still; tho’ ’tis now ten
days since the General gave orders to
make ready for Retreat.

“Dec. 11th.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Moore—glorious
fellow!—will not retire, without giving
the Spaniards one more chance.

“Jack says he has been assured in the
strongest manner that all is not yet up;
that Castanos is far from utterly routed;
that some of the Provinces are warmly
patriotic, and ready to sacrifice their
all for freedom from the French yoke.
Two Spanish Generals, arrived in our
Camp, speak with enthusiasm of the
Undismayed Courage and Resolution of
the Spanish Army, despite some late
unfortunate Reverses. In short, one more
effort is to be made. Without delay, the
whole British force, now at Salamanca,
is to make a rapid advance. Jack
gathers that the plan will be to attack
Marshal Soult beyond the Carrion. We
hope now at last to meet the foe. That
is enough for us!

“Dec. 14th.

“Madrid has fallen—after holding out
against Napoleon one day! So much
for Spanish enthusiasm. But we are
advancing still towards Saldana, where
Soult lies. All in the best of spirits.

{451}

“Dec. 21st. Sahagun.

“Sharp brush with the Enemy yesterday.
News came that the French Cavalry,
to the number of 700, lay at Sahagun.
Lord Paget,[3] with the 15th Hussars,
about 400 men, went to surprise them.
In one charge he put ’em to the rout,
taking 150 prisoners. Well done,
Hussars! Sir John thanked them right
heartily when he got here. Every man
in the force is burning to get at the
Enemy. Desperate cold weather. Snow
everywhere.

“Dec. 23rd. Sahagun.

“All is up with our hopes of striking a
blow at Soult. One more night, and we
should have come up with him. Now
the forward march is countermanded.
Seems that Napoleon is making a rush
to cut off our communication with the
coast. I suppose there isn’t a man of
us that wouldn’t still go on, in the face
of any odds. But Sir John asks no advice.
He is quiet, resolved, with never a
look of hesitation.

“Yet having come so far, now to go
back, with nothing done—’tis an awful
disappointment. Some, much as they love
Sir John, are bitter about it, and will not
or cannot see the need. Jack trusts him
fully, and says he understands,—Boney
has been too sharp. If he can cross our
communications with Portugal, we shall
just find ourselves between him and Soult,
and the Spanish Armies nowhere.

“So we cross the Esla at once—that’s
to say, the Army begins to-day. Our Regiment,
luckily, is one of the Reserve, and
we shall be among the last to retire.”

All this was true, as jotted down by
Roy; and very much besides that no
man in the camp knew, except Moore
and his most intimate friends.

When the news first arrived of the
collapse of three Spanish forces, Moore
at first planned an immediate retreat to
Portugal, there to await fresh reinforcements
from England.

But when one assurance after another
was given that the Spaniards were still
in the mood to fight, with vehement
urging that he would not leave them to
their fate, he at length resolved to give
them another opportunity to show themselves
men.

A daring conception came to his
mind, and was rapidly acted upon.
Instead of retiring at once to a position
of safety, he would first make a swoop
upon Soult’s Army, thus threatening the
line of Napoleon’s communications with
France. And his object in so doing
was, simply and definitely, to draw the
whole weight of the Conqueror’s fury
upon himself and his small British Army,
thus relieving the terrible pressure upon
the more southern provinces of Spain.

It was a startling and a hazardous
step. In the hand of any less brilliant
and experienced Commander, it might
have ended in an awful disaster—in a
modern Thermopylæ on a huge scale—in
the complete destruction of the entire
British force. But Moore knew what he
was about.

That brought matters to a point.
Napoleon had expected, as a matter of
course, that Moore would retreat so
soon as the Spanish Armies melted away.
What else could he do? Napoleon
at this date had in Spain not less than
330,000 soldiers, 60,000 horses, and 200
pieces of field artillery. Moore had
with him less than 24,000 soldiers, and
perhaps another 10,000 in Portugal, including
4,000 in hospital.

Then, to Napoleon’s unbounded amazement,
he learnt—getting the news on
December 21—that, in place of retreating,
the puny English force was boldly
advancing towards the Douro.

The Emperor’s exclamation, as heard
by Marshal Ney, and afterwards repeated
by him to Major Charles Napier, was—

“Moore is the only General now fit
to contend with me! I shall advance
against him in person.”

That Sir John Moore had thoroughly
grasped the situation, and that he understood
to the full the perils of his position,
may be seen from his own letters. As
early as the 26th of November, he had
written from Salamanca, in confidence,
to one of his brothers—

“Upon entering Spain, I have found
affairs in a very different state from
what I expected, or from what they are
thought to be in England. I am in a
scrape, from which God knows how I
am to extricate myself! But, instead
of Salamanca, this Army should have
been assembled at Seville.” And at the
close of a full and clear statement of the
whole matter—“I understand all is fear
and confusion at Madrid. Tell James it
is difficult to judge at a distance. The
Spaniards have not shown themselves a
wise or a provident people. Their wisdom
is not a wisdom of action; but still they
are a fine people; a character of their
own, quite distinct from other nations;
and much might have been done with
them. Perhaps they may rouse again.
Pray for me, that I may make right decisions.
If I make bad ones, it will not be
for want of consideration. I sleep little.
It is now only five in the morning; and
I have concluded, since I got up, this
long letter.”

The whole letter is very patient and
calm; and especially touching are those
simple words, “Pray for me,” from a
man so intensely reserved on religious
questions. If words are needed to show
what he was, besides the plain utterance
of such a character and life as his,
these alone would serve to make clear
that silence on his part meant neither
lack of thought nor lack of feeling.

Again, on the 23rd of December, he
wrote to the British Envoy in Spain—“I
march this night to Carrion, and
the next day to Saldana, to attack
the corps under Marshal Soult….
Buonaparte is dating his proclamations
from Madrid; and as to the British
Army, if it were in a neutral or Enemy’s
country, it could not be more completely
left to itself. If the Spaniards are
enthusiasts, or much interested in this
cause, their conduct is the most extraordinary
that ever was exhibited. The
movement I am making is of the most
dangerous kind. I not only risk to be
surrounded every moment by superior
forces, but to have my communication
intercepted with the Galicias. I wish
it to be apparent to the whole world, as
it is to every individual of the Army,
that we have done everything in our
power in support of the Spanish cause;
and that we do not abandon it until long
after the Spaniards had abandoned us.”

Buonaparte seldom did things by
halves; and he acted now with even
more than his usual energy.

The force and genius of this English
Commander, by whom he was so daringly
opposed, had suddenly burst upon him;
and he at once realised that no ordinary
effort on his part would ensure to him
the victory. To oppose Moore’s twenty-three
thousand men with only another
twenty-eight or thirty thousand was not
to be thought of. That might mean
disaster.

Without an hour’s delay, orders went
forth to check the southward march of
his columns, and, as a first step, to pour
fifty thousand men in a torrent across
the snowy Guadarrama hills, that they
might cut off the retreat of Moore to the
coast.

His object was, to place the small
force of Moore between the great Army
of the south and the other French corps
under Soult, consisting of some twenty-five
or thirty thousand men. That once
done, the crushing out of existence of
the British Army might be looked upon
as a mere matter of detail. At any
moment Napoleon could supplement his
first fifty thousand with another fifty or
hundred thousand.[4]

But Napoleon’s fierce northward rush
was exactly what Sir John Moore had
intended to bring about. He had drawn
away the main body of the French Army
from the harassed south; he had given
the Spaniards a breathing-space in which
to rally, if they would, for renewed
resistance; and he had for the moment
saved Portugal from desperate peril.

Twenty-three thousand men, with eight
or ten thousand more out of reach,
opposed to seventy or eighty thousand,
with a hundred thousand more within
reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted
against at least five times their number!
A collie-dog snapping at the heels of a
Bengal tiger would be no inapt picture
of Moore’s desperate daring. Well
might he write—

“With such a force as mine I can
pretend to do no more. It would only
be losing this Army to Spain and to
England to persevere in my march on
Soult; who, if posted strongly, might
wait; or, if not, would retire and draw
me on until the corps from Madrid got
behind me.[5] In short, single-handed,
I cannot pretend to contend with the
superior numbers the French can bring
against me.”

There was, indeed, not a moment to{452}
be lost. By forced marches and the
utmost expedition the first and most
perilous stage was accomplished. The
River Esla was crossed—and not too
soon. Napoleon, pushing furiously forward,
bent heart and mind on getting
to Benevente before the English, found
himself twelve hours too late. Moore
had precisely reckoned his time and had
neatly baffled Europe’s Conqueror.

A few days later, on the 1st of
January, 1809, Napoleon underwent a
second dire mortification. He reached
Astorga, for which he had been aiming,
again straining every nerve with the
hope of cutting off Moore’s retreat—and
as at Esla, he was once more a day too
late. A second time Moore had quietly
slipped away out of his grasp.

While here, Napoleon had unexpected
news. He heard of the fresh alliance
between Russia and Austria; and he
heard that an attack upon France during
his absence was being planned. This
altered the face of matters. The crushing
of Spain, delayed by Moore’s action,
had to be put off indefinitely. Napoleon,
with a large body of troops, hurried
back to Paris. But he left Soult and
Ney in command of about sixty thousand
men, in two columns, one to attack
Moore in rear, the other to take him in
flank, while thousands scattered about
the country were advancing to support
the attack.

Enough, in all conscience, one would
imagine, to deal with a retreating force
of less than twenty-four thousand!

(To be continued.)

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

PART VII.

Brick seems, as we pointed out in our last paper, to
have been generally preferred to stone for house and
cottage building in this country from the sixteenth century,
but during the earlier centuries, and in places where good
stone was easily procurable, the latter was frequently used, even in
the erection of cottages. A charming example dating from the
fourteenth century exists in a very perfect condition at West Dean in
Sussex. It has graceful and elegant traceried stone-cut windows
and doorways, and is a carefully constructed little building showing
excellent though simple Gothic details.

AT AMERSHAM.

{453}

Cottages built of brick with stone “dressing”
are common all over England, especially
in almshouses. At Amersham are six little
cottages built round an open courtyard. An
inscription over the archway leading to the
garden informs us that these cottages were
built by “Sir William Drake, Barronet (sic),
in the year of our Lord 1657, to the glory of
God, and for the relief of six poor widows
well reputed in this parish.” It is a pleasant
home for these good old people and a pretty
retreat where they may spend the remainder
of their days in peace. There are many such
in England: would there were many more!
How far more pleasant it is to think of these
poor old souls quietly living out the few
months or years of existence, waiting for God
to call them, in such an abode rather than in
a workhouse, with its hard and fast rules,
or some pretentious-looking asylum where
official charity seems to stare one in the face
at every turn. No doubt in these modern
institutions sanitary arrangements are better,
and matters are more practically attended to,
but something seems to be wanting in them:
they do not look like “homes.” We may
perhaps be too sentimental, and possibly are
arguing from what we should ourselves feel
if placed in a similar situation, indeed we have
known cases in which the poor old folks in the
country have rejoiced at their quaint old
habitations being pulled down and replaced
by brand new houses.

AT WEST DEAN, SUSSEX.

We were once drawing two streets, one a
bit of a pretty old village, and the other a
modern suburban street which we had tried
to make look as detestable as possible, when
a lady called upon us and looked at the two.
“Ah,” said she, “I am so glad that these
tumbledown old cottages are going to be
replaced by your smart and cheerful-looking
villas!” We thought at first that it was a
joke, but no, she was absolutely serious!

A few years back a very eminent Member of
Parliament succeeded to the possession of
what was at that time the most perfect
mediæval village in England, every cottage
dating back to the sixteenth or seventeenth
century. I was told of this absolutely unique
place and went to see it. To my horror I
found a large gang of workmen busy upon what
appeared to be wholesale destruction. Upon
inquiry I was told that Sir —— —— was
such an excellent landlord that he was rebuilding
all the houses of his tenants! There
appeared to be little reason for this work, as
the old cottages which were being pulled
down looked as if they would stand quite as
long as the new ones, and even if modern
requirements were supposed to necessitate
different arrangements to those which satisfied
our forefathers, the beautiful old gables, with
their ornamental oak badge-boards and timber
framing, might have been preserved, as the
line of frontage was not changed or the street
widened.

This feeling is, however, by no means universal,
and we have known cases where those
who have lived in old cottages which have
been condemned to destruction have offered
to buy the sketch we were making, as a recollection
of the “dear old home.”

Unfortunately, however, now people have
no “homes” for the most part, our population
is becoming nomadic, and folks move about
every three years.

A friend of ours told us that he had
“moved” eleven times in ten years! Now
what love of his home can a man feel who
spends ten months in each house. At Rothenberg
in Bavaria, I was buying some bread at
a baker’s shop, when I happened to see a
carved stone sign over the doorway dated
1590. I remarked to the baker, “It is rather
a coincidence that it should have been a baker’s
then.” “Oh,” said he, “it has always been
a baker’s, and always in the hands of the
same family.” What is still more remarkable
is the fact that at Mont St. Michel in
Normandy, until some three or four years
back there was a house which had been for
six centuries the home of the same family, but
now the last member of the old stock is{454}
dead. Now that was indeed a home, but
what “rolling stones” we have all become!
Our very cats shame us. Pussy often absolutely
refuses to move. I once took a house, and
the cat belonging to the former tenants
insisted upon remaining in the house. They
took him away with them, but he came back
with the milkman in the morning. We turned
him out again, but he took up his residence
in an outhouse, and had his eye so fixed
upon the back door that the moment it was
opened, he found his way in and sat in front
of the kitchen fire. In vain did the cook
“rout him out,” and declare that he had
“no rights in her kitchen.” He maintained
his rights, and point-blank refused to budge.
At last we absolutely took a great liking to
the animal, which showed such an attachment
to his home. Directly he gained his way he
became very affectionate, and was a most
amiable companion to the children. By a
curious coincidence he died the very day before
we left that house!

Love of the very place called “home” is a
sentiment which should in every way be encouraged,
and it is greatly to be regretted
that it seems to be dying out, and we
much fear that “flats” will give it its deathblow.

(To be continued.)

OUR MEDICINE CHEST.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART II.

THE MEDICAL DRAWER.

ow many of our readers
know how to perform
artificial respiration?
Only a very small proportion,
we are afraid.
Yet everyone ought to
know how to do it, for
rarely does a girl go
through her life without
encountering a situation
where a knowledge of how to perform artificial
respiration would be the means of saving the
life of one of her fellow creatures.

Every girl ought to be taught how to
perform artificial respiration when she is at
school. This immensely important aid ought
to be able to be rendered by every man,
woman or child in the world. It is the most
important, and perhaps the easiest of all
measures for the saving of life.

Let us see if we can explain to you how to
perform artificial respiration. Two persons
are required. Place the patient on her back,
open her mouth, pull her tongue forward and
wipe out her mouth and throat, so as to clear
it of any blood or whatever it may contain,
which would hinder the air from entering her
chest.

Each of you must then take hold of one
arm, with one hand grasping the forearm and
the other grasping the upper arm. Now start.
Slowly draw the arms away from the chest
and elevate them above the head. Pull the
arms as high above the head as you possibly
can. Rest for two seconds, then slowly bring
the arms down again to the side of the chest,
cross them over the chest, press upon the
chest, and gently press upon the pit of the
stomach. Again rest for two seconds, then
elevate the arms again and repeat the performance
as long as necessary. Never be in a
hurry. The performance is no good at all
unless it is done slowly.

Now we will tell you where artificial
respiration is necessary.

Suppose you are on the scene when a person
is dragged out of the water after drowning.
The person is unconscious, but not dead.
What are you going to do? Place her on
her chest, and squeeze out of her chest any
water that you can. Wipe out her mouth
and throat. Pull out her tongue, turn her
on to her back, and perform artificial respiration.
Get someone else to wrap her up in
blankets, and apply warmth to the extremities.
But do not discontinue the artificial respiration
until a surgeon arrives, or until the patient
breathes regularly in a normal way, or until
some other pair of philanthropists relieve you.

If you find a person hanging, cut her down,
wipe out her mouth and perform artificial
respiration at once.

If someone is found unconscious in a room
where gas is escaping, bring her out into the
fresh air and perform artificial respiration at
once.

If a person is suffocated in the smoke of a
fire, or an infant is smothered by the bed-clothes,
take her out into the fresh air and
perform artificial respiration at once.

In all these cases, the patients are in the
greatest peril of their lives, and if you run
after assistance, they will die in your absence.
But one might almost say that a person cannot
die while proper artificial respiration is being
performed upon her.

Now let us wander to another emergency—the
treatment of acute poisoning.

First find out if you can what poison the
person has taken. Most poisons cause vomiting,
intense pain in the stomach, collapse
with pallor and coldness of the fingers and
toes, and cold sweats. Purging, cramps in
the calves, unconsciousness, and heavy noisy
breathing are also common.

The cause of the symptoms of poisoning is
the presence of the poison in the body.
Therefore the first item of treatment is to get
as much of the poison as you can out of the
body. Therefore make the patient vomit.
Give her an emetic for every poison except
the strong mineral acids (sulphuric, nitric and
hydrochloric acids) and the strong alkalies
(caustic soda, caustic potash, and strong solution
of ammonia). In poisoning from these
you must not give an emetic.

The best of all emetics is a large tablespoonful
of mustard in a tumblerful of tepid water.
Therefore in poisoning from anything except
the six drugs mentioned above, give mustard
and water before you do anything else.

Then loosen the clothes about the person’s
neck, and apply warmth to her extremities.
The further treatment depends upon the
nature of the poison.

For the strong acids, sulphuric, nitric,
hydrochloric and acetic, give the patient
magnesia, if you have it handy. If not, give
her dilute solution of soda.

For the alkalies, caustic soda, caustic
potash, or ammonia, give dilute vinegar. For
poisoning with copper or mercury salts, give
white of eggs. For oxalic acid or salts of
lemon or salts of sorrel, give lime or chalk.
For opium, give hot coffee and perform artificial
respiration. For prussic acid or cyanide
of potassium, apply cold water to the spine,
and perform artificial respiration.

If you have done these things, the doctor,
when he arrives, will probably find the patient
at all events alive. The further treatment, of
course, belongs to him. But if you have
rendered your first aid, it will make a very
great difference to the patient.

Let us leave this chapter of horrors. But
one moment—we want to say something to
you about fainting. We suppose it has been
the experience of very nearly everybody to see
a girl faint in church.

It is rather a hot stuffy day in July, and
Miss Jones goes to church; but the place is
rather more crowded than customary, for the
sermon promises to be more interesting than
usual.

About the middle of the service Miss Jones
feels “queer.” She reels a bit, utters a faint
cry and falls down “in a heap” fainting.
Confusion at once reigns. The gentlemen
about her lift her up, elevate her head and
take her out of the church.

What is a faint? It is the momentary
cessation of the heart’s action. The heart
stops for a second. The brain is deprived of
blood. It instantly ceases its function. The
body drops as if inanimate. It is this
dropping down in a heap which prevents
the brain from being deprived of blood for
long. It is this which saves the person from
danger.

When a person falls down in a faint, leave
her alone. Unloose her collar if you like, but
under no circumstances should you elevate
her head. Let her head be the lowest part of
her body. Remember this! Let the head
of a fainting person be the lowest part of the
body.

Afterwards you may give her a little sal
volatile and fresh air. But it really does
not matter what you do as long as you pay
attention to the position of the head.

Oh, by the way, we were talking about our
medicine chest! Let us return to our subject,
and exactly describe the box and its fittings.
The box should be made of metal, not wood.
The reason for this is that metal is such a
clean material, and when it has been soiled, it
is a simple matter to wash it, whereas wood
holds the dirt, and is not by any means so
easily cleaned.

A japanned cash-box makes as good a
medicine chest as anything. One about
twelve inches long, six inches broad, and
six inches deep, makes a capital medicine
chest. Certainly it is quite large enough!
What would you have? What is the good
of a medicine box that you cannot carry
about?

We keep a medicine chest of the size above
mentioned. We find it quite large enough
for when we are travelling “off duty.” It is
quite sufficiently large to carry all that we
require for emergencies. Of course it is
furnished differently from what yours should
be; but, as regards size, it is only ten
inches long, six inches broad, and six inches
deep.

A new cash-box makes the best of all
medicine chests. No, you do not want
partitions, nooks and crannies. The simpler
the box is the better. But it must be clean.
When you have got your box, dust it and
rinse it out with warm carbolic solution, and
let it thoroughly dry.

Now let us start to furnish it. Surgical
necessities first.

A glass syringe, about eight inches long,
with the piston fitted with an asbestos plug,
and not wound round with string. This is{455}
useful for washing wounds, etc. A needle
mounted in a holder for removing splinters, etc.
A pair of small, well-made, nickel-plated
forceps for removing splinters, etc. A pair
of small, blunt-pointed, nickel-plated dressing
scissors. These scissors are for cutting dressings,
etc. No other pair of scissors must be
used for dressings, and the dressing scissors
must never be used for any other purpose.

These are all the instruments you require.
They should be kept scrupulously clean, and
wrapped up in small pieces of chamois leather
when put away.

The dressings you require are these: Sal
alembroth gauze. This is absorbent gauze
impregnated with perchloride of mercury. It
is coloured blue to distinguish it from other
kinds of gauze. We have described how it is
used for dressing wounds. It is an excellent
material with which to dress any abrasion or
cut or raw surface.

We are not going to allow you to have
any poisons in your box, except carbolic acid.
We must allow this, for it is indispensable.
Oh, it is not that we do not trust you with
poisons; but no one who is not a physician
ought to keep poisons in her house, for you
never know who may meddle with them.
And besides, you can never get a sufficient
knowledge of drugs to enable you to use any
of the poisons with safety. Of course, perchloride
of mercury is a very powerful poison,
and so we suppose that sal alembroth gauze
is too; but it is quite safe to keep it, and it
can no more be called a poison than can lead
water-pipes or silver spoons.

The second dressing you require is lint.
This is very useful for many purposes, such as
for spreading ointment upon or for making
fomentations.

Then you want cotton wool. Either the
best white absorbent wool or else the blue
wool—the companion to sal alembroth gauze.

For bandages keep white calico ones, eight
yards long, and two and one inches broad.

Just a little piece of sticking-plaster to keep
dressings upon the face, where bandaging is
difficult, and a fair-sized piece of either oiled
silk or green protective to cover over fomentations,
complete the list.

A half-pint bottle of carbolic acid dissolved
in water (1 in 20) is the first application
required. Then you want about an ounce of
powdered boracic acid for dressing wounds;
and an ounce pot of boracic acid and eucalyptus
ointment.

To allay the pain of bruises do not use
tincture of arnica; but apply the following
lotion on a piece of uncovered lint: one part
of spirit and one part of solution of acetate of
ammonia (B.P.) to eight parts of water.
When the pain of a bruise has been allayed,
the absorption of the residual swelling and
discoloration may be hastened by gentle
massage. So much for the surgical requisites.

We are of opinion that the less you have to
do with drugs the better. People cannot
understand that if a drug has a powerful
action in disease—if, for instance, a drug will
stop convulsions—it will have an action if
given to a perfectly healthy person, and that
action will do harm to the body.

The drugs which we advise you to keep in
your medicine chest are all perfectly safe; but
at the same time they all have definite actions.
The liquids should be kept in half-ounce
bottles. They should be labelled with the
names of the drugs, their doses, and the
complaints for which they are used.

Mind you, this box is to treat emergencies.
It is to serve you when you cannot obtain
medical aid. Do not imagine that when you
possess this box you can consider yourself
independent of medical science. This box is
for emergencies, and for emergencies only.

These are the preparations the box should
contain:—

1. Sal Volatile.—For fainting. Half a teaspoonful
in a small wineglassful of water.

2. Brandy.—A teaspoonful—not more—for
collapse from poisoning after an emetic has
been given and has acted. Also for fainting
and colic. People always give too much
brandy. A teaspoonful at a time is ample. If
necessary, this dose may be repeated.

3. Ipecacuanha Wine.—For the early stages
of cough. Ten to twenty drops on a lump of
sugar or in water. For children two to eight
drops. This is one of the very few drugs
which may be given to children for cough.

4. Oxymel of Squills.—A very useful preparation
for cough with profuse expectoration.
Especially useful for elderly persons, the
subjects of chronic winter cough. The dose
is half a teaspoonful.

5. Solution of Carbonate of Ammonia (1 in
10).—A very useful adjunct to the two former
for coughs. The dose is ten to thirty minims
in water, either with or without ipecacuanha
or squills.

6. Spirit of Ginger.—Half a teaspoonful of
this in a wineglassful of water will relieve
flatulency, colic, and diarrhœa.

All these liquids must be measured. A
glass minim measure must therefore be kept
in the box.

These are all the liquids. Not a very
formidable list, is it? Now for the solids.
The best way to keep these is in the form of
pills or tabloids. Some, however, are best as
powders.

7. Liquorice Powder.—Dose, one teaspoonful.
Mild aperient. Best kept as a powder.

8. Bicarbonate of Soda.—One of the most
valuable of all medicines. Dose, ten to thirty
grains or more. For indigestion with acidity.
May be kept in powder or in tabloids.

9. Bicarbonate of Soda and Sub-nitrate of
Bismuth.—For indigestion with vomiting.
Best kept in the form of tabloids containing
two and a half grains of each. One to four
tabloids is the dose.

10. Calomel.—Infinitely and beyond all
comparison the most valuable of all drugs
that act on the stomach, the liver, or the
bowels. Used chiefly for dyspepsia, especially
“liver attacks.” It is best kept in tabloids
containing one grain each. Dose, one to two
tabloids.

11. Phenacetin and Caffeine.—Best kept in
the form of tabloids containing four grains of
phenacetin to one of caffeine, or three grains of
each. Dose, one tabloid for headaches.

12. Pill of Aloes and Nux Vomica.—Of
the following formula: aloin, one and a half
grains, extract of nux vomica, quarter of
a grain. An excellent aperient for chronic
cases.

Besides these always have in the house the
following drugs:—

Mustard.—As an emetic, one tablespoonful
in a tumbler of tepid water. It is also useful
for making mustard plasters.

Epsom Salts and Seidlitz Powders and Alum
which is very useful as a gargle for sore throats.
The gargle may be made of the strength of two
in a hundred.

We have described our medicine chest for
emergencies. No one can say that it is
elaborate or costly. Yet we know you are
disappointed with it. You wanted something
more pretentious. But if you follow our
instructions and use the various items as we
have directed, you will soon find that you
have got all that is absolutely necessary for
the treatment of emergencies—that is, as far
as you yourself can treat them in the absence
of a doctor.

Before we leave you we wish to make one
request. That is: If you follow our advice
and fit up your box as we have directed, you
will add nothing else thereto. No, nothing
whatever—not even to fill up an awkward
corner.

VARIETIES.

All Will Come Right.

In Praise of Work.—Work drives away
depression, whets the appetite for food, invites
sleep, promotes digestion, strengthens the
muscles and sinews, gives free circulation to
the blood, stimulates the intellectual faculties,
provides the comforts of life, develops all the
powers which it brings into exercise, transforms
stupid ignorance into brilliant genius,
fills the world with works of art and literature,
and develops the resources of nature. Nothing
can stand before work.

Well Named.

Bainbridge: “I know why they are called
fugitive poems.”

Goldsborough: “Why?”

Bainbridge: “Because the author had to
run for his life.”

Be Wise To-day.—“Dear young friends,”
says a popular preacher of the present day,
“begin right. You will never find it so easy
to make any decisive step as just now. You
will get less and less flexible as you grow
older. You will get set in your ways. Habits
will twine their tendrils round you and hinder
your free movement. The truths of the
Gospel will become commonplace by familiarity.
Associations and companions will get
more and more powerful, and you will stiffen
as a tree trunk becomes stiffened with the
growth of years. Be wise to-day.”

Printers’ Errors.

In the early half of the present century it
was announced in a London newspaper that
“Sir Robert Peel, with a party of fiends,
was shooting peasants in Ireland,” whereas
the Minister and his friends were only indulging
in the comparatively harmless amusement
of pheasant-shooting.

Shortly after the battle of Inkerman one of
the morning papers informed its readers that
“after a desperate struggle the enemy was
repulsed with great laughter.” The omission
of a single letter has rarely perhaps played
more havoc with a subject which was certainly
no laughing matter.

No more fault-finding.—The business of
fault-finding would soon come to an end if
every fault-finder could be only introduced to
herself.

{456}

{457}

“THE SONG THE RAINDROPS SING.”

By AUGUSTA BRYERS.

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER III.

AS A LITTLE CHILD.

The day after the episode with Pollie
Captain Grant’s letter duly arrived.

He was only too delighted to think
that his suggestion had borne fruit with
his old friend.

“It’s just settled that the Slains
Castle will leave Peterhead on the
twenty-eighth of this month,” he wrote.
“That will give you plenty of time.
But as we don’t touch anywhere in
Great Britain, you will have to join me
here. Don’t take the long railway
journey. Like a wise man, come as far
as Aberdeen in the steamer, and then
you have not much further to travel.
As for the hundred pounds, I tell you,
my dear fellow, that we don’t intend to
be away longer than one year, and that
is the precise figure I should name.
But I’ll go on to add that if we should
happen to be a little longer, you shall
not be charged a shilling more. Persuade
Mrs. Challoner to come north with you
and to bring the boy, and then she’ll
see you fairly aboard, and will note
what snug quarters you’ll have, and be
able to see you with her mind’s eye all
the time you are away. My wife hopes
she will come.”

“You see there is no doubt that you
are to go, Charlie,” said Mrs. Challoner.
“Everything has worked to that end
without one hitch. You are to go,
because you are to come back strong
and well. It is clearly the will of God
that you go. I am so glad that my
plans have been carried out beyond my
own power. If it had all been my planning,
I might have doubted afterwards.”

“But, Lucy,” said the young husband,
his pleasant frank face shining with the
mysterious light which often illumines
the countenances which have just been
bravely turned to confront the darkness
of the Valley of the Shadow of Death,
“I own, with you, that it does seem to
be God’s will, but we must not think so
now, unless we can continue to think so
whatever be the result. Let us say
together solemnly, ‘God’s will be done:
not our will, but His.’”

And there was a little silence.

Lucy resolutely refused to consider
the Grants’ invitation to Peterhead.
She warmly seconded their suggestion
that Charlie should travel in the snug,
well-attended saloon of the magnificent
coasting steamer rather than in the
train. She refused to listen to his plea,
that unless she would come with him
this mode of travel would part them a
day or two sooner than if he went by
rail. She even nerved herself to say
that when a matter of a year’s separation
was in hand, what could a day more or
less signify? It would be best that they
should part in their own home, where
life could go straight on, and she could
set to work at once. It would be dreadful
to come back to the house alone.
(“Pollie would have a welcome for
you,” interposed young Challoner.)
Besides, who knew whether she and
little Hugh might not prove to be the
very worst of sailors, and then Charlie
would go off quite unhappy, thinking of
the misery of their return journey.

In all these arguments Lucy knew
there was force and good sense, but
she knew, too, that but for the secret
knowledge that her whole household life
was crumbling about her, they would
not for one moment have sufficed to
withhold her from clinging to her husband’s
presence till the latest possible
moment.

“Now, Pollie,” she said to her servant,
“I am able to tell you why I wish silence
about your departure. It is finally
arranged that my husband is going for
a long sea-voyage. He will be away
for about a year. When we first began
to think of this it was a great consideration
that I and the boy should have you—our
household friend of seven years’
standing—to be with us. That thought{458}
was a great comfort. Now as we find
this cannot be, I think we may save Mr.
Challoner the distress of knowing about
it before he goes. It might make him
wish to postpone his going. And he
ought to be off before the winter.”

Pollie was sniffing.

“I wish I’d known. I was huffed a bit
thinking I wasn’t to be much consideration
in any changes you was making.”

“But what made you think of
changes?” asked Mrs. Challoner.
“This is no change. All will go on the
same, though with your master away for
a year, and then we shall hope that all
will go on the same when he returns.
It is only since this very morning, Pollie,
that we have been quite sure this voyage
can be arranged. You are the very first
person I have told. We think those in
a household, whose interests are naturally
bound up together, should be the first to
hear such news.”

“Didn’t you mention it to Mrs. Brand,
m’m?” asked Pollie.

“Certainly not,” Lucy answered.
“There was no use mentioning it to
anybody when it might have come to
nothing.”

Lucy rather wondered at this question.
It did not occur to her that Mrs. Brand
had had the girl to herself on the afternoon
when Lucy had gone to see Dr.
Ivery, nor that it could have been she
who had put the idea of “changes”
into the head of her sister’s servant.
And Pollie kept the secret, as servants
often do, or it would go hard with many
a gadding and gossipping “lady.”

“You may trust me not to speak,
m’m,” said poor Pollie, still sniffing.
But she put such emphasis on “me”
that it reminded her mistress that Mrs.
Brand also knew of Pollie’s imminent
departure and would be almost sure to
blurt it out before Charlie. Lucy hated
to ask her sister to keep a secret from
him. It would be as useless, too, as
painful, for Florence would be sure to
“forget” or “not to think.” As such
“forgetfulness” or “want of thought”
always pleads “meaning no harm,”
and resents indignation as harsh and
uncharitable, there is nothing to be
done but to prevent their harmful doings
by keeping them out of the way.

And while Lucy was pondering what
steps she could take in this direction,
she got warning that Charlie might get
an impression of trouble of some sort
and question the facts out of poor Pollie
however loyally she might try to keep
them back. For Pollie seemed unable
to keep from “sniffing,” and when she
went into the drawing-room the sight
of Mr. Challoner brought on a very bad
attack.

“Why, what’s the matter, Pollie?”
asked he, quite innocently. “No bad
news from home, I hope?”

“Oh, no, sir! Yes—oh, it’s a-thinking
of you a-going away, sir!” said Pollie
desperately, and rushed from the room.

“I had no idea that Pollie cared a
bit for me,” observed her master. “I
thought she regarded me as a wage-paying
machine, and that you and the
boy were the idols. It is quite flattering
to find that I came in for a bit of the
adoration.”

“Of course Pollie cares for you after
living in the house with us for seven
years, and you always so considerate
and polite,” said Lucy.

“Considerate and polite!” echoed
Charlie. “Well, I do hope I’m not
quite a brute in my own home, and I
don’t know how many other fellows I’ve
rebuked for calling their landladies’
servants ‘the slavey.’ And they’ve
often said to me, ‘Well, but it’s true,’ and
I say, ‘Then it oughtn’t to be true.’”

“Of course it should not be true,”
Lucy responded.

“It is quite touching to think Pollie
cares for my going away,” Charlie went
on. “But I tell you, Lucy, it occurs to
me that it is not my going that has
grieved her, but the thought of your
being left alone.” He paused for a
moment. “She thinks you’ll be so
dull,” he said, fearing lest his words
might have brought to Lucy’s mind the
idea they had wakened in his own—to
wit, that probably Pollie regarded this
temporary separation as likely to be for
the earthly forever. “Well, I can only
say again,” he went on, “that my
greatest comfort is that she is with you.
What a blessing we have not changed
our servant perpetually as the Brands
do! How could I go off and leave you
with an utter stranger, who might desert
you the next week?”

“We never know what changes may
come,” said Lucy, to whom silence
began to seem criminal. “But we
must trust God to provide for emergencies.
They never are so bad as they
look beforehand.”

“That is quite true,” answered
Charlie, “and that’s just how I feel—a
special trial has come to us, and a
special blessing is prepared for it in the
shape of Pollie.”

Lucy could endure no more. She
jumped up and went out of the room so
hurriedly that Charlie thought she must
have heard a ring at the door-bell. She
really went to little Hugh’s bedroom,
and sat down in the darkness beside
the cot where he was already asleep.
She began to revolve schemes. She
would get Charlie to go with her and
the boy to spend the interval before his
departure at the seaside. That would
take him away in safety from Florence’s
chatter and Pollie’s tears. It had other
substantial recommendations, too, such
as she could urge. It was highly
desirable that before his great journey
Charlie should shake off the little ways
and weaknesses of invalidism as a
“change” helps a convalescent to do.
Then she would add what she knew
would be a supreme argument with him—that
her teaching duties at the Institute
would begin at the Christmas quarter,
and that she ought not to take up these
labours when below par in nerve and
health after her anxious nursing. She
would plead, too, the charm of the little
family of three being together quite by
themselves in a strange place, where
they would be safe from any calls or
condolences or curiosity, and could
wander about or rest, just at their own
sweet will. Of course, this trip would
cost a little money, but not very much,
and apart from all its other charms,
Lucy felt that it would soothe her own
heart in the pain of having been forced
to refuse to accompany her husband to
his port of departure.

“You are a funny little woman,”
said her husband, when she went downstairs
again and made these suggestions.
“What else will you think out
so cleverly? I shall like this of all
things; and all the while I am away, it
will be so much cheerier to have last
thoughts of each other taking quiet
holiday by the sea, than of each of us
mewed up in a sick-room, coddling and
being coddled.”

“And I’ll be able to do two or three
sketches,” Lucy went on. “I should
like to do them with you looking on, to
know if you think my hand has lost any
of its cunning. It will get me up to the
mark, too. I daresay I may do something
that will more than pay for our
trip.”

“Never say that women are not
practical!” laughed Mr. Challoner.
“While I am only thinking of sentiment,
the wifie has gone on to the shillings!
But ah, Lucy dear, don’t think I don’t
know that you want the shillings only
for the sake of the sentiment!”

They sat together hand in hand.
They had been married seven years, and
they were on the eve of separation.
Both hearts were full of feelings to
which they dared not give utterance.
One must not stir a brimming cup lest it
overflow.

“I vote we go to Deal!” cried
Charlie at last.

“Isn’t it rather an east windy place
for an invalid?” asked Lucy.

“But I’m not an invalid, and am not
going to pass as one,” he said gaily.
“I’m a fellow starting on a sea-voyage!
No, no, Lucy, don’t doom me to some
sheltered cubby hole of a ‘resort,’ where
half the population are in bath-chairs
and the other half in respirators. It
would give us the blues! If you’ll let
us go to Deal, I’ll promise to be very
good,” he went on with his indomitable
boyishness. “I’ll only go out when you
say I may, and I’ll come in the minute
you say I must. Only let us go there!”

In the depths of his heart lay the
secret thought that to go to any place
where consumptives are wont to congregate,
would inevitably fill Lucy’s
mind with dire forebodings, besides
exposing her to the depressing influences
of the conventional “sympathy” or
forced “hopefulness” which emanate
from well-meaning landladies and others
trained by experience to regard their
habitat as one of the last stages on life’s
journey.

All the next day Lucy hurriedly made
her little preparations for the trip. She
said to Charlie that, if Deal suited him,
and if they got snug apartments, they
might stay on till the very end, so that
he need only use their own house to rest
and sleep in on his way through London
to the north.

“As for any sea-going things you
want—lockers, waterproofs, and so on—we
can get them at Deal,” she said.

Only when all was in readiness for
their start, while the cab which was to
take them to the station actually stood{459}
at the door, did she post a letter to Mrs.
Brand, giving the first intimation of their
present move and of Charlie’s future
journey.

“We have had it in view for some
time,” she wrote, for it was impossible
for Lucy Challoner to be inferentially
untruthful, “but it was only decided the
day before yesterday.”

After the railway journey, whose slight
fatigue the convalescent bore capitally,
they went straight to an hotel and had
lunch, and there Lucy left her husband
and little Hugh, while she went in quest
of “apartments.” She wanted cleanliness,
economy, and a sea view. Like
all people who know what they want she
was not long in getting suited. She
decided on the second set of rooms at
which she looked, preferring them to
the first, because being upstairs, they
commanded a wider horizon. Also she
felt attracted to the second landlady, a
quiet, grave, middle-aged woman of few
words, whose chambers, with their well-kept
old-fashioned furniture had—what
is the greatest charm of hired rooms—no
suggestion of previous temporary
occupancy.

The landlady had everything made
snug before their arrival; the curtains
were drawn, a cheerful fire was ablaze,
and the lit lamp stood in the centre of
the table spread with pretty blue crockery
and provided with ham, eggs and toast.
There are few who can wholly resist the
genial influence of such surroundings.
Charlie and Lucy Challoner yielded
themselves up to them, and little Hugh
danced and clapped his hands. Lucy
felt as if she was happier than she had
ever thought to be again. Safe from
the impending worries of the last few
days, it seemed as if the great anxiety
which hung like a Damocles’ sword
over her life was for the time held off.

“I believe this is really doing you
good, Lucy,” said her husband. “For
me, I feel a different man already.”

The bed-chamber opened from the
parlour, and Hugh was not allowed to
be long in seeking the little cot which
the landlady had fixed up for him in his
parents’ room. But while Lucy passed
to and fro unpacking and preparing for
the night, Mr. Challoner and Hugh got
behind the window curtains and shut
themselves away from the cheery room
and out with the misty sea view. Lucy
could hear them talking behind the
drapery.

“There go the ships!” said the young
father. “Look, Hugh, you can see
them by their lights! Look what a lot
of them there are! And how many lights
they are showing!”

“How glad the sailors must be to see
land again!” lisped Hugh. “They
must feel they are safe at last!”

“Glad to feel they are nearly home
at last, Hugh,” corrected his father.
“For ships are in much more danger
when they are near land than when they
are out in mid-ocean. What looks safest
isn’t always safe, my boy.”

“I’d like to go on a ship!” said
Hugh.

“I daresay you will go in time,
sonny,” returned Mr. Challoner. “By-and-by,
Hughie, I am going on a big
ship—a big ship with three masts—and
I am going for a long, long voyage.
And you’ll have to take care of mamma
while I am away. And then when I
come back, and you grow up, very likely
you will go for some long voyage, and
then I will stay at home and take care
of mamma.”

“Are you going to-morrow, papa?”
said the little voice in an awed whisper,
and Lucy heard a movement as if the
curly head snuggled on papa’s shoulder.
How good it was of Charlie to tell the
child himself! The thought of having
to do so had haunted her, for she
measured her little lad’s love for his
father by what she knew it meant in
his life rather than by that childish
inadequacy for profound emotion which
makes a child such a poignantly pathetic
figure when it appears on any tragic
scene.

“To-morrow!” echoed papa in his
brightest tone. “No, indeed, not for
many days—two or three weeks! We
are going to have such a happy time.
We’ll go out and pick up shells, and if
there is a very warm sunshiny day with
only little waves on the sea, maybe
we’ll go out in a boat—that’s if mamma
will come with us,” he added, remembering
his promised obedience to her
discretion.

Hugh broke away from his father and
ran back into the room.

“Oh, mamma,” he cried, “you will
let us go out in a boat, won’t you? If
the day’s sunshiny—an’ it’s sure to be—and
if the waves are ever such little
teeny weenies! Oh, mamma, yes!”

“We shall see, Hugh. We will do
what seems wise. It is time you went
to bed.”

In commanding her voice to be steady,
it sounded sharp and hard. It checked
Hugh’s ecstasy, and brought his father
out from behind the curtain. She felt
that Charlie’s expression was surprised,
and that she would break down utterly
if she had to meet his eyes. Without
looking back, she caught the hand of the
silenced and awed Hugh, and hurried
him away to the other room.

Neither of them spoke while she
helped the child undress. Even her
eyes did not answer his, though she saw
his blue orbs raised wistfully. He knelt
down and said his little prayer, the
“Our Father,” and the little verse of
godly nursery tradition—

Then he passed on to the extempore
petitions, in which he was always
allowed free expression. To-night they
came with unwonted faltering and hesitation.
The child-soul was aware of
a disturbed atmosphere around it—of
groping somehow in darkness uncertain
of itself.

“Please, God, bless dear papa—and
dear mamma—and dear Pollie—and dear
Aunt Florence—and—and dear Mr.
Brand—and dear Mrs. May—and make
me a good boy. Amen.”

“Dear Mrs. May?” Who was that?
Lucy had to pause for a moment ere she
remembered that this was the name of
the landlady, whom the child had seen
for the first time two hours before, and
who had won his heart by bringing in
for him a special tea plate painted with
a picture of Walmer Castle!

It was only as Hugh stood in his little
night-gown, half stepping into the cot,
that he said, almost with a whimper—

“I never kissed good night to papa.”

“Then run away and kiss him now,”
said Lucy in her natural tone.

Hugh was himself again in a second,
scampering away, kicking aside his
flowing white robes with his little pink
feet, and bestowing upon his father
what was evidently an ecstasy of hugs,
accompanied by a perfect storm of
hearty “smacks.” Then he gallopaded
back, hopped into bed, held out his
arms to his mother, and clasped her
down to himself in a rapturous embrace,
to which she responded with an added
tenderness born of a little remorse for
the foolish pang he had given her.

“But you will let us go in the boat?”
he whispered before he released her.

She kissed him again as her only
answer, and went back into the sitting-room.
Her husband looked up at her
with some solicitude, and drew up a
chair for her at his side.

“I’m afraid you have been very much
overwrought, Lucy,” he said. “It’s no
use saying ‘No.’ I can hear it in your
voice. When you went out of the room,
I thought you were actually crying. I
was quite uneasy till I saw you come
in again all right.”

“I’m afraid I’m not fit to be your
nurse if I frighten my patient,” she said,
forcing a smile. “I was very silly. I
was not crying. I’m rather afraid I was
cross for a minute.”

“Cross?” questioned her husband
incredulously.

“Yes,” she answered. “It vexed me
to think how soon Hugh forgot about
your going away and thought only of
getting a sail in a boat.”

Charlie pondered for a second, for the
whole thing had escaped him.

“I know I was foolish,” she said.
“Hughie is only a little child, and
cannot realise things. I’m sure he
would have begun to cry if you’d said
you were going away to-morrow. But
when you said ‘not for two or three
weeks’ he could put it right out of his
head. It’s only childlike, after all.”

“But we ought all to be childlike,
ought we not, Lucy?” answered Charlie
thoughtfully. “And we are, more or
less, even the worst of us. All who
love know they will have to part; but
they don’t go on thinking about it all
the years they are together. And days
are as long as years to poor little
Hughie.”

“And then he was so taken up about
going in the boat!” said Lucy, with a
half-reluctant smile.

“Well, and why not?” asked Charlie
undauntedly, “We ought to be like
that, too—taken up with what is our
present business—this is a great business
for Hughie—and especially with
what we may bring about by our own
efforts, as he felt he might by his coaxings.
That is our affair—not something{460}
that is going to happen some time or
other, without any help of ours.”

“I know I’m an idiot,” said Lucy
humbly; “but so much seemed to come
at once! He actually prayed in the
same breath for you and for Mrs. May—the
strange landlady downstairs,” she
explained. And she reminded him of the
little incident of the picture plate.

Charlie leaned back in his chair and
enjoyed a quiet deep laugh.

“And there he is altogether right,”
he said, “for love is all off the same
piece whether it’s in a great fold that
ties two lives together—like yours and
mine, Lucy—or but some little scrap
that just binds up a pricked finger. For
God is Love, and therefore Love is God,
and any affection that gets taken outside
that unity is—just—an idol!”

“‘And the idols He shall utterly
abolish,’” he added after a moment’s
pause. As he spoke, he drew back
the curtain. The moon was up, silvering
the mist that hung low over the Channel.
They sat side by side in silence. Lucy
was trying to gather from her husband’s
words some cheer for the one trial she
could not feel it right to confide to him—the
only secret she had ever withheld
from him. After a fashion of which
most of us have had pathetic experience,
she strove to get an oracle at a
venture.

“It comforts me so to talk to you,”
she said. “You smooth things out.
Worries will come, and jarrings. What
shall I do when you are not here to say
good words to me?”

“You will say them to yourself,” he
answered. “You will hear them in your
own heart. Sometimes, indeed, it seems
to me as if I merely hear your thoughts
and put them into words for you.”

(To be continued.)

OUR PUZZLE REPORT: A WELL-BRED GIRL (No. 2).

SOLUTION.

A Well-Bred Girl (No. 2).

1. A well-bred girl always makes herself
pleasant to those about her, especially to the
lonely and unhappy.

2. A well-bred girl always dresses without
extravagance, and yet avoids severity.

3. A well-bred girl always eats and drinks
noiselessly, not even excepting soup.

4. A well-bred girl always refrains from discussing
articles of diet during meals.

5. A well-bred girl always talks quietly.

6. A well-bred girl always upholds her own
dignity without apparent effort.

7. A well-bred girl always remembers that
striking manners are bad manners.

56, Paternoster Row, Dec., 1898.

Prize Winners.

Six Shillings and Eightpence Each.

• Eliza Acworth, Blenheim Mount, Bradford.
• Dora Mary Barling, Farnham, Surrey.
• M. A. C. Crabb, Hemel Hempstead, Herts.
• Louie Drury, Edith Road, West Kensington.
• Alfred J. Knight, Edith Road, West Kensington.
• F. Miller, Brecknock Road, N.
• Mrs. Nicholls, Parlors Hall, Bridgnorth.
• Lilla Patterson, Kilmore, Holywood.
• Gertrude M. Stott, Yarburgh Street, Alexandra Park, Manchester.
• Norah M. Sullivan, Otranto Place, Sandycove, Co. Dublin.
• Emily M. Tattam, Green Lanes, N.
• Bettie Temple, Brockley, S.E.
• Ethel Tomlinson, Burton-on-Trent.
• Ada G. Waide, Methley, Leeds.
• Jeanie Walker, Esk Terrace, Whitby.
• Eleanor Whitcher, The Drive, West Brighton.

Very Highly Commended.

Ethel B. Angear, Lily Belling, E. Blunt,
Margaret E. Bourne, Annie J. Cather, M. J.
Champneys, Maggie Coombes, Minnie Cornwell,
Leonard Duncan, Mrs. Fleming, A. and
F. Fooks, Miss Fryer, Margaret S. Hall,
L. A. E. Hartshorn, Helen Jones, Alice M.
Kellett, B. M. Linington, E. E. Lockyear,
Annie Manderson, Rev. H. Milnes, S. H.
Phillips, Robina Potts, Mrs. Prestige, Ada
Rickards, John Rodway, Emma M. Sanderson,
Helen Simpson, Mildred M. Skrine,
Helen Smith, Annie Stanser, Ellen C. Tarrant,
Agnes M. Vincent, Anna Walker,
N. H. White, Emily M. P. Wood, Elizabeth
Yarwood, Edith M. Younge, Helen B.
Younger, Euphemia T. Yule.

Highly Commended.

Mrs. Allen, Margaret M. Anthony, Emily
Bergin, Alice Mary Blake, Ada K. Bullough,
Martha Cairns, Robert H. Carmichael, Mrs.
F. Chettle, Dora Clarke, Alice M. Cooper,
Lillian Clews, Mrs. Crossman, E. M. Dickson,
Mrs. F. Farrar, Florence Graves, Marie E.
Hancock, Ellie Hanlon, Lizzie J. Hetherington,
Edith L. Howse, M. A. J. Hunter,
E. Marian Jupe, Annie G. Luck, Alice
Luckhurst, Jennie M. McCall, Ethel C.
McMaster, Helen A. Manning, Geo. H.
Manning, S. Mason, Mrs. A. Motum, E. K.
Palmer, Hilda Petley, Hannah E. Powell,
Ellen M. Price, Helen J. Ransom, H. F.
Richards, Henzell G. Robson, Chas. Severs,
A. A. L. Shave, Agnes A. M. Shearer,
Merriott T. Smiley, Gertrude Stirling, M.
Stuart, Theodore J. Tasker, Constance Taylor,
Marie Threlfall, Violet C. Todd, Queenie
Tyssen, Mary Watts, Alice Woodhead, H. F.
Yeoman.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

The thirst for information continues, and
again we have been inundated with solutions.
Happily for our peace of mind, many of them
were far from perfect, and the more subtle
methods of our Art have not been called into
requisition. In short, the prize solutions were
perfect; the rest were not.

There were some points about the puzzle
which deserved rather more attention than
the casual solver was inclined to bestow, and
it seems to be necessary to refer to them in
detail. First let us deal with the supposed
mistakes. One solver, with admirable conciseness,
thus calls attention to them—

“Three mistakes, line 1 an h too many;
line 2 an h too few; line 6 an s too many.”

Now, taking lines 1 and 2 together we find
h × 2 ÷ erself + pleasant tot. That worked out
(on somewhat doubtful mathematical lines)
yields “h|erself pleasant to t|h”; then we find
ose about h, and all is as straightforward as
possible. So much for “mistakes” one and
two.

And the third “mistake” is no worse, for
the correct reading of the part referred to is
not “es minus ss” but “seven es minus ss,”
which introduces the word “even” into the
solution. The number of expert solvers who
failed at this point was quite astonishing.

In very many solutions the word around
was substituted for about in the first sentence.
It could hardly be regarded as a bad mistake;
but, inasmuch as the letters o s e were on only
three sides of the h, about had to be regarded
as the more perfect reading.

The next point to be noticed is the omission
in many solutions of the word always in the
second admonition. But the more careful
solvers noticed that in this instance five stars
were employed, and rightly divined the meaning
of the fifth. The fact that the word
always appeared in every other sentence ought
to have opened the eyes of those who fell into
the trap.

The “noise less ly” in the third admonition
also gave much trouble, and various quaint
solutions were suggested, as, for instance,
“leisurely” and “sparingly.”

These two solutions, it should be noted,
were generally associated with the particular
kind of soup indicated in the puzzle:—

“A well-bred girl always eats and drinks
sparingly (or, leisurely) not even excepting
mock-turtle soup.”

It would not have occurred to us that active
greediness in the presence of that particular
delicacy was sufficiently usual to call for rebuke.
Most unhappily, the fault we do indicate is
quite as common as it is unpleasant.

The die in the fourth admonition was
generally identified; but a few solvers could
make nothing of it excepting weight. A
weight naturally suggests a balance, and
accordingly we learn that “A well-bred girl
always refrains from balancing articles of
weight during meals.” We believe she does,
though experiments of a kindred nature with
the lighter articles at hand are not wholly
unknown to us. They seldom prove much,
excepting the clumsiness of the experimenter,
and they do not conduce to that repose which
is the essence of refinement.

One would have thought that the fifth
sentence was simplicity itself; but many
solvers wrote “speaks” instead of “talks.”
It must have required a violent effort of
imagination to convert the depicted stalks into
“sspeaks”!

In the solutions of the last sentence
“rough” continually appeared instead of
“striking.” It could not be regarded as a
satisfactory interpretation of the picture which
is obviously T striking M. One most interesting
reading of the sentence deserves to be
recorded—

“A well-bred girl always remembers that
boys’ manners are bad manners”!

Truly there are many girls whose conduct
towards their brothers seems to be based upon
some such theory as this. They are not
the most pleasing type of maidens, and as to
our opinion of their “good breeding,” let us
add an eighth admonition—

“A well-bred girl never nags.”

{461}

SHEILA.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

CHAPTER II.

UNCLE TOM.

e came from
the darkness
without into
the warmth
and brightness
of the
hall, and
threw back
his heavy Inverness
cape,
revealing
a square,
bearded face,
a broad, well-knit
figure,
and a pair of
shrewd and
not unkindly
brown eyes.

“You are
our Uncle
Tom,” said
Oscar, going
forward to
meet him.
“We are very
glad to see
you. It is
kind of you
to come.”

“Well, well, boy, duty is duty all
the world over. I would have come
a fortnight ago, but it was impossible.
No disrespect meant to your father, you
understand. So you are poor Maud’s
children, are you? We always called
her ‘poor Maud’ at home, though I
scarcely know why. She was happy
enough, I know, but she seemed like
one dead to us somehow. You are a
bit like what she was as a girl, I can
see. Perhaps the sister favours her
more,” and he looked across at Sheila,
who now came forward with outstretched
hand.

“How do you do, Uncle Tom? I
hope you are not very cold. It has
been quite warm till yesterday, and
then the cold came back. We are very
glad to see you,” and Sheila held up
her face for the kiss of the strange
uncle.

“Thank you, my dear. I hope we
shall be good friends. Oh, I am too
seasoned a traveller to mind cold or
darkness or anything like that. No,
you are not so like your mother as the
boy. I am sorry for that. John and I
rather set our hearts on having another
little Maud back again. Are you called
after your mother, my dear?”

“No, my name is Sheila. I was
called after my grandmother,” answered
the girl, and her uncle dropped her hand,
saying—

“Ah, I am sorry for that! Somehow
we had got into the way of calling you
little Maud. I suppose we knew the
right name; but none of us remembered
it.”

Sheila felt a little damped; she hardly
knew why. Oscar took the guest to his
room, and he shortly returned without
having made any attempt to dress himself
for dinner, and his apology for the
omission was of the briefest, as though
he considered the matter quite immaterial.
He was not at all a bad-looking
man, though there was something in
his appearance different from what the
girl had been used to in the life of her
secluded home. In his travelling clothes
he certainly looked a good deal rougher
than those friends of her father who
sometimes used to drop in for lunch or
dinner; and his voice was louder than
theirs; and there was a little indescribable
accent about his speech, which
suggested a lack of polish if not of
education. But there was no fault to
be found with his deportment, and he
was rather interesting in his talk at
dinner. He described to Oscar some
of the new processes in the works, and
in particular how they were utilising
electricity for lighting their buildings
and driving some of the engines. And
Oscar’s rather keen and intelligent
interest in this made a visible and
favourable impression upon their new
relation.

Sheila did not sufficiently understand
the matter to be much interested; but
she studied her uncle’s face, and decided
that she should like him, although she
thought she might stand a little in awe of
him too. She fancied he could be pretty
stern if he were angry, and that though
a just man, he would be a rather exacting
one, and would allow no loitering or
shirking in any place where he was
master.

She was left rather long alone in the
drawing-room after she had left her
brother and uncle together; but when
they came to her, she thought that
Oscar looked pleased and animated,
whilst her uncle’s face wore a quietly
satisfied expression.

He came and sat down beside her
and looked her all over with an air of
taking her measure, which half amused
and half vexed her.

“Yes, you will do very well up at the
big house. It will suit you, and you
will suit it. We are not fine enough for
you in River Street; but you will find a
good setting in Cossart Place.”

“But I would rather go with Oscar,
Uncle Tom, if I might,” said Sheila, with
a coaxing note in her voice.

“Ah, so you think now; but you
might change your mind if you were to
see the two houses. You’ve not been
used to live in a street; and besides
we haven’t too much room to spare.
But they will make you quite comfortable
at Cossart Place; and besides you are
specially wanted up there to be a companion
for poor Effie.”

“Who is Effie?” asked Sheila, half
ashamed that she did not even know the
names of her cousins. Her mother had
now and then spoken vaguely of these
relatives; but Sheila had not felt any
keen interest, and if ever she had heard
of them individually, it was all forgotten
long ago; and for the last five years she
had almost ceased to remember the existence
of her mother’s kindred.

“She is the only child my poor
brother has reared out of a fine young
family of six,” answered the uncle
gravely. “I can’t think what came to
all the young ones. Whilst mine grew
and throve, his would begin to pine
away and dwindle when they got to
be about twelve years old—sometimes
before. Their mother has always been
rather a delicate woman to be sure;
but there doesn’t seem enough in that
to account for it. Anyway that’s how
they all went, and they buried them one
after the other. All but Effie, the
youngest, and she’s grown up a fairly
healthy girl till the last year or two;
and now she seems delicate, and you
can guess how they feel about her.”

Sheila was interested at once in the
story of these little dead children, and
of the cousin who had lived to grow up.

“How old is Effie now?”

“Twenty-two, but you wouldn’t think
it. She seems a good bit younger;
she’s been made a baby of, you see.
They are anxious to have a companion
for her to keep her amused, and take
care of her in her walks and drives and
all that kind of thing. My girls go up
as often as they can; but that isn’t the
same thing as being always in the
house. Directly we heard about your
loss, and that you would have to leave
your present home, we all said that it
would be a fine thing for Effie to have a
cousin to be a sister and playfellow.”

“Perhaps she won’t like it so much
herself,” said Sheila, with a little upward
glance through her long eye-lashes.
“People don’t always like a new sister
thrust down their throats. I’m not sure
that I should have liked it myself; though
papa used sometimes to say that he
wished I had one.”

“Effie is a bit spoiled, I won’t deny
that,” answered Uncle Tom in his
straightforward fashion. “What could
you expect after such a family history?
She is not always the easiest person to
please or amuse; but you will be patient
with her, I daresay, my dear, and try to
do her good.”

Sheila was just a little taken aback.
She had always been the petted darling
at home. It seemed rather a turning of
the tables to expect her to study the
caprices and whims of another spoilt
child. Sheila knew that people called
her that sometimes. There had been
moments in her life when it had come
over her with a certain sense of uneasiness
that it might be true. But it was
very pleasant, and she had a sunny,
happy temperament. She was seldom{462}
vexed or angry even if things did not go
quite right, and she had heard people
say of her that she was “unspoilt in
spite of spoiling,” so she had got into
the way of thinking that it had not hurt
her to be an only daughter, ruling the
house beneath the mild sway of an
indulgent father.

But that was a very different thing
from being expected to play the part of
companion and sister to a cousin in
uncertain health, who appeared to have
had everything her own way all her life.

“What is the matter with Effie, Uncle
Tom?”

“Well, my dear, I am not quite sure
what it is. Sometimes I think she
might be less ailing if there were less
fuss about her symptoms. She was a
lively little puss enough till about two
years ago, and then she began with
asthma, and got thin, and had a cough,
and ever since then there has been a
regular panic about her—doctors by the
dozen, and new prescriptions every
month. It’s enough to make any girl
fanciful; but the poor child does have
bad bouts sometimes—there’s no mistaking
that. We strong folks must not
be too hard on the ailing ones. Perhaps
we should have our fads and fancies too
if we were in their shoes. When I
heard about what would have to happen
here, I said to my brother, ‘The best
thing in the world for Effie will be to
have her cousin to be a sister and
companion for her.’”

“And what did Effie say to it?”
asked Sheila.

“Well, I never asked. Effie is a bit
what nurses call contrary. She doesn’t
always take kindly to what is settled for
her; but she has a good heart at bottom.
You will get on with her all right enough.
Raby and Ray always say that her bark
is worse than her bite.”

“Who are Raby and Ray?” asked
Sheila, who felt the subject of Effie to be
a little discouraging.

“Why, my two girls, to be sure.
Rebecca and Rachel are their right
names; but that’s what they get called
at home. Lydia is married, and so is
my eldest boy, Tom. He went off to
Australia, and is doing well. But we
have four at home still—the two girls
and two boys, North and Cyril. North
(he was called after his mother’s family
name) is my right hand at the works.
He’s a good steady fellow is North, and
works hard. Cyril is the fine gentleman
of the family. Nothing would serve him
but a university education. He has
been at Cambridge, and took his degree
at Christmas. He can’t quite make up
his mind now between the Church and
the Bar. He’s having a spell at home
to think about it. You’ll get on with
Cyril, you two; he’s quite your style,
you’ll see.”

Mr. Tom Cossart spoke with evident
pride of this son. Oscar and Sheila
were both interested in hearing of their
cousins and the home that awaited
them in Isingford. Sheila saw that
there was no chance of getting taken in
at Uncle Tom’s with Oscar. Everything
had plainly been settled with a view to
her being companion and sister to Effie.
She tried to think it would be pleasant
to have a sister, and consoled herself
with the promise that Oscar should
come and see her regularly on Saturdays,
and perhaps stay for the Sunday too.
It was plain that the Cossarts meant to
be kind to them, although they intended
to arrange their lives for them in their
own fashion.

The days which followed were very
busy and rather sorrowful. It was one
long good-bye to familiar persons and
possessions.

The more closely Mr. Cholmondeley’s
affairs were looked into, the less satisfactory
they proved to be; and it was
soon evident that almost everything
would have to be sold before all the
claims upon the estate could be cleared
off.

Mr. Tom Cossart strove to avoid
making severe remarks upon the shiftless
methods of the dead man; but
Oscar felt his disapproval, and could
not be blind himself to the selfishness
of the long course of indolent procrastination
which had marked his father’s
rule. The son and daughter would have
been left almost penniless had it not
been for the small fortune of their
mother; and that was a mere pittance
to the son and daughter reared in every
luxury. The girl and boy were allowed
to select such things as they specially
treasured from the plenishings of the
house; but the bulk must go to the
hammer.

Everything was being wound up as
quickly as possible; and Sheila soon
began to wish it were all over. It was
so trying and sorrowful; and she
could not bear to see her uncle’s grim
face as he looked about him and made
arrangements. She knew he was feeling
how hard it was that a fine property had
been allowed to go to rack and ruin for
want of a strong hand on the reins, and
a managing and unselfish heart to dictate
reforms and retrenchment in times of
depression.

Sheila was not one who attached
herself very greatly to inanimate objects;
but she was devoted to her live pets.
And her uncle found her in tears in the
stable once, with her arms about the
neck of her little mare Shamrock, who
had been broken on the place, and had
carried her young mistress ever since
she had been a colt. She was quite
young still, and a very pretty creature.
The thought of parting from her was
heartbreaking to Sheila.

“I would almost rather she was shot,
Uncle Tom,” she said, with a little sob
in her voice. “I can’t bear to think
what may become of her. She will have
a good home, I daresay, whilst she is
young and handsome; but when she
grows old she may be so badly treated.
I can’t bear to think of it!”

“Tut, tut, my dear, don’t cry! Why,
I don’t see why you and your horse
shouldn’t go together. There is plenty
of room at Cossart Place; and it would
do Effie a world of good to put her on
horseback. We’re not much of riders
ourselves, we Cossarts; but Effie did
have a pony once. She would take to it
again. There, there, my dear, don’t
smother me. You shall have your horse
right enough. I’ll make that all square
here, and with your uncle and aunt
yonder.”

“Oh, Uncle Tom, you’re a darling!”
cried Sheila in her impulsive way with
her arms about his neck; and though
Mr. Tom Cossart had probably never
been called a darling since his babyhood,
and was not at all used to being hugged,
he found it amazingly pleasant to be so
treated by his pretty little niece. Not
that Sheila was really little; but she
seemed so from her childlike appealing
ways; and her uncle had slipped into
the way of calling her “Baby,” which
from him she did not mind a bit.

It was almost a relief at last both to
Oscar and Sheila to say their final farewells,
and feel they had left the old life
behind them. As the train bore them
away from the familiar country in which
they had been born and brought up,
Sheila was able to dry her wet eyes and
look at her uncle with a brave little
smile.

“I’m not going to cry any more,
Uncle Tom,” she said; “I’m going to
try and be happy and useful and good.
I’ve made lots and lots of good resolutions.
Don’t you think it’s a good plan
when one is beginning a different sort
of life? And it’s so nice of you to take
me in at your house for a few days—just
till I get used to being away! It won’t
seem quite so strange if I am with you
and Oscar for a little while.”

“Yes, yes, my dear; you shall stay
with us the first night or two; and we
shall always be pleased to see you down
in River Street whenever you have a
mind to come. But you’ll like Cossart
Place when you get there. It’s a fine
house, and has been made a good deal
finer by my brother. It used to be
called The Grange, and a lot of it is
quite old and rambling and queer; but
the new wing has made a different place
of it, and it’s got a new name too.
Very few people call it The Grange
now.”

“I think the old name is nicer than
the new,” said Sheila boldly, “and I
like old houses better than new ones. I
hope they will give me a room in the old
part. I shall ask Aunt Cossart for
one. And I shall call the house The
Grange.”

Uncle Tom laughed and muttered
something about “a wilful young puss,”
but Sheila laughed and shook her head
at him. She was not a bit afraid of her
uncle now, though she still felt that
she would not like to arouse his displeasure.

He presently folded up his paper and
put his head out of the window.

“We are getting very near now.
That is the river which runs through
the works a little farther on. You will
see the chimneys of the town very soon.
It looks a dirty sort of place as we come
in by rail; but you’ll not find it such a
bad one to live in.”

Sheila’s heart beat rather fast as she
looked out over the level flats dotted
with houses. It was not pretty; but it
was the new home, and on that account
it was interesting—even exciting.

“I mean to like everything!” she
said to herself bravely.

(To be continued.)

{463}

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

{464}

MISCELLANEOUS.

FOREIGN AWARDS.

An Ideal Garden.

Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each).

Very Highly Commended.

Mrs. H. Andrew (Canada), M. D. Browne
(India), Nellie M. Daft (Portugal), Ethel M.
Danford (Canada), Elsie V. Davies, Lillian
Dobson, John A. Fitzmaurice (Australia),
L. Hill (Argentine), Anna J. Hood (France),
Gertrude Hunt (New Zealand), Harry John
(India), Elizabeth Lang (France), Margherita
P. Martinetti (Italy), Mrs. G. Marrett (India),
Gertrude E. Moore (New Zealand), Beatrice
and Hilda D’Rozario (India), Edith Wassell,
Geo. Waterstrom (Australia).

No solution has been mentioned which was
not verbally perfect. The prize solutions
were only discovered to be better than many
others after the most minute examination.

The defects which marked the difference
between the two groups were, a failure to
divide the lines into verses, as shown in the
puzzle, the introduction of a hyphen into
noonday, the writing of O! for Oh! in the last
verse, the omission of the note of exclamation,
and, in one case only, the indentation of
line 9.

The two competitors who failed in none of
these points reap the reward of their carefulness.
Half-a-guinea does not go far in
Australia, as we know by experience, otherwise
we would advise them not to be extravagant
with their newly-gotten wealth.

GENTLEMAN’S DRESS
SHIRT PROTECTOR.

How often we are asked, “Do tell me of
something I can make for a man?” Well,
here is a delightful pattern which comes to us
from Sunderland. Its severe simplicity is in
accordance with nineteenth century evening
dress, and there is nothing about it that the
most fastidious man could object to. Fig. 1
gives the shape and measurements, and shows
the white quilted satin lining. It is best to
buy the ready quilted material. The right
side is made of thick corded black silk, the
edges are neatly turned in and oversewn or
slip-stitched, a button and loop is added, and
Fig. 2 shows the mode of wearing. We think
these ought to sell well at bazaars. A yard and
an eighth each of lining and silk would make
six, and cost about five shillings. They certainly
ought to sell at half-a-crown each, which,
considering the small amount of labour
involved, would give a big profit.

“Cousin Lil.”