THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

“OUR HERO.”

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

CHAPTER IV.

MOST UNPLEASANT TIDINGS.

“Hallo!—Keene!—Mr. Jack Keene!
At your service, sir.”

“Admiral! How do you? I was near
giving you the go-by.”

“Near running me down, you might
say. Like to a three-decker in full sail.
You are going indoors? Ay, ay, then
I’ll wait; I’ll come another day. ‘Twas
in my mind that Mrs. Fairbank might
be glad of a word. But since you are
here——”

“She will be glad, I can assure you.
Pray, sir, come in with me. This is a
frightful blow. It was told me as I
came off the ground after parade; and
I hastened hither at full speed.”

“Ay, ay; that did you!” muttered
the Admiral. “Seeing nought ahead
of you but the Corsican, I’ll be bound.”

“‘Tis a disgrace to his nation,”
burst out Jack. “Sir, what do you
think of the step?”

“Think! The most atrocious—the
most abominable piece of work ever
heard of. If ever a living man deserved
to be strung up at the yard-arm, that
man is Napoleon and none other.”

“It can never, sure, be carried out.”

“Nay, if the Consul choose, what is
to hinder?”

“Government will not give up the
vessels seized.”

“Give them up! Knuckle down to the
Corsican! Crouch before him like to a
whipped hound! Why, war has been
declared. Our Ambassador had had
his orders to come home, before ever
the step was taken. Give up the ships!
Confess ourselves wrong, in a custom
which has been allowed for ages.
We’ll give nothing up, nothing, my
dear Jack! Sooner than that, let
Boney do his best and his worst.
Wants to chase our vessels of war,
does he? Ay, so he may, when they
turn tail and run away. We shall know
how to meet him afloat, fast enough—no
fear! With our jolly tars, and brave
Nelson at their head, there’s a thing or
two yet to be taught to the First Consul,
or I’m greatly in error.”

The two speakers stood outside Mrs.
Fairbank’s house in Bath, where they
had arrived from opposite directions at
the same moment. Both had walked
fast; and each after his own mode
showed excitement. The older of the
two, Admiral Peirce, a grizzled veteran,
made small attempt to hide the wrath
which quivered visibly in every fibre of
his athletic figure. He had usually a
frank and kindly countenance, weather-beaten
by many a storm, yet overflowing
with geniality. The geniality had forsaken
it this morning, and he looked
like one whom an enemy might prefer not
to meet at too close quarters.

Jack Keene had, as he intimated,
come straight from parade, not waiting
to get rid of his uniform; and in that
uniform the young ensign looked older
than in civilian dress. Also he seemed
older in this mood of hot indignation,
his light blue eyes sparkling angrily,
and his brows frowning. For once, whatever
might usually be the case, he had
fully the air of a grown man. Boys became
men earlier in those days than they
do in these, for the tension and stress
of life were greater—albeit railways did
not exist, and telegrams had not been
heard of.

“His worst!” Jack repeated, with a
note of inquiry.

“He’ll not go beyond a point. Don’t
think it. No danger to their lives—none
whatever, you understand! Only detention.
That’s bad enough, but that
is all. And yon pretty sister of yours,
the fair Polly, why, to be sure, and she
is the betrothed of Captain Ivor.”

Jack nodded. His mind had already
made an excursion in that direction.

“Ay, ay. But it can’t last. ‘Tis a
freak of Boney’s. The whole civilised
world will cry out upon him. Not that
he greatly troubles his pate with what
folks may say of his deeds!” added
Admiral Peirce, reflecting that the civilised
world had already, for many years,
been crying out upon Napoleon, with
no particular result, beyond relieving its
own feelings. “Still, my dear sir, there
are limits to everything. Yes, yes, I
will come in with you. Doubtless the
ladies will stand in need of consolation.”

Jack led the way, and they found a
forlorn trio within. Mrs. Fairbank
knitted fast, with set jaw, and frequent
droppings of stitches. Polly, white and
dismayed, had an arm round Molly,
whom she was trying to comfort, while
much needing comfort herself. The
news of this latest move of the First
Consul had reached them less than an
hour before.

“Will Roy ever come home again?
Will my papa and mamma always be
prisoners? Shall I never, never see
them any more?” Molly had questioned
pitifully, too much bewildered at first
even for tears. Two days earlier a
letter had arrived from Colonel Baron,
with a cheerful report of Roy’s improvement;
and Molly’s happiness was sadly
dashed by this new complication.

“Oh, they will come back; of course
they will come back,” Polly assured her
again and again. “Napoleon couldn’t
keep them always, Molly dear. It would
be too cruel. We shall have them back
by-and-by; perhaps very soon. Ah—here
comes somebody; and we shall
hear more about what it all means.”

As Jack’s face appeared, a cry broke
from Molly. “Jack—oh, it is Jack.
Jack will tell us.”

Jack was speedily down by her side,
comforting her. She was small and
childish for her twelve years, and he felt
himself older unspeakably, besides being
exactly like her brother; so she cried
quietly, leaning her face against his
scarlet coat, while he whispered hopeful
foretellings.

“This is truly a doleful state of
things, ma’am,” the Admiral observed,
turning his attention first, as in duty
bound, to the elder lady. “Who could
have thought it? Dear, dear me; ’tis
prodigiously sad. I vow there was never
such a being as this First Consul since
the world was created. But cheer up,
ma’am, and pretty Polly too. Things
will come right in time, there’s no sort
of doubt.”

“‘Tis a puzzle to us all,” pretty
Polly remarked, more anxious for precise
information than for general abuse of
Napoleon, however well deserved. “Is
Colonel Baron indeed a prisoner? And
Mrs. Baron and Roy? And—Captain
Ivor?”

“Nay; not altogether so bad as that.
The First Consul may be but a few degrees
removed from a fiend, ’tis true;
yet even he does not war with women
and school-boys. Mrs. Baron is surely
free to return when she will, and to
bring Roy with her. ‘Tis Colonel Baron
and Captain Ivor who are to be accounted
prisoners of war! An atrocious
deed! But being both in His Majesty’s
Army, they have, I fear, no chance of
getting off. Cheer up!” as Polly’s
tears began to flow. “‘Tis but for a
while. Just one of the chances of war;
though ’tis a mighty shame it should be
so, with harmless and innocent travellers,
taking their pleasure abroad. But
our Government will protest; and it may
be Boney will think better of what he
has done. Eh, Jack?”

“It says, Admiral—it says, my dear
Jack——” Mrs. Fairbank knitted furiously
as she spoke—”it says, in that
most iniquitous paper——”

“Right, right!” nodded the Admiral.
“The paper in truth is iniquitous!”

“That”—pursued Mrs. Fairbank,
getting unexpectedly choky, and dropping
stitches by the bushel, as her eyes
fell on the pitiful faces of Polly and
Molly—”that ‘all the English, from the
age of eighteen to sixty’—all—not men
only!”

“Nay, nay, nay; it signifies men
only, not women. None but savages
fight against women,” declared the
Admiral, with vigour. “They will be
right enough, my dear madam. ‘Tis
only the Colonel and the Captain who
are included.”

That “only” sounded hard to Polly,
though it was meant in all kindness.
The good Admiral was doing his best
to cast a gleam of sunshine on the
cloudy prospect.

Before anyone could answer him, the
door opened, and in sailed Mrs. Bryce,
followed by her husband. Mrs. Bryce
was looking her gayest, as befitted
a fashionable visitor to fashionable
Bath.

When once Mrs. Bryce had come
upon the scene, other people would not
have a chance of saying much.

“So this is the outcome of it all!”
she exclaimed, with uplifted hands.{51}
“A fortnight in Paris! and only a fortnight!
More like to be a matter of
years. Nap has them there in safe
keeping; and depend on’t, he’ll not let
them go in no sort of haste. I protest,
when Colonel Baron told me of his purpose,
I had an inkling in my mind of
what was to happen. Did I not warn
him, Polly? Did I not tell him he
should be content to stay at home?
For you were there, and you heard.
‘Tis now as I foretold. My dear Mrs.
Fairbank, I do most sincerely condole
with you all.”

Mrs. Fairbank parted her lips, and
had time to do no more. The Admiral
looked at Mr. Bryce, and Mr. Bryce
looked at the Admiral.

“‘Tis done now, and it cannot be undone,
but ’tis a lesson for the future.
Had the Colonel but shown his accustomed
sense, he would have taken warning
by my words, and he might now be
sound and safe in old England. But
everybody has expected nothing less than
war. Pray, my dear madam, what else
could have resulted? If England will
not give up Malta at the bidding of Nap,
England has to fight. And England
will never give up Malta.”

“The Treaty of Amiens——” Mrs.
Fairbank tried to say.

“O excuse me, I beseech—don’t talk
to me of the Treaty of Amiens! We
agreed, doubtless, under certain conditions,
to give over Malta to the
Knights of St. John. And those conditions
have been broke. Broke, my
dear ma’am. Broke, my dear sir!”
She turned eagerly from one to another,
talking as fast as the words would leave
her lips. “Give up Malta, quotha! Ay,
we did arrange to give it up, but not to
Nap! Why, the last new Grand-Master
of the Knights of St. John has been
appointed by the Pope, and the Pope
himself, poor old gentleman, is Boney’s
humble slave. Give up Malta, under
such circumstances! I protest, England
is not yet sunk so low.”

Mrs. Fairbank and the Admiral both
tried to intimate that they entirely
agreed with Mrs. Bryce. They failed to
make her understand; and the lively
lady went on—

“I have it all from my brother, who
has it at first hand from his Grace, the
Duke of Hamilton. One thing is certain—our
friends over the Channel will
not be back again this great while. I
give them at the least two years. Nay,
why not four or five?”

“Nay, why not forty or fifty?” muttered
Jack. “Nay, Molly!” as he felt
her start. “Who knows? The war
may last but six months. And Roy is
free.” But he could not speak of Ivor
as free, and he saw Polly’s colour
deepen, her eyes filling. This could
not be allowed to go on. A diversion
had become necessary; and Jack’s
voice was heard to say something in
slow insistent tones, making itself
audible through Mrs. Bryce’s continued
outpour.

“A very great friend of his Grace, the
Duke of Hamilton,” reached her ears;
and Mrs. Bryce, being much of a tuft-hunter,
stopped short.

“You were saying, Jack—What was
that which you were pleased to remark?”

“I did but observe, ma’am, that the
Duke of Hamilton’s particular friend—who
is also in my humble opinion and
in the opinion of many others, the
greatest of living Englishmen—chances
to be at this instant staying in Bath.”

“The Duke’s particular friend! Then
of a surety, ’tis somebody whom also
we are acquainted with, my dear,”—turning
to her husband. “Somebody
doubtless in the world of mode and
fashion; and ‘twould be vastly odd if we
had not come across him.”

“We can scarce claim to be acquainted
with all his Grace’s friends,”
objected Mr. Bryce mildly.

“Well, well—that’s as may be. But
who is the distinguished person,
Jack?”

“None less than General Moore himself,
ma’am.”

Mrs. Bryce held up startled hands,
and vowed that the most ardent wish
of her heart was to set eyes on this Hero
of heroes, General John Moore, whom
by a succession of mischances she had
hitherto failed to meet.

“Though in truth, ’tis no such marvel,
since the General is for ever away
across the seas, fighting his country’s
battles,” she added. “Except in the
year of the Peace, when each time that
I would have seen him fate prevented
me. And he is in Bath at this moment,
say you? General Moore—that was
Governor of St. Lucia, and that was
under Sir Ralph Abercrombie, both there
and in Egypt! And that Denham Ivor
was under also, in both places! General
Moore, his very own self!”

“Ay, ma’am!”—when Jack could
edge an answer in. “And if you desire
to find another, who reckons General
Moore to be the foremost English soldier
of his time, and to be one of the noblest
of men, why, I’ve but to refer you to
Ivor.”

Mrs. Bryce did not seem quite convinced
even yet. “And you are not
seeking to take me in, Jack! You are
not jesting?”

“‘Tis no matter for jesting, I do
assure you, ma’am. The name of so
gallant a hero as John Moore is not to
be handled lightly.”

“He has been of late in command at
Brighthelmstone, and there is talk of
his being sent to Chatham,” observed
Mr. Bryce.

“For my part, had I the choice, I
would fain follow him to the world’s
end,” murmured Jack.

“And now I bethink myself!” exclaimed
Mrs. Bryce. “Was not that a
Mrs. Moore, whom in the Pump Room
yesterday forenoon Mrs. Peirce introduced
me to, saying that I should feel
myself honoured, knowing her son’s
name? I protest. I had forgot the
matter till now, having my attention
drawn off, and not thinking of the name
of General Moore.”

Mr. Bryce intimated that his wife was
in the right. He, too, had exchanged a
word with Mrs. Moore; and he had
imagined that Mrs. Bryce understood
who she was. General Moore’s mother
was the widow of a very able Glasgow
physician, also a successful author, as
he proceeded to explain.

“She appears to be of a singularly
retiring and gentle disposition,” he
observed; “and genteel in her manners.
The General, ’tis said, has been always
distractedly fond of his mother and sister,
and they are here together for a few days.
War being now declared, I fear his services
will be quickly needed elsewhere.”

The attention of Mrs. Bryce was as
effectively diverted as Jack had wished.
“The General’s mother—and friends of
his Grace the Duke of Hamilton,” she
meditated aloud. “A most unassuming
person. But since I’m introduced, I’ll
most certainly leave upon them my
visiting-ticket.”

“By all means, my dear, if you so
desire,” assented her husband. “‘Tis
reported that the good lady cares not
greatly for society; but nevertheless she
will take it well, in compliment to her
son’s merits and fame.”

“It may be we shall see them in the
Pump Room again. I’ll away there at
once, on leaving this. And if I may
but speak with the General, ’twill be the
proudest moment of my life. You doubtless,
Jack, have seen him already?”

“I have had that honour, ma’am.
His is a face that, once seen, can never
after be forgot.”

“With manners of extraordinary address
and elegance,” added Mr. Bryce.

“But I had not known him before to
be so great a friend of the Duke of
Hamilton,” remarked Mrs. Bryce, in
some amazement, it would seem, at her
own ignorance. She was generally
credited with knowing everything that
was to be known about everybody, and
she prided herself on this fact.

“‘Tis a friendship singularly founded,”
Jack observed. “Some thirty years ago,
the young Duke went for a tour on the
Continent, under the charge of Dr.
Moore, remaining abroad, if I mistake
not, several years. Dr. Moore took his
son—the present General Moore—with
them. He was then but a boy of ten or
twelve. The Duke one day, being in a
mood for idle sport, drew his hanger,
and fenced with the lad, making him
skip to and fro to avoid his sham
thrusts. Unluckily Moore chanced to
spring suddenly in a line with the Duke’s
next thrust, and was wounded. He said
no more than ‘Ha!’—looking the Duke
in the face; and the Duke, in extreme
terror, ran for Dr. Moore. ‘Twas found
to be but a flesh wound, the sword having
glanced outside the ribs, and the
boy soon recovered. But from that date
a most strong friendship has subsisted
between the two—the Duke being by
four or five years the elder. Indeed, as
Ivor ever says, none who know General
Moore can fail to be attached to him.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Bryce said to her
husband, “’tis about time we should be
hieing to the Pump Room. My friends
will there be on the look-out for me.
And it may even chance that we may
meet the General himself.” She stood
up, eager to be off; but as she went, she
gave a parting fling. “Depend on’t, old
Nap will be in no sort of hurry to let his
prisoners go free. No one need think it.”

(To be continued.)

{52}

PALMAM QUI MERUIT FERAT

‘Twas the merry month of May

When the birds sing roundelay,

Each to cheer his brooding mate,

Nor was one disconsolate.

‘Twas the golden evening hour

When the spells of thought had power,

Giving peace but chasing mirth,

Bidding spirits walk the earth.

‘Twas the fairy’s silver spring

With its magic murmuring;

By its side a maiden lay,

Weary both of work and play—

“Little life my past has brought—

What is in the present wrought?

Kindly fairy, let me gaze

In my future’s tangled maze.”

Came the answer soft and low,

Heard amid the water’s flow—

“Maiden, perfect love is thine,

Seek no further to divine.”

“Perfect love? How shall I know it?

Fairy, say, who shall bestow it?”

“Maiden! years shall wax and wane

Ere thou seek this spring again.

When thou comest I will tell thee

How that fairest fate befell thee.”

‘Tis the rosy break of day—

By the fountain’s dancing spray,

Sword in hand, and sheathed in steel,

Three in early manhood kneel.

“Gentle fairy, hear us now—

We have ta’en the knightly vow—

Sworn to aid the fair and weak,

Grant the boons thy champions seek.”

“Grant,” saith one, “if death be nigh

Me, for her I love to die.”

And the springlet, singing sweet,

Casts a white rose at his feet.

Prays the second, “Fairy, give

Me for her I love to live.”

And the merry water flows

Bearing him a crimson rose.

Saith the third, “Of death or life

I myself can wage the strife—

Only let my love endure,

Given once, unchanged and pure.”

Then the fountain sinks to calm,

On its bosom lies a palm.

In the forest, sore dismayed,

Cries for help the lovely maid;

Clutch of brigand fierce and rude

Holds her in that solitude;

Brigand hands seize gems and gold,

Brigand tongues with speeches bold

Offer her, since none can save,

Queenship of their robber-cave.

On the leaves the sunbeams glitter,

‘Mid the boughs the wild birds twitter,

In the grass the foxgloves rise—

Is there none to heed her cries?

See the branches dashed apart!

Turns the chief with sudden start,

Feels a sword-thrust in his heart;

And another caitiff’s groan

Speaks his coward spirit flown,

While, too swift for dying word,

Dagger-smitten, writhes a third.

Yet before the maid is freed

Victim for her life must bleed;

For the chief with parting breath

Gives one succourer to death;

And his comrades bending low

Over him their mantles throw,

While the maiden’s tears betoken

Grief for gratitude unspoken.

Soon for him the death-bell pealeth—

She beside her champion kneeleth—

All in sable vesture dight

Scatters o’er him roses white.

One whose aid her thanks must own

Asks not gratitude alone:

Whispered words have soothed her fears,

Loving hand shall dry her tears;

Spring with all its visions tender

Shall to summer-joys surrender,

Hope who erst would dream apart

Yield to love the virgin heart,

Grateful tears no more be paid

Where the milky roses fade,

But the thoughts she cannot speak

Shall unbidden dye her cheek,

When their emblem she bestows,

Gives her knight the crimson rose.

{53}

Yet another champion stood

By the maiden in the wood,

Slew the foe, but, wounded sore

Saw her for awhile no more.

When he met her glance again

Was it joy or was it pain?

Joy her yielded hand to press,

Joy to hear her voice confess

He had helped her in distress,

Joy to see her eye bedewed

With a friend’s solicitude,

Pain which would not be denied

For she was another’s bride!

“Can I bear? He is fond

But unworthy of her—

The pleasures beyond

Can his light spirit stir;

Gay song, foolish story

Can lead him astray,

Vain glamour of glory

Entice him away.

“Must I speak? She is blind

Be his faults what they will

To her he is kind.

Let me watch and be still:

Her children beguiling

Each hour as it flies,

The world ever smiling,

Untroubled her skies.

“Shall I fly? If I would

She might look e’en on me;

She is true, she is good,

Yet I cannot but see

Some moment unwary

Might bring back again

That thought—— Ah! kind fairy,

Is true love all pain?”

Comes again the eventide:

Happy wife as happy bride,

Happy mother, she has dwelt,

Pain unknown and grief unfelt

Till her lord to rest was laid.

Now in mourning weeds arrayed

She has sought the fairy spring;

Hears once more its murmuring,

Sees once more the bees assemble

There the honeysuckles tremble,

Sees the armoured dragon-fly

And the kingfisher dart by,

Sees the blue forget-me-not

Cluster in the shielded spot,

Sees forsooth, with brimming eyes,

Children of the earth and skies;

Nothing harmful dares to roam

Near the fairy-haunted home.

“Fairy, he has gone to rest,

His the perfect love and best!”

Answered her the water’s swell,

“Not the best—he loved thee well.”

Wondering even in her tears

Fly her thoughts through bygone years—

“He who lay ‘neath roses white,

Was he then the perfect knight?”

Came the answer soft and clear,

“Not the best—he held thee dear.”

“Then, as thou didst promise, tell me

How that fairest fate befell me.”

“Didst thou mark—a flame his crest—

Him who moved among the rest,

Yet no word of love addressed?

Him who, wounded for thy sake,

Scarce would thanks in guerdon take—

Speechless, though his heart might break.

Yea, thou didst, with laughing glance,

Bid him lead thee to the dance,

Bid him break for thee a lance.

Silently would he comply,

Or with half-averted eye

Watch thee gaily pass him by.

Yet he ever hovered near,

Lest the dawn of woe or fear,

Pain or trouble should appear.

Once in hour of sorest strife

For thy lord he risked his life.

Didst thou know it—thou the wife?

Once within the rushing river

Garments white an instant quiver,

‘Twas thy child—a pause, a shiver.

All around in blank dismay

Watch her swiftly whirled away—

He won back the millstream’s prey;

Placed her on the margent green,

Saw her maidens o’er her lean,

Parted ere his face was seen.

Death and life for thee were given,

For thy sake a heart was riven.

Was it hard—the yielded breath?

Harder far the living death.

True the love which won thee first—

Truer that in silence nursed.

Now he rests where flowers bloom—

Wilt thou crownless leave his tomb?”

Not with tears, but still and calm,

On his grave she laid the palm.

{54}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER III.

A fortnight later Peggy Saville arrived
at the vicarage. Her mother
brought her, stayed for a couple of hours,
and then left for the time being, but as
she was to pay some visits in the neighbourhood
it was understood that this
was not the final parting, and that she
would spend several afternoons with her
daughter before sailing for India. On
this occasion, however, none of the
young people saw her, for they were out
during the afternoon, and were just
settling down to tea in the schoolroom
when the wheels of the departing carriage
crunched down the drive.

“Now for it!” cried Maxwell, and
they looked at one another in silence,
knowing full well what would happen
next. Mrs. Asplin would think an introduction
to her young friends the best
distraction for the strange girl, after her
mother’s departure, and the next item in
the programme would be the appearance
of Miss Peggy herself. Esther rearranged
the scattered tea-things; Oswald
felt to see if his necktie was in
position, and Robert hunched his
shoulders and rolled his eyes at Mellicent
in distracting fashion. Each one
sat with head cocked on one side, in an
attitude of eager attention. The front
door banged, footsteps approached, and
Mrs. Asplin’s high, cheerful tones were
heard drawing nearer and nearer.

“This way, dear,” she was saying.
“They are longing to see you.”

The listeners gave a simultaneous
gulp of excitement, the door opened,
and—Peggy entered!

She was not in the least what they had
expected. This was neither the fair,
blonde beauty of Maxwell’s foretelling,
nor the small, black-haired elf described
by Mellicent. The first glance was unmitigated
disappointment.

“She is not a bit pretty,” was the
mental comment of the two girls.
“What a funny little soul!” that of
the three big boys, who had risen on
Mrs. Asplin’s entrance, and now stood
staring at the newcomer with curious,
bashful eyes.

Peggy was slight and pale, and at
the first sight her face gave a comical
impression of being made up of a succession
of peaks. Her hair hung in a
pigtail down her back, and grew in a
deep point on her forehead; her finely
marked eyebrows were shaped like
eaves, and her chin was for all the
world like that of a playful kitten.
Even the velvet trimming on her dress
accentuated this peculiarity, as it zigzagged
round the sleeves and neck.
The hazel eyes were light and bright,
and flitted from one figure to another
with a suspicious trinkling, but nothing
could have been more composed, more
demure, or patronisingly grown up than
the manner in which this strange girl
stood the scrutiny which was bent upon
her.

“Here are your new friends, Peggy,”
cried Mrs. Asplin cheerily. “They
always have tea by themselves in the
schoolroom, and do what they please
from four to five o’clock. Now just sit
down, dear, and take your place among
them at once. Esther will make room
for you by her side, and introduce you
to the others. I will leave you to make
friends; I know young people get on
better when they are left alone.”

She whisked out of the room in her
impetuous fashion, and Peggy Saville
seated herself in the midst of a ghastly
silence. The young people had been prepared
to cheer and encourage a bashful
stranger, but the self-possession of this
thin, pale-faced girl took them all by
surprise, so that they sat round the
table playing uncomfortably with teaspoons
and knives, and irritably conscious
that they, and not the newcomer,
were the ones to be overcome with confusion.
The silence lasted for a good
two minutes, and was broken at last by
Miss Peggy herself.

“Cream and sugar!” she said, in a
tone of sweet insinuation. “Two lumps,
if you please. Not very strong, and as
hot as possible. Thank you! So sorry
to be a trouble.”

Esther fairly jumped with surprise,
and seizing the teapot, filled the empty
cup in hot haste. Then she remembered
the dreaded airs of the boarding-school
miss, and her own vows of independence,
and made a gallant effort to regain her
composure.

“No trouble at all. I hope that will
be right. Please help yourself. Bread-and-butter—scones—cake!
I must introduce
you to the rest, and then you
will feel more at home! I am Esther,
the eldest, a year older than you, I think.
This is Mellicent, my younger sister,
fourteen last February. I think you are
about the same age.” She paused a
moment, and Peggy looked across the
table and said, “How do you do,
dear?” in an affable, grandmotherly
fashion, which left poor Mellicent speechless,
and filled the others with delighted
amusement. But their own turn was
coming. Esther pulled herself together
and went on steadily with her introductions.
“This is Maxwell, my brother,
and these are father’s two pupils—Oswald
Elliston, and Robert—the Honourable
Robert Darcy.” She was not
without hope that the imposing sound of
the latter name would shake the self-possession
of the stranger, but Peggy
inclined her head with the air of a queen,
drawled out a languid “Pleased to see
you,” and dropped her eyes with an air
of indifference, which seemed to imply
that an “Honourable” was an object of
no interest whatever, and that she was
really bored by the number of her titled
acquaintances. The boys looked at
each other with furtive glances of astonishment.
Mellicent spread jam all
over her plate, and Esther unconsciously
turned on the handle of the urn and
deluged the tray with water, but no one
ventured a second remark, and once
again it was Peggy’s voice that opened
the conversation.

“And is this the room in which you
pursue your avocations? It has a warm
and cheerful exposure.”

“Er—yes! This is the schoolroom.
Mellicent and I have lessons here in the
morning from our German governess,
while the boys are in the study with
father. In the afternoon, from two to
four, they use it for preparation, and we
go out to classes. We have music
lessons on Monday, painting on Tuesday,
calisthenics and wood-carving on
Thursday and Friday. Wednesday and
Saturday are half-holidays. Then from
four to six the room is common property,
and we have tea together and amuse
ourselves as we choose.”

“A most desirable arrangement.
Thank you! Yes, I will take a scone,
as you are so very kind,” said Peggy
sweetly, a remark which covered the five
young people with confusion, since none
of them had noticed that her plate was
empty. Each one made a grab in the
direction of the plate of scones; the
girls failed to reach it, and Oswald,
twitching it from Robert’s hands, jerked
half the contents on the table, and
had to pick them up, while Miss Saville
looked on with a smile of indulgent
superiority.

“Accidents will happen, will they
not?” she said sweetly, as she lifted a
scone from the plate, with her little
finger cocked well in the air, and
nibbled it daintily between her small,
white teeth. “A most delicious cake!
Home-made, I presume? Perhaps of
your own concoction?”

Esther muttered an inarticulate assent,
and once more the conversation languished.
She looked appealingly at
Maxwell. As the son of the house, the
eldest of the boys, it was his place to
take the lead, but Maxwell looked the
picture of awkward embarrassment.
He did not suffer from bashfulness as a
rule, but since Peggy Saville had come
into the room he had been seized with
an appalling self-consciousness. His
feet felt in the way, his arms seemed too
long for practical purposes, his elbows
had a way of invading other people’s
precincts, and his hands looked red and
clammy. It occurred to him dimly that
he was not a man after all, but only a
big, overgrown schoolboy, and that
little Miss Saville knew as much, and
was mildly pitiful of his shortcomings.
He was not at all anxious to attract the
attention of the sharp little tongue, so he
passed on the signal to Mellicent, kicking
her foot under the table, and frowning
vigorously in the direction of the
stranger.

“Er,” began Mellicent, amicably
anxious to respond to the signal, but
lamentably short of ideas, “Er, Peggy!
Are you fond of sums? I’m in decimals.
Do you like fractions? I think they are
hateful. I could do vulgars pretty well,
but decimals are fearful. They never
come right. So awfully difficult.”

{55}

“Patience and perseverance overcome
all difficulties. Keep up your courage;
I’ll help you with them, dear,” said
Peggy encouragingly, closing her eyes
the while, and coughing in a faint and
ladylike manner.

She could not really be only fourteen,
Mellicent reflected. She talked as if she
were quite grown up—older than Esther,
seventeen or eighteen at the very least.
What a little white face she had; what
a great, thick plait of hair. How erect
she held herself. Fraulein would never
have to rebuke her new pupil for stooping
shoulders. It was kind of her to promise
help with those troublesome decimals!
Quite too good an offer to refuse.

“Thank you very much,” she said
heartily, “I’ll show you some after tea.
Perhaps you may be able to make me
understand better than Fraulein. It’s
very good of you, P——” A quick
change of expression warned her that
something was wrong, and she checked
herself to add hastily, “You want to be
called ‘Peggy,’ don’t you? No? Then
what must we call you? What is your
real name?”

“Mariquita!” sighed the damsel pensively,
“after my grandmother—Spanish.
A beautiful and unscrupulous woman at
the court of Philip the Second.” She
said “unscrupulous” with an air of
pride, as though it had been “virtuous,”
or some other word of a similar meaning,
and pronounced the name of the king
with a confidence that made Robert gasp.

“Philip the Second? Surely not?
He was the husband of our Mary—1572.
That would make it just a trifle too far
back for your grandmother, wouldn’t it?”
he inquired sceptically, but Mariquita
remained absolutely unperturbed.

“It must have been someone else
then, I suppose. How clever of you to
remember! I see you know something
about history,” she said suavely, a remark
which caused an amused glance
to pass between the young people, for
Robert had a craze for history of all
description, and had serious thought of
becoming a second Carlyle so soon as
his college course was over.

Maxwell put his handkerchief to his
mouth to stifle a laugh, and kicked out
vigorously beneath the table, with the
intention of sharing his amusement
with his friend Oswald. It seemed,
however, that he had aimed amiss, for
Mariquita fell back in her chair, and
laid her hand on her heart.

“I think there must be some slight
misunderstanding. That’s my foot that
you are kicking. I cut it very badly on
the ice last winter, and the least touch
causes acute suffering. Please don’t
apologise; it doesn’t matter in the
least,” and she rolled her eyes to the
ceiling like one in mortal agony.

It was the last straw. Maxwell’s
embarrassment had reached such a
pitch that he could bear no more. He
murmured some unintelligible words
and bolted from the room, and the other
two boys lost no time in following his
example.

In subsequent conversations, Mellicent
always referred to this occasion as “the
night when Robert had one cup,” it being,
in truth, the only occasion since this
young gentleman entered the vicarage
when he had neglected to patronise the
teapot three or four times in succession.

(To be continued.)

SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART II.

THE NOSE.

What a great variety of shapes the noses of
adults in a civilised country present! You
will not find this diversity of shape in new-born
infants. Where, then, is the cause of
this? There must be some cause, and I think
that I can tell you something about the ugly
shaped noses, how they have arisen, why they
exist, and how they may be prevented.

If you ask six persons what is the good of
the nose, five at least will answer “to smell
with.” Is it likely that an organ so large
and exceedingly complex as the nose would
only serve the sense of smell—a sense which
in man is extremely feeble! No! it has a far
more important function to perform, for the
nose is the organ through which we breathe.
But surely we breathe through our mouths?
I am afraid that most of us do, more’s the
pity! Children at school are often told to
breathe through their mouths, and doubtless
this helps the development of coughs and
colds which are so common during childhood.

Everybody ought to breathe through the
nose, but it is not everybody who can do so.

This is a country of catarrhs, and of all the
organs in the body, the lining of the nose is
the most prone to this form of inflammation.
Catarrh of the nose prevents you from breathing
properly by blocking up the passages
through the nose. This is one of the forms
of nasal obstruction, and it is nasal obstruction
which produces ugly noses. Long continued
obstruction, whatever it is due to,
ends by deforming the nose.

To me, a turned up nose, a long thin nose,
a very small nose, a nose with small nostrils,
or a nose that is flat between the eyes, are
the ugly forms, and every one of these may
result from nasal obstruction. A few words
of description as to how these various deformities
of the nose are produced will help
you to guard against letting your daughters
grow up with deformed noses.

The turned-up nose is very common and
when well marked is exceedingly ugly.
People who cannot breathe easily through the
nose are very fond of sniffing, and this of itself
tends to produce a “snub nose.” The chief
cause, however, of all these forms of noses is
that the nose does not grow properly when it
is out of working order. Let me explain this
more fully by an example. A girl of four
years old has “adenoids” at the back of her
nose. These prevent her from breathing
through her nose. She has therefore to
breathe through her mouth. When a girl
gets to be thirteen, a great change should
occur in the nose; it should get larger and
its cavities become more capacious. It is at
this period that the definite shape of the nose
is fixed. In the case of the girl we mention
her nose has been useless from childhood,
and nature will never develop a useless organ.
When she was a child she had a small nose
on a small face, when she becomes a woman
she will have a small nose on a big face.
Whatever the size of the nose it should fit
the face, and a snub nose, or a thin, or a very
small, or a flat nose will be the result.

The obvious way to prevent your children
from growing up with badly formed noses is
to be very careful to see that they use their
noses, and if they cannot breathe through
them to have proper treatment to enable them
to do so.

If you have grown to maturity with a malformed
nose, can anything be done to lessen its
ugliness? Well, here you see the body has
finished growing, and one cannot be sure that
any benefit will accrue from treatment. But
in nearly every case that I have seen, some
distinct improvement has occurred in the shape
of the nose, after a very long-continued and
neglected nasal obstruction has been remedied.

Those that have nasal obstruction would do
well to have that condition seen to at once.
For centuries this condition was neglected.
It not only interfered with beauty, but it was
and is the cause of many serious maladies.

A nose that is bent to one side almost invariably
has its origin in a broken nose.
Fortunately not every nose that is broken
shows its misfortune on the surface. If you
would examine the noses of five hundred
people, I very much doubt if there would be
more than three hundred in whom the nose
was not broken.

If ever you have cause to think that you
have broken your nose, go to a doctor and
have it seen to, for very frequently, if it be
properly “set,” any possible deformity can be
averted.

There is a little instrument which has been
before the public for some time called a “nose
machine.” This instrument attempts to do
by force what medicine tries to do by art—to
cure nasal deformity. It cannot do what it is
intended to; Nature may be encouraged by
kindness, but she can never be overcome by
force.

Now let us talk about another condition of
the nose, which appears to trouble girls very
much. Red noses are decidedly not beautiful.
Common enough they are, but in very many
cases they can be cured by a few trifling precautions.
The commonest cause of red noses
in girls is drinking tea; but anything that
produces indigestion will cause a red nose:
eating too fast; not masticating properly;
eating indigestible food; drinking largely with
meals; running about just after eating; tight
lacing and lack of exercise are the common
causes of indigestion, and these, therefore, are
the causes of red noses.

Here the cure is simple enough. Avoid
the exciting cause and the red nose will get all
right again.

Continued indigestion, especially if it is due
to excess of tea or spirits, produces a more
permanent redness of the nose. This is called
“rosacea” or more popularly “grog-blossoms.”
We rarely see the genuine “tippler’s
nose” except in persons who have indulged too
freely in alcohol. But we do see a condition
not very dissimilar from it in tea-drinkers and
others who overtax their digestions.

To cure this complaint, scrupulous care
must be taken with the diet and the exciting
cause must be entirely suppressed. Locally an
ointment of ichthiol (two per cent.) produces
a rapid improvement.

(To be continued.)

{56}

WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.

By SARAH DOUDNEY.

CHAPTER II.

“I have never
been so
happy before
in all my
life!” Alice
said.

All around
her was the
common,
seldom-heeded
loveliness
of an
English lane
in August.

A long colonnade of
oaks barred the way with
shadows. The bindweed
hung its garlands of little
leafy hearts across the
hedges. The bramble showed an abundance of
green fruit which would swell and turn black
by-and-by; and among the ground-ivy and
strawberry leaves a few poison-berries shone
out brightly, like witches’ jewels. This was
the grassy road leading to Swallow’s Nest,
and Alice had loved it from the very first day
when she came here with her luggage, just a
fortnight ago.

The farmhouse was very old, and no one
could ever remember a summer when the
swallows had not built there. It was a place
that did not change as other places do. The
birds always knew that they should find a
convenient shelter just under the roof of the
ample porch. No matter how far they had
flown, no matter what fairer scenes they had
visited, they never failed to come back to this
quiet English home.

Not only in the porch did they build, but
under the eaves, in little nooks about the roof,
in every place which would hold their funny
nests, made of little lumps of clay artistically
massed together. The house was haunted by
shrill notes and glancing wings. You could
not pass through the door without sending a
swallow flying out into the sunlight.

They were not content merely with the
outside of the old dwelling. Very often they
flashed in through an open window and flew
in circles round the room, chattering as they
flew. Alice sometimes wished that she could
understand that rapid bird-language, so full
of hidden meanings and quick changes of
expression. What a companion a swallow
might be, if we could but interpret the wisdom
that he brings!

Alice and her pupils were already getting
plenty of work to do. She had dropped
down, quite happily, into the middle of a very
pleasant family who were all pulling one way—and
that was a good way. But it took all
her own good sense, and the judicious hints
of Mrs. Bower, to reconcile her to making up
the hideous materials brought by the surrounding
neighbours. The crude reds and
greens, the staring blues and yellows, filled
her with disgust. And as she sauntered
through the lane on a golden afternoon, she
wondered why people did not study colour in
the hedges.

Here was the delicate lilac of the wild
geranium; here were the beautiful shades of
olive and brown and buff so dear to an artist’s
eyes. Alice enjoyed them all; and drew in
deep breaths of sweet-scented air, with a
pitying remembrance of those who lived in
the sickening atmosphere of heated London.

So the peaceful days went and came. Miss
Harper’s services became more and more in
request, and by the time that the blackberries
were ripe, she was employed by the “best
families” in the neighbourhood.

One day a young lady trundled up to the
gate in a pretty little pony-cart; and Ethel
Bower, catching a glimpse of her through the
open window, said in a low tone that it was
Mrs. Monteagle.

“Our squire’s wife,” she added, as she
went to the door. Alice, sitting among silks
and cashmeres and tweeds, did not feel any
special interest in the new-comer. But at the
first sight of Mrs. Monteagle’s pretty, piquant
little face, she had a flash of remembrance.

The lady made just the slightest pause
before speaking. Miss Harper, however, met
her with grave politeness and an impassive
face. So Mrs. Monteagle plunged into business
at once, and explained that she wanted a
really pretty tea-gown.

She had brought a parcel of soft rich silk,
and plenty of delicate lace. Miss Harper
examined and approved, and promised to
execute the order in a week.

“Letty Foster always had good taste,” she
thought, as the cart trundled away, “And
so she has married ‘our squire.’ Well, she
will find that I, at any rate, can be utterly
oblivious of our meetings elsewhere. It is
quite a pleasure to make up such lovely silk
as this; and I am really very much obliged to
Mrs. Letty.”

On the evening of the same day “Mrs.
Letty” went to the door of her husband’s
dressing-room, just before dinner, and told
him that she had made a discovery.

“Well, what have you discovered?” asked
he. “Upon my word, I wish it was a pot of
gold.”

“It’s not a pot of gold. It’s a former
acquaintance under the guise of a dressmaker!”
cried Mrs. Monteagle gleefully. “It’s Alice
Harper, who used to live in Park Lane—Alice
Harper, the daughter of that old company
man who blew out his brains. Isn’t it
funny?”

“It doesn’t strike me that it’s funny when
a man blows out his brains,” said the squire.
“I wish he hadn’t done it. If he had lived I
might have made him useful.”

“What could he have done for you,
Gerald?” asked Mrs. Monteagle, opening
her eyes.

They stood fronting each other alone for a
minute or two. She noticed that he had
some deep lines on his face, and looked worn.

“Well, he could have got some money for
me,” said he simply. “I say, Letty, I don’t
want to bother you, but we must contrive to
pull in a bit. Cardigan is coming here to-morrow.
If I can, I shall get him to buy
Swallow’s Nest.”

“Oh, the charming old farm! That’s
where Miss Harper is living,” said his wife.
“I am sorry that you must part with it. Yes,
I will be very economical, dear. Mr. Cardigan
is awfully rich, they say.”

Robert Cardigan alighted at the little rural
station in rather a gloomy mood. It is a
truism that rich men are by no means the
most cheerful; and Robert, perhaps, was
feeling the embarrassment of wealth.

The squire’s dog-cart was waiting, and, as
he drove through the autumn lanes, the beauty
of the country stole over him like a charm.
He wished all at once that he could be a boy
again, and go a-nutting in the deep woods.
Monteagle, he thought, was a lucky man to
own these acres of woodland, and these beautiful
fields stretching away to ranges of quiet
hills. It was the kind of country that he
liked; neither wild nor grand, but just simply
pastoral and sweet.

He hoped that he should not find a big
house-party. Miss de Vigny had called him
refreshingly natural, and it was certain that
vanity was not his principal fault. But a man
with many thousands a year is never left long
in ignorance of his own importance. Cardigan
had been hunted from pillar to post, pelted
with showers of invitations, courted discreetly
and indiscreetly, until he was weary of a life
so over-sweet. What would he not have
given for a true friend?

There was a certain face which rose up
often in his memory; a girl’s face, calm, and
a little proud, with serious grey eyes. That
girl had been always devising impossible plans
for doing good to others. He had smiled
while he listened to her earnest talk, and
wondered how such notions could have got
into the head of Harper’s daughter.

He did not know what had become of her.
Mary de Vigny seemed to know, but had not
been disposed to say much. He wished now
that he had plied the little maiden lady with
questions. He would call on her, he thought,
when he returned to town, and plainly ask
her to tell him all about that girl.

To his relief he found that there were only
a few people at Courland Hall.

The squire had been married only twelve
months. He had chosen for a wife a thoughtless
good-natured girl, with very little money.
Letty had always been accustomed to rely to
a great extent on her own brains when she
was in want of a little extra finery. She had
contrived to make a charming appearance on
a small allowance. To marry Gerald Monteagle
was, to her fancy, like coming into the
possession of a gold mine.

She had begun by spending freely. Those
few words, spoken in the dressing-room, had
been the first hint of tightening the purse-strings.
They had sobered her spirit, and
brought her closer to her husband than she
had ever been before.

No wedded pair can ever be perfectly
united until they have passed out of the sunshine
into the shade. When the sun goes
down behind a bank of clouds, and a chill
wind sighs across the roses, then the bride
becomes the wife in real earnest, and creeps
nearer to her husband’s side. It is then that
he discovers what a deep well of tenderness
lies in the heart of the girl who was perhaps
lightly wooed and easily won.

Letty’s gaiety was just tinged with gravity,
and Cardigan, who had thought to find her a
mere trifler, liked her better than he had
expected, and was ready to be a friend to the
young couple. He went into the woods with
the squire, and the two men grew intimate.

“I wouldn’t part with a foot of my land
if it could be helped,” Monteagle confessed.
“But times are bad, and I must let Swallows’
Nest go.”

“It’s a beautiful country,” said Cardigan.

“Swallows’ Nest is one of our prettiest
bits,” the squire said. “Just come and have
a look at it. You can get a good view from
the top of that field.”

The old farm-house was bathed in the
mellow light of the October afternoon. A
few late roses still lingered in the front
garden, and clambered up the rough flint
walls; and there were geraniums blooming
on the ledges inside the porch. It was not a
big house, by any means, and the latticed
windows were small and mean. Looking
down upon this dwelling, Cardigan only
thought that it was not pretty enough to be
set in such a lovely spot. It never occurred
to him just then that it was a home.

{57}

“WITH A SAD HEART SHE WENT TO HER LATTICED WINDOW AND LEANED OUT INTO THE SOFT DARKNESS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHT.”

{58}

“Upon my word, Monteagle,” said he
suddenly, “I’m half inclined to buy the place
myself. It would be easy enough to pull
down that ugly little barn, and put up something
really picturesque.”

“Quite easy,” said the squire.

“I know exactly the sort of thing I should
like to build there,” Cardigan went on.
“Nothing showy, you understand, but something
that would harmonise with the surroundings.
Well, Monteagle, we must talk the
matter over.”

And the matter was talked over, and
settled after dinner that very evening. Cardigan
was not the man to worry about the
price. The squire went up to his room that
night with a lightened heart.

“I am sorry that the Bowers will have to
turn out; that’s the worst part of it,” he said
to his wife.

“Mrs. Bower and the girls are so nice,”
Letty answered. “And, oh, Alice Harper
lives there, I was forgetting that! But they
will easily find a place somewhere else,
darling. It is such a relief to me to see that
you have cheered up.”

“The money will just set me straight,
Letty,” said he.

Ill news generally flies apace. The Monteagles’
butler was one of Bower’s old friends.
A few days after the arrangement was made
the farmer came in one evening with a downcast
face.

“I couldn’t have thought the squire would
have done such a thing!” he cried. “He’s
sold the old place right over our heads! My
father lived here, and my grandfather, and my
great-grandfather. And now its going to be
pulled down, and a new place’ll be stuck up
to please a chap who comes from nobody
knows where!”

Little Milly was listening with all her ears.
She burst out crying, and ran at once into the
next room to tell the doleful tidings to her
sisters and Miss Harper.

Ethel Bower lifted her fair Madonna face
from her work, and stared at the child in
surprise. Ada, dark-eyed and pretty, tossed
her head and said she didn’t believe a word of
it. And Alice Harper, putting the finishing
touches to Mrs. Monteagle’s tea-gown, said
very earnestly that she hoped it was not true.
But before she went to bed that night she
learnt that it was really true.

With a sad heart she went to her latticed
window and leaned out into the soft darkness
of the autumn night. The air was full of those
sweet earthy scents that breathed of home and
rest. Under this peaceful roof she had found
a safe refuge from the storms of life. A refuge,
and something more. True hearts that turned
to her for helpful love; young spirits trusting
to her stronger spirit for that uplifting that
she could give them. Simple souls, clinging
in human fashion to the old walls that had
sheltered them so long—must they be driven
out to seek a new dwelling at a rich man’s
will?

Then Alice knelt down and prayed with all
her strength, lifting up her face to the eternal
stars above her. She prayed that she, who
had come a stranger to this dear old house,
might bring a blessing under its protecting
roof. Lonely and sad, with a scanty purse
and a tired body, she had come to dwell with
these people, to work with them, and share
their life. And He who had led her there
would surely help her to assist them in their
hour of sorrow and need.

She rose early next morning, and went
downstairs to see sad faces at the breakfast-table.
Just before the farmer went out to his
daily tasks, it came into her head to ask him
a question.

“Mr. Bower,” she said, “did you hear the
name of the person who has bought your
farm?”

“Yes,” he answered; “but it is a name not
known to any of us. It’s Cardigan. He’s a
young man, I’m told, who has come into a lot
of money. The squire asked him to stay at
the Hall, and it seems that he’s taking a
mighty fancy to the neighbourhood.”

Alice’s heart began to throb fast. If Robert
Cardigan were the man that Mary de Vigny
thought him, it might be very easy to move
his heart. But when, and in what manner,
could this be done?

Her brain was still busy with these thoughts
while she was carefully folding up the tea-gown
and packing it into a box to send it up to the
Hall. It was carried to the house that very
morning, and Mrs. Monteagle, when she took
it out, was quite charmed with her new
dressmaker’s skill.

When the men came in from the covers that
afternoon, the squire’s eyes took note of the
pretty gown.

“Why, Letty,” said he, “where did you
get that original-looking thing.”

He spoke in an undertone, standing near
her little tea-table, and looking at her with an
amused smile. Cardigan came up at the
moment to have his cup refilled, and caught
her reply.

“Alice Harper made it. A wonderful
woman, isn’t she?”

Had Alice Harper taken to dressmaking?
Miss de Vigny had told him that she was
working for herself. Later, he contrived to
lead the conversation back to that tragedy
which had been enacted, nearly three years
ago, in Park Lane.

“I have often wondered,” he said, “what
became of poor Harper’s daughter.”

(To be concluded.)

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

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES THE HOUSEHOLD.

On a raw,
foggy-looking
morning
in November,
three
happy-looking
girls sat
in their cosy
little sitting-room,
taking
their
breakfast by
lamplight.
Neither the
bitter weather,
nor the fact that it was
only eight o’clock on a winter
morning, had power to
damp their spirits. Their
lives were much too full and
occupied for any time to be
given to depression. The
tall, handsome girl of
eighteen, with the brilliant
complexion and nut-brown
hair is Jane Orlingbury, the
slighter one who sits at the side of the table
near the fire is her sister Ada, the elder by
five years. They are both eating their early
breakfasts with hearty appetites, and quickly
too, for there is not much time to lose. Ada
is a type-writer in a very good office in the
City. She has got on so well that she is
earning £100 a year. Jane is a cookery
teacher in a distant parish, and she must
start off with her sister, for although her
work does not begin so early as Ada’s, who is
due at her office at nine o’clock, she has a
good way to go, and the marketing for her
classes to do before she starts work at ten
o’clock. The bright-eyed little woman at the
head of the table, who is pouring out the
coffee, is Marion Thomas. In appearance
she presents a marked contrast to the two
sisters, for she is short, plump, and dark.
She lives with them, and does the housekeeping
of the joint establishment and nearly
all the cooking. If it were not for Marion,
Ada laughingly tells their friends, it is more
than probable that she and Jane, who come
back in the evening rather tired and certainly
disinclined for housework, would live altogether
on tea, eggs, and toast, as some flippant individual
once remarked that all women would
be sure to do if left entirely to themselves.
The Orlingburys and the Thomases all lived in
the same little village in Nottinghamshire.
About a year and a half ago the Orlingburys’
home was broken up when their father died.
The two girls warehoused their little stock of
furniture, and spent some of the little capital
that was left them in training to earn their own
living, and as they had no relations with whom
they could conveniently live, they stayed in a
boarding-house while Ada was at Pitman’s
and Jane going backwards and forwards to the
cookery-school. But they both felt a great
lack of cosiness about the arrangement, and
they were more than thankful when their
old friend Marion, who had come to town a
little time before them, and was staying with
some cousins in Norland Square whilst she
worked up a connection of music pupils, arranged
to come and live with them.

Three months before our story begins they
had taken unfurnished apartments in a little
house in West Hampstead, for which they
paid fifteen shillings a week. These consisted
of a nice little sitting-room, a moderate-sized
bedroom for the sisters and a small one for
Marion, and a little room on the floor above
the sitting-room, which had been fitted up as
a kitchen, and the glories of which we will
reveal later. They all made their own beds,
and dusted their rooms before breakfast. On
alternate weeks they took it in turns to get up
half an hour earlier, dust the sitting-room,
and lay and prepare the breakfast, for which
everything was put ready overnight. The
breakfast generally consisted of ham, brawn,
pressed beef, or something similar. If any
cooking had to be done, it was something that
was finished very quickly, such as fried bacon
or scrambled eggs.

Most of the furniture in the rooms belonged
to the Orlingburys; they had brought it from
their old home, so there was very little to buy.
Marion was not an orphan, as they were; she
was one of a very large family, and her father
was a hardworking doctor. She was an excellent
pianist and a clever housekeeper, for
she and her sisters all had to help at home.{59}
She was sorry to leave her country home, but
her parents were quite willing for her to do so,
as there was little opportunity in their remote
village for her to make practical use of her
musical talent, which had been excellently
cultivated. Marion had thirty pounds a year
of her own that had been left her by her godmother,
and she earned sixty pounds a year by
her music pupils. As she taught only in the
afternoons, her mornings were free for domestic
matters.

Some of Jane’s friends asked her once why
she did not do the cooking instead of Marion,
as she was duly qualified, but she declared that
she had so much to do with food all the day
long that she felt very disinclined to have to
do with it after she got back in the evenings,
whereas Marion had always been accustomed
in her own home to spend her mornings in
this manner, and she did not mind at all. In
fact, the suggestion was Marion’s own. Jane
nearly always helped Marion in the final preparations,
however, as we shall see. The friends
had now been living together for three months,
and the arrangement may be said to have
answered in every way, for they were still on
just as good terms as when they first set up
house together.

“This ham toast is delicious, Jenny,” said
Ada. “You may make us some more whenever
you feel inclined; but you must own you
were lucky to have had Marion to cut it all up
for you yesterday. Do you think you would
have had the energy to do it all yourself this
morning if she had not, or should we have had
to eat the remains of the ham in all its bare
coldness?”

“Don’t tease, Jenny; I won’t have it,”
laughed Marion. “I don’t mind preparing
the ham toast the least in the world. It is so
seldom that we have anything for breakfast that
needs more than five minutes cooking, and it
would have been such a pity not to have ham
toast when the opportunity came.”

“Are you ever going to let Abigail do any
of your cooking?” asked Ada. “Give us
fair warning if you do, or, at all events, do not
allow her to have too much scope for startling
innovations.”

At this the others laughed. Abigail was a
girl of thirteen from the National School
in the next street. She was a “half-timer.”
That is to say, she had only to spend half her
time at school, either morning or afternoon,
as she preferred. So she came from eight to
nine every morning to brush the floors and
wash up, and on every alternate morning she
stayed until twelve o’clock and turned out a
room, Marion superintending her work and
giving her such help as she could spare from
her cooking. Abigail was provided with
breakfast, consisting of cocoa and bread and
butter, and on days when she turned out a
room she had dinner at twelve o’clock. Then
she went home. She went to school in the
afternoons, and at half-past six came back to
“The Rowans,” as the little house where the
three friends lived was called (in honour of a
mountain-ash in the front garden), to lay the
table, dish up the seven o’clock dinner, clear
away, wash up, and put everything ready for
the next morning. Abigail’s wages were two
shillings and sixpence a week. Dinner was
always over by a quarter past seven.

“I have not seen any signs of culinary
genius at present,” said Marion, “so I do not
think you need fear for the present. In the
meantime, have you two girls had enough?
I must insist on your eating good breakfasts.”

“Don’t you begin to scold us, Mrs. Housekeeper,”
cried Jenny. “What about the
lunches that you eat? You let out some
shocking facts about some biscuits and a glass
of milk the other day. I shall bribe the hand-maiden
to watch you and see that you take
proper care of yourself.”

Marion meekly promised to be constant in
her attentions to the brawn or similar solid
dainties, and the two sisters, who by this time
had finished their breakfasts and put on their
things, kissed their friend affectionately and
set off.

Marion helped Abigail to wash up the
breakfast things, and then set her to work in
the sitting-room. Abigail’s full name was
Susannah Abigail Bellamy.

“Please, ma’am, we call ‘er ‘Susie’ at
‘ome,” said her mother when Marion went
to engage her, but the Orlingburys thought
the name “Abigail” such a delicious one for
a little housemaid that they insisted on using
it, and Abigail grinned delightedly.

Ada and Marion had provided her with neat
print dresses and good serviceable aprons,
and Jenny had prevailed upon her to put
back the larger portion of a very unbecoming
fringe, and had even managed to get her
to do her hair so that it did not stick out in
tufts.

When Abigail had got to work, Marion did
her marketing, bringing most of the things
back with her in a wonderful marketing-basket,
and then she went to her kitchen.
This, as we have said, was a little room on
the floor above the sitting-room. Just outside
was a housemaid’s sink, which was very
useful, as Marion had no scullery. A nice
gas-stove had been fitted up on the “penny-in-the-slot”
system which the gas company
did free of cost, and by this all the cooking
was done. Gas for five hours could be had
by putting in a penny; if it was not wanted
for five hours right off, the rest of the same
pennyworth could be used next time cooking
was to be done. This arrangement was very
economical and formed their only gas bill, for
they used a lamp in their sitting-room and
candles in the bed-rooms. The gas bill was
under a shilling a week.

Two shelves went all round the walls, one
above the other, with nails in the edge for
hanging jugs, measures, the dredger, and the
grater. The shelves served instead of a
dresser. A very small kitchen table stood
just by the window, with two drawers in it.
In one of these the tea and glass cloths in use
were kept, and in the other the knives and
forks.

The iron and wooden spoons used in
cooking were kept in a box on the shelves.
By its side the paste-board and rolling-pin
might be seen, the latter a good straight thick
one that rolled very evenly. The dripping-tins,
baking-tins, baking-sheet, and meat-rack
were on the shelves as well, and also the small
dinner-service of which the establishment
boasted.

Under the shelves on one side was a
cupboard, which Marion now proceeded to unlock.
On the top shelf of this was a row of
coloured tins, containing tea, coffee, brown
sugar, loaf sugar, rice, lentils, tapioca, and
sultanas, several jars of jam (which had been
sent them from the country), a packet of corn-flour,
and a few other things. On the lower
shelf were kept all cleaning materials, soap,
soda, sand, emery, and house-flannel, and a
spare scrubbing-brush.

Fortunately there was a cupboard under the
stairs in which the housemaid’s box with its
blacking-brushes and the zinc pail and pan
used for scrubbing and washing up could be
kept. And on this cupboard Marion kept an
sharp eye, and saw that it was kept very clean
and the zinc pans well rinsed with hot water
and soda after being used to prevent their
getting greasy. The six enamel saucepans
of varying sizes stood on a tripod stand in one
corner.

The fittings up of the little kitchen were all
new when the three friends started housekeeping,
and it was economically managed, as
the following account will show—

The pretty dinner-service that they used
belonged to the Orlingburys, and the tea-service
was Marion’s. The tea-service and
the tumblers and wine-glasses were kept in a
cupboard in the sitting-room. The house-linen
was kept in a cupboard on the landing
outside the Orlingburys’ bed-room. A good
deal of it they had brought with them and the
rest had been lent to the establishment by
Mrs. Thomas, Marion’s mother.

Coals were only needed for the sitting-room
fire, as the three hardy country girls never
indulged in such a luxury as a fire in their
bed-rooms, and they found that half a ton of
coals lasted them for six weeks.

Marion arranged her cooking so as to have
as little as possible to do just before the
dinner was served. For instance, on days
when they had soup it would be made in the
morning and warmed up at dinner-time; pies
and milk puddings the same. Fish would be
filleted, egged, and crumbed, ready to be fried
at the last minute; and so would rissoles or
cutlets. As there were only three of them,
they never had big joints. Stews and curries
were made early and warmed up; also such
dishes as macaroni cheese.

By eleven o’clock Marion had generally
done her cooking, and was free to read or
work until two, when she went to her pupils.
She came back at six o’clock, having had
afternoon tea in the course of her work, and
by that time the Orlingburys were back as
well. She and Jane finished the preparations
for dinner between them, and at half-past
six Abigail returned to dish up and wait at
table.

(To be continued.)

{60}

OUR LILY GARDEN;
PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

Every person needs some form of hobby—something to employ his time
when the work of day is over. The mind wants some kind of recreation
from the worries of business cares. We have felt this want, but we found
that when we came to consider what our hobby should be many difficulties
presented themselves.

Lilium Giganteum.
Lilium Cordifolium.

In the first place, we wanted a hobby which would really interest and
instruct us; one which would tell us something which we would be glad
to know. Secondly, as our lives are spent in the heart of London, we
wanted some form of recreation which would prove healthful and invigorating.
We can find but one amusement which fulfils this last necessity, and that
is the study of natural history.

But natural history is a very large subject, and we have not the time to
study all its branches. We must decide on one branch. And here the
great difficulty occurred. Which branch shall we take up? Well, after
discussing the various pros and cons of the subject we at length determined
upon gardening. But gardening is a very hackneyed subject, and besides,
it has too wide a scope. Let us decide to cultivate one family or genus
of plants. But which shall it be? Let us think. We do not want to
grow vegetables; we want flowers. Shall we say roses? No, we have
numbers of roses already, and besides, our country garden is in the most
sandy part of Surrey, the very worst soil for many kinds of roses. Well,
shall we try lilies? Ah, why not? No one, we know, gives special
attention to lilies. Yes; let us decide upon lilies.

You see, there are so few lilies that we can easily grow them all!
Why, we only know of five or six different kinds, and are quite sure
that there cannot be very many other varieties!
Fond delusion! There are not only five, nor
fifty, different varieties of lilies; there are over
one hundred and twenty varieties known to
botanists. This was rather a damper to our
enthusiasm, but on further consideration we
congratulated ourselves upon this discovery.
For if there are one hundred and twenty distinct
varieties of lilies, and only some half-a-dozen
kinds are well known, what a chance there is
for us to do something original!

How splendid it would be to be able to
grow lilies which not one person in a thousand
has ever seen! With what pride could we
show to our friends a beautiful garden filled
with magnificent flowers, not one of which they
had ever seen before. What interest will this
spirit of adventure lend to an otherwise tame
recreation! Yes; lilies are the plants for us.
Yes, and we hope that we can instil into the
reader an enthusiasm for growing lilies.

Most rare plants are curious rather than
beautiful, and nothing palls so much as
curiosity alone. But the little known lilies are
beautiful; they are among the most magnificent
flowers that grow. Have you ever seen
a row of stately Madonna lilies in an old
cottage-garden? Is it not a sight to remember
throughout your life? The beauty of its pure
white flower, with which the bright yellow of
its anthers forms such a striking contrast,
renders this lily one of the most delightful of
all flowers.

And then its scent, filling the air for yards
around on a still, warm evening at the end of
July! Or, if later in the summer, while
strolling in a large, well-kept garden in the
evening of a fierce day in August, you have
beheld, in a shady nook, a clump of the
magnificent “Golden Lily of Japan”[A] standing
as high as yourself, with its small leaves and
crown of immense white blossoms, striped and
spotted with gold, and have recognised the
luscious scent exhaled from the blossoms, you
will no longer wonder at the enthusiasm of the
lily-grower. For many of the almost unknown
lilies are quite as beautiful as these.

We were pleased to find that most of the
lilies are but little known, but we were destined
to find that this same fact had its own
particular disadvantages. We found difficulties
which were by no means trivial. Lilies
will not grow of themselves. Like most
plants which bear blossoms out of proportion{61}
to their leaves, lilies are rather difficult to
cultivate. If you merely stick the bulbs in the
ground, the chances are that they will either be
eaten by slugs or die. Again, not all the one
hundred and twenty kinds of lilies want the
same treatment. Coming, as they do, from
every part of the northern temperate zone of
the earth, some from the vast mountains of
the Himalayas, others from the plains of India,
and others from the woodlands of Japan or
the swamps of North America, lilies will not
all grow in the same soil or situation. Each
wants its own particular treatment, and if this
is denied it, failure must of necessity follow.
But when we consider the different habits and
habitats of this wonderful genus of plants, it is
astonishing that, with the exception of two or
three kinds, all the lilies are hardy in our
English gardens. Although this family of
flowers has the name amongst gardeners for
being unsatisfactory and difficult to grow, we
have found the reverse to be true, and that, if
their few requirements are attended to, you
need not fear disappointment.

Suppose this day is the 1st of November.
We are going to-day to a sale of lily bulbs.
What lilies shall we get? How shall we
choose our bulbs? What price ought we to
pay for them? Let us glance through our
gardening books and see. What do these
books tell us? Nothing whatever! Or rather
nothing which is of any value. You will find
so little information about lilies in books on
gardening, and that little is so full of errors,
that it is best to ignore it altogether, except in
the case of lilies which are commonly cultivated.
And there is no practical book upon
lilies alone before the public. Elwes’ Monograph
of the Genus Lilium is a good book in
its way, and the plates are excellent, but the
information is much too scanty, and it is also
out of date. As this book is not published by
any house, is out of print, and is very rarely
met with, and as its price is about £12, we
may well say that this volume is impracticable.
Wallace’s little volume on Lilies and Their
Culture is twenty years old. There is practically
no satisfactory book about lilies, and it
is to fill this blank that we write these papers.
Our knowledge of the subject is mainly the
result of actual experience, for we have grown
eighty-seven distinct varieties of lilies, to which
is added a little information obtained from
books tested by ourselves, and a good many
valuable hints derived from gardeners and
others who have devoted some of their time
to the study of these plants.

Determination will solve nearly all difficulties.
We have been to the sale and bought
our lilies; now how are we to grow them?
In pots? In the ground? Will they grow
out of doors, or must they be kept in the
greenhouse? When we first took up our
hobby we could not have answered these
questions, but we can do so now, for we have
found out these points for ourselves, and are
more than satisfied with our results.

Upon arriving at the conclusion, that if
we wished to cultivate lilies we must find out
all about them, we got a large note-book,
and therein we kept a record of the year’s
work. We will describe this book a little
later in the year, when we will not be so busy
in the garden.

For the lily grower, November is one of
the busiest months in the whole year. It is
during this month that most of the planting
should be done, for though lily bulbs are
perhaps better planted a month or two
earlier than this, they are exceedingly difficult
to obtain until November has begun.

If you wish to grow lilies, the first necessity
is to obtain your bulbs. You can grow lilies
from seed, and we will explain how to do this
later, but for a beginner it is a most tedious
and unsatisfactory proceeding. Whichever
way you may grow lilies when you thoroughly
know them, commence by growing them from
bulbs only. Well, we must get these bulbs,
and how are we to obtain them? We can
either go to a seedsman and buy what we
choose, or we can obtain our lilies from public
auction-rooms. Both methods have their
advantages, and both have their disadvantages.
If you go to the seedsman you can buy all
your bulbs at once, you can make your choice,
and you need buy but one lily of each species.
But you will have to pay high, often fancy
prices for them, and you can never be sure
that the bulbs are fresh. On the other hand,
in the auction-room you usually must get a
large number of one variety, and you cannot
obtain all kinds at the same auction. But you
will have but a small price to pay, in fact, only
the current market price of the day. You will
usually find that the bulbs are fresh, and when
you know how to choose bulbs you will be
able to secure first-rate articles for your money.

LILY BULBS. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)

• 1. Lilium Umbellatum.
• 2. Lilium Auratum (small but good bulb).
• 3. Bulb and rhizome of Lilium Canadense.
• 4. Bulb of Lilium Wallacei.
• 5. Bulb of Lilium Roezlii.
• 6. Bulb of Lilium Hansoni.
• 7. Bulb of Lilium Humboldti.

The next question which you will ask is,
“How much ought to be paid for the
bulbs?” The bulbs vary much in price
from several causes. Of course the price of
one kind of lily is very different from that
of another kind. For instance, bulbs of
Lilium Davuricum can be purchased at an
auction for half-a-crown a dozen, whereas you
will have to pay about a sovereign for a
moderately good bulb of Lilium Dalhansoni.
Again, the bulbs vary in price according to
their size and condition; Lilium Auratum
bulbs cost from fourpence to half-a-crown
each. The time of year also greatly influences
the price of lily bulbs. Last May we bought
twenty-five bulbs of Lilium Auratum for a
shilling. Six months previous, these same
bulbs would have fetched about twenty-five
shillings. Then the price varies much in
different years owing to the success of the
growers in Holland or Japan. For the{62}
guidance of our reader we will give some
average prices for a few lilies. Lilium
Brownii, ten for nine shillings. Lilium
Longiflorum (several varieties) from two to
five shillings for ten. Lilium Auratum about
four shillings for ten. Lilium Giganteum,
nine shillings for a single bulb. Lilium
Tigrinum, Candidum, Calcedonicum, Pyranaicum,
Speciosum, and Elegans, from four to
six shillings a dozen.

BULBS OF Lilium Candidum OR MADONNA LILY. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)

• 1. Good sound bulb showing one crown.
• 2. Bulb showing two crowns.
• 3. Mammoth bulb.
• 4. Young bulb of two years’ growth.
• 5 and 6. Bulblets removed from No. 1.

(From photographs of fresh bulbs exhumed in August. The roots have been left entire.)

We said that lily bulbs are very much
cheaper at the end of the season than they are
in October or November, and some persons
might be tempted to put off buying their
bulbs till March or April. But this is a great
mistake, for very few of such bulbs ever live
to flower.

The greatest difficulty in lily culture is to
know how to choose the bulbs. There are so
many ways in which the unwary may be
“done,” that many persons give up growing
lilies from the constant disappointment which
results from their ignorance of how to choose
good, sound, flowering bulbs.

Lily bulbs vary a good deal in appearance
and size, but there are certain qualities by
which the value of any bulb can be more or
less accurately determined. All the bulbs
should be of moderate size for the species;
very firm and compact; fresh and not
withered; not broken; showing one or two
points from which the shoot will appear
(they should not show the flower spike itself);
well ripened; not in any way attacked by
vermin, or spotted by mildew, and if possible
home grown.

We said lily bulbs should be of moderate
size. No point is more misleading or less
important than this question of size. Mere
size goes for nothing! Some of the “mammoth”
bulbs of auratum, so much advertised
by nurserymen, often send up a miserable
spike of flower-buds which wither ere the
flowers open. We think that we know
what is the cause of so many large bulbs
going wrong. If the buds of a lily be
cut off, the bulb increases enormously
in size, and next year sends up a very
superior shoot bearing many fine blossoms.
Lily growers often cut off the flower buds
from their lilies so as to improve the bulbs.
These large bulbs are excellent. But the
bulbs greatly increase in size if the plant
does not flower for a year. Even if the
whole plant dies from drought (a very
common cause of failure with lilies), or if
the roots are destroyed by vermin or by
disease, the bulbs often become enormous.
These large bulbs rarely do well, as the
disease which killed their shoots the first
year will probably do so again the second
year.

Good bulbs are very firm and compact.
This is much more important than that
they should be large. We would rather
have a small, compact, but heavy bulb
than a light bulb with wide open scales,
even though it be twice the size of the
smaller bulb.

Always choose bulbs which are fresh and
plump. Bulbs which have been kept one
or two years out of the ground very rarely
blossom or, indeed, come up at all. Such
bulbs may be recognised by the outside
scales being dry and withered. Always
choose bulbs which are entire, if you can.
But it is not very important that the bulbs
should be perfect. We have done very
well with bulbs which have lost the majority
of their outer scales. Beware of purchasing
bulbs which have begun to grow. Bulbs
must be planted in the dormant condition.
If you plant a bulb which has already
thrown up an inch or two of flower-spike,
the chances are that it will form no root,
and that the stem will wither ere the
flowering period arrives.

Unfortunately we have no way of telling
whether bulbs are thoroughly ripened.
Many bulbs, especially those of Lilium
Auratum, come over from Japan, which,
though they look perfectly sound and
healthy, never live to flower. This is due
in part to the bulbs having been sent from
abroad in an immature state. Foreign
bulbs purchased in July, August or September,
must either be immature, or else
rubbish left over from last year.

Examine the outer scales of the bulbs
for little worms or mildew spots, and do
not purchase any which show either of these
parasites.

We are always told that lilies give
greater satisfaction if grown from bulbs
which have been established in England
for some years. You should, therefore,
choose these in place of those imported
from Japan or Holland. English bulbs
are, however, a little dearer than imported
bulbs.

There is a popular delusion that you can
grow lilies in sand. You cannot do so. All
lilies require a rich soil; many require peat,
and some excel only when grown in earth
strongly enriched with manure.

The question of soil for lilies is an important
one, and, as it is in general overlooked, we
will carefully describe in tabular form the soils
suitable for various lilies. For this purpose
we will divide lilies into various classes dependent
upon what soil they require.

Class 1.—Lilies which will grow in any
good soil: Tigrinum, Bulbiferum, Croceum,
Davuricum, Elegans, Hansoni, Henryi, etc.

Class 2.—Lilies which require a moderately
light soil with a slight admixture of peat and
leaf mould: Auratum, Speciosum, Longiflorum,
Krameri, Brownii, Japonicum odorum,
etc.

{63}

Class 3.—Lilies which want a heavy loam,
well enriched and of good depth: Cordifolium,
Wallichianum, Candidum, Washingtonianum,
Humboldti, Martagon, Testaceum, Calcedonicum,
etc.

Class 4.—Lilies which require a large
admixture of peat and leaf mould with plenty
of sharp sand: Canadense, Superbum, Pardalinum,
Roezlii, Leichtlini, Philadelphicum, etc.

Class 5.—Lilies that want a very rich soil
with large quantities of well rotted manure
and leaf mould of great depth: Giganteum,
Monodephum.

As a matter of fact many lilies will grow in
two or three different kinds of soil. We have
only given the form of culture by which we
have ourselves obtained, or friends have
obtained, the best results.

Position is of first importance in the cultivation
of lilies. All kinds like partial shade,
but not a position overhung with trees. It is
best to plant them in a place where they can
get the full sun for two or three hours daily,
but where they are sheltered from the sun at
midday. The position chosen should be well
drained, preferably on the slope of a hill, and
protected from high winds which can do very
serious damage to plants which grow to such
a height as these.

The best position in which to plant lilies is
a bed devoted to azaleas, rhododendrons, or
other shrubs. These protect the bulbs from
severe frost in winter and shelter the young
shoots from the high winds in spring. Moreover
the soil which suits rhododendrons—a
peaty leaf mould—is also an admirable soil for
many lilies.

We planted a number of lily bulbs among
beds of pinks last year, thinking that this
situation would afford all that was required.
But, alas! we had forgotten an enemy, of
which you will hear more later, which has
proved the very worst of our foes—the slugs.
Oh, those slugs! We go out on a warm
morning in March and see five hundred thick,
healthy, green shoots, looking like tender
asparagus. We have a slight rain in the
night and go out next morning to see how our
lilies are faring. During the night the slugs
have eaten the tops off all those that were most
promising!

The swamp lilies such as L. Canadense,
L. Pardalinum, and L. Superbum, are best
grown in damp situations, as these lilies require
plenty of moisture. The dry bank of a stream
suits them admirably.

Let us now proceed with the planting,
which should be done at once. Take the
bulb you are going to plant, examine it carefully
and pull off any diseased or mildewy
scale. Wash it well in lime water to destroy
any hidden enemy and leave it a few hours to
dry.

While the bulb is drying dig a hole, which
must vary in size according to the size of the
bulb, in which to plant your bulb. Suppose
Lilium Auratum be the kind that you are
planting. Dig the hole two feet deep. Place
an inch or two of broken crocks in the hole,
and fill half full with the compost which the
species requires.

Take the bulb and dust it over with
powdered charcoal, which prevents the development
of mildew. Place it in the hole
prepared with a thin layer of peat (preferably
burnt or previously strongly heated to kill all
insects, etc., which it may have contained)
below and around it and with a good handful of
sharp river sand. Then fill up with the soil
suitable to the species.

Our work for November is done, and we
return to town to tell our friends of our new
venture. We meet with nothing but discouragement.
One says, “Oh, you cannot
grow lilies satisfactorily!” Another tells us
that she has never yet succeeded in growing
these troublesome plants. One gardener tells
us that lilies are the most difficult of all
plants to grow. Another gravely informs
us that though some lilies will grow in
pots, only one or two kinds will do anything
in the ground. But next day we read
in a gardening paper that lilies cannot be
grown in pots, but some will do well in
the open border! What are we to believe?
Shall we be successful, or are we doomed to
disappointment?

We have gone through the year, having
grown lilies both in the ground and in pots.
Several hundreds were planted in the ground,
and one hundred and three (eighty-seven
varieties) in pots. Of the latter we have lost
four plants. Twenty-two have not flowered
but will flower another year; so that we are
highly delighted with our success. To see
the constant succession of the loveliest blooms
filled our heart day after day with delight,
and we trust many of our readers will receive
for themselves pleasure as innocent and
great.

(To be continued.)

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