{545}

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

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

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
A HAPPY HEALTHY GIRLHOOD.
“OUR HERO.”
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
SHEILA.
OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE II.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.
OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.

AT THE HELM.

All rights reserved.]

{546}

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER IX

A WORM AT THE ROOTS.

ach looked
at the other,
aghast. An
expression as
of sudden enlightenment
flitted across
the boyish face
of Tom Black;
but nobody
noticed that.

“That sound
means some
accident!” exclaimed
Lucy,
hurrying out
of the room.
Miss Latimer
followed her.
Mr. Somerset
and young
Black stayed
behind, Mr.
Somerset
holding back
little Hugh.

But they only lingered for a moment.
A cry from Lucy and a pungent smell of
burning which saluted their nostrils set
them too running downstairs.

Mrs. Challoner and Miss Latimer
were bending over the body of Mrs.
Morison, prostrate just outside the
dining-room door. A japanned tray
containing knives and forks and spoons,
scattered over the floor, explained the
crash which had followed the heavy fall.
Little Hugh shrieked, “Mrs. Morison is
dead!” and began to cry. But she
breathed stertorously.

“She has had a fit,” Lucy said.
“Working over the big fire has brought
it on.”

Wilfrid Somerset caught up his hat.

“I know the nearest doctor’s!” he
exclaimed, and, putting young Black
aside, he hirpled off, self-consciousness
suspended in his eager desire to be of
service.

“Mrs. Morison isn’t dead, dear,”
Miss Latimer reassured little Hugh;
“but she is very ill, and you must not
interrupt us while we take care of her.”

She led him into the dining-room and
bade him watch at the window for the
coming of Mr. Somerset and the doctor.
Then she returned to Lucy. Young Black
had got some water, and Lucy was dashing
it on her servant’s face. But, though
she struggled and writhed under the
chill, it did not rouse her.

“What was she bringing up these
things for?” asked Lucy, looking round
at the scattered cutlery. “She knew
I had set out the table already.”

“It’s likely there was a good deal
of mental confusion before the fit came,”
suggested the old governess.

Tom Black stood over the prostrate
figure and the kneeling ladies. It was
true he had fetched the water, but
otherwise he did not seem eagerly
sympathetic. Suddenly he said—

“There’s something on fire somewhere!”

“Certainly there is,” assented Lucy,
her senses regaining their power of
attention. “I think it must be downstairs.
I can’t move.” (She was
trying to support the heavy, tossing
head.) “Will you both go and see
what is burning, and do your best with
it?”

As the old lady and the youth
descended the kitchen stair he whispered
to her—

“That woman is tipsy.”

“Oh, surely not!” Miss Latimer
replied. “Mrs. Challoner has told
me she is an excellent servant and a
respectable person.”

“She is tipsy,” he repeated. “I saw
it when I came in. But I didn’t think
she was quite so bad as this.”

It was a terrible picture that met their
eyes as they entered that kitchen, which
only a few hours before had been so
bright and trim. A big fire was burning,
and a clothes-rail—covered with
damask table-napkins, among which
hung an old rag mat—had been put so
close to the bars that one of the napkins
was nearly consumed, two or three
were scorched, and the rag rug was
smouldering. To draw back the
clothes-rail and to throw the burning
mat into the sink was the work of a
moment, and effectually ended a great
danger.

The hearth was blurred with trodden
cinders and spotted with grease. There
were two pots standing on the range,
one containing burnt-up porridge, and
the other full of water with something
floating in it which looked like a rag.
Miss Latimer hurriedly opened the oven
door, fully expecting to see a cindered
fowl; but the oven was empty. Going
to a cupboard she discovered the little
turkey nicely trussed. That had been
done the previous night, and it had not
been touched since. Miss Latimer
quietly lifted it down and put it into the
oven. Dinner would be certainly late;
but it would be the earlier the sooner
one made a beginning.

“I fear you are right, after all,” she
said to Tom Black. “Yet this fit may
have been coming on, and that may
have stopped her work, and—— Ah!”

Tom had also been making an investigation,
and as she was speaking, he
held up before her shocked eyes a bottle
of whisky. It was still in the paper in
which it had been sold; but it was
almost empty.

“There’s the doctor and Mr. Somerset!”
Miss Latimer exclaimed with a
tone of relief. “Now we shall soon
know the truth. Anyway, we’re not
wanted upstairs just this minute—we’d
be only in the way. So let us try to get
a little to the bottom of things down
here. I know how keenly Mrs.
Challoner will feel all this,” she said,
confiding in the youth whom she had
never seen till half an hour before, but
for whose domestic help she now
appealed as if it were the most natural
thing in the world. “Will you just
see what is in that basin beside you?”

Tom lifted the cover, peering gingerly.

“I believe this is the pudding,” he
said.

“Dear me; very likely,” said Miss
Latimer.

She went back to the fireplace, and,
dipping her fingers into the pot of water,
drew forth the floating rag. It was the
pudding-cloth neatly fastened up; only
the pudding had never been inside!

“And what is that strange noise I
hear?” asked the old lady, gazing
around.

“It is the cat,” said Tom. “She
is under the dresser, and she keeps
‘swearing.’”

The young man seemed rather afraid
to approach the indignant animal; but
the old lady bravely put in her hand and
drew pussy out.

“No wonder she ‘swears,’ poor
dear!” she observed. “Hot oil or
grease has been dropped on her, and
has burned away about an inch of fur.
I don’t know what we can do for her,
especially just now. But, at least, we’ll
give her a saucer of milk as a sign of
sympathy.”

At that moment the uncertain step of
Wilfrid Somerset was heard on the
kitchen stair.

“Mrs. Challoner asks me to get the
cushions off the armchair,” he said,
“and I’m afraid you’ll be wanted,” he
added, addressing Tom, “for I’m a
poor, useless creature where bodily
strength is required.”

Without a moment’s hesitation the
doctor had diagnosed Mrs. Morison’s
“fit.”

“She’s been drinking,” he said
laconically.

“But there is no smell of spirit,”
pleaded Lucy, reluctant to lose faith in
the unhappy woman.

“No,” said the doctor; “but there’s
the scent of the little lozenges which
gentlemen take to hide the smell of tobacco.
That’s the secret, ma’am. This
case doesn’t want any treatment save to
be put on a safe couch and allowed ‘to
sleep it off,’ when I trust she will awake
properly ashamed of herself.”

It was impossible to carry the heavy
inert body to the servant’s bedroom
upstairs. But there was a little closet-like
room at the back of the hall, empty
save for a few ferns and polled plants
which Lucy kept there. In that room
Mr. Somerset arranged all the cushions
he could find in the kitchen, which were
not a few, since they included the
mattress of a chair-bedstead which
stood there in its chair capacity. Then
the doctor and Tom Black carried in
the unconscious woman, while poor
Lucy gathered up the scattered cutlery,{547}
which included a broken knife, a
toasting-fork, and an oyster opener.

“I am so sorry to have called you out
on Christmas Day, and for what, after
all, was no work of yours,” said Lucy to
the doctor as he came back through
the hall, drawing down his cuffs and
straightening his coat.

He gave his head a queer little shake.

“It’s hard to know what is a doctor’s
work and what isn’t,” he said. “But
it’s always a doctor’s work to be useful,
if not to the case, why, then, to its
caretaker. Get rid of that woman
directly she wakes, Mrs. Challoner.
Such as she are at the bottom of two-thirds
of the awful accidents which
happen in the world.”

“She might have broken her neck if
she had fallen on the stairs,” observed
Lucy.

“And as she didn’t, she may live
to break some other body’s neck,” said
the doctor as he went away.

Lucy opened the dining-room door
and went in, to find poor little Hugh
still dutifully watching at the window as
Miss Latimer had bidden him. And
there was the dining-table, with its
gleaming napery and sparkling crystal,
standing there as in mockery of the
squalid scene which had just been
enacted.

“And is it to this misery that I have
invited my guests?” cried Lucy. Even
as she spoke her eye fell on her little
desk, with her unfinished letter to
Charlie peeping out of the blotting-case.
That letter could not be finished now.
It could never be sent. Then the
memory of all she had believed and
hoped rolled back on her. If there is
anything calculated to give us the
sensation of despair, it is the recollection
of thanksgiving offered for what in the
end has proved disastrous!

For one moment Lucy sat down on a
chair, covered her face and wept. She
might have had “a good cry,” but for
her sudden realisation that she was not
alone, that her guests were in the house,
and that she had a duty to discharge
towards them. She sprang up and
dashed away her tears. Where had the
guests gone? What were they doing?
She had been so occupied with the
unhappy drunkard that she had not
realised what else had gone on around
her. In her confusion she went first to
the drawing-room. The door was wide
open and the room was empty, an album
lying on the floor just as she had
dropped it. She paused, puzzled. Then
she heard sounds below. It was evident
that her friends were all in the kitchen.

There she found them, busy. The
pudding was already in the pot. The
burned serviettes were put aside. Tom
Black had carried the rag mat out to
the scullery, and Wilfrid Somerset was
washing plates.

Lucy cried out in dismay; but they
all laughed good-humouredly. The
disaster had happened, they said, and
now they’d got to make the best of it.

“What is the use of having old
friends, if they can’t do such a thing
as this?” asked Miss Latimer.

But Mr. Black, anyhow, was not an
old friend, protested Lucy.

No, Mr. Somerset admitted that—at
least, he hadn’t been only an hour ago.
“I think he is now,” he added. “Hours
count for years sometimes.”

Lucy resolutely pulled herself together.
She, too, must make the best of it.
Though, as a hostess, she was humiliated
and defeated, she must still be the
hostess, and try to extract a smile out
of the cruel situation. For the time she
must put this unhappy woman out of her
thoughts, along with what might come
on the morrow and the utter upset of all
her plans for the future. She must try to
turn the household wreck into an impromptu
picnic.

She tried and succeeded perfectly, so
far at least as Tom Black and Hugh
were concerned. In half an hour those
two were laughing and running to and
fro as if there could not be a better
Christmas game than tidying a disordered
room and pushing on a belated
dinner.

Tom Black thought in his own mind
what a jolly woman Mrs. Challoner was
not to be a bit put out by what would
have utterly upset some people.

Miss Latimer and Wilfrid Somerset
knew better than that; they knew what
dramatisations life sometimes forces upon
us, and how costly such performances
are.

But they nobly seconded Lucy in her
determination to put a fair face on
things. The dinner was cooked in time
and set upon the table with the informal
decency which prevails in houses where
“the family do their own work.”

Tom Black really enjoyed himself a
great deal more than he had expected
he would when in prospect of the
ordinary dinner-party. He actually
took courage to say that he thought it
would be far better fun if people always
came prepared to get ready their own
festivity, instead of sitting talking about
nothing and looking through stereoscopes.

Wilfrid Somerset replied that he
believed something of the sort was
regularly done in some parts of Canada
and the New England States.

“But where it is done, the whole
construction of society is different from
what it is in London,” said Miss
Latimer. “And it is where things are
half one way and half another that somebody
has to suffer cruelly,” she added.

She, a breadwinning woman all her
days, knew the strain which had come
upon Lucy, and could understand how
these few hours were wasting forces
which should have been conserved to
suffice for the productive labour of
weeks. For Lucy’s sake, she was truly
thankful when the effort was over—when
little Hugh had gone to bed, when
Tom Black had said good-bye and had
departed in the best of spirits, and when,
left only to her two old and trusted
friends, Lucy could drop the mask of
cheerfulness and be the anxious, shaken
creature she really was.

“Well,” sighed Lucy, “Charlie is
sure to have thought of us to-day; but
certainly his imagination has never
pictured the reality!”

The miserable Mrs. Morison was
sleeping quietly now, and was not
likely to waken until morning. Miss
Latimer declared that she would
remain with Lucy if Mr. Somerset would
leave word at her lodgings that she was
not to be expected that night.

He urged the two ladies to go to bed
directly he departed. They both needed
rest, and he felt sure they would not be
disturbed. It was good advice; but
they were too nervous to take it. They
might sleep heavily in their upper
chamber, and the culprit might waken
and steal out, or she might rise and
commit suicide.

So they made themselves as comfortable
as they could in the dining-room,
dozing off and waking and talking in
whispers to each other, till suddenly
they roused with a start. The house
was full of the dull grey light of winter
dawn. There was a slow heavy footfall
in the passage.

The culprit stood before them, unkempt,
dishevelled, pale, but once more
in her right mind.

“Oh, Mrs. Morison!” cried Lucy.
“How could you do this thing? How
could you?” and Lucy began to weep
bitterly.

“I’ve nothing to say for myself, mem,
nothing at all!” said the woman heavily,
with no sign of feeling except what was
conveyed in the utter absence of such
sign. “But I’m just going to get your
breakfasts for you. You shall have
them all right. Then you can do what
you like with me.”

The coffee she set before them was
dainty, and the yellow fish savoury, and
the toast brown and crisp. The breakfast
almost choked Lucy. She still
liked this woman—still felt drawn to the
something good and kind which again
looked out of the grey eyes even to-day,
dim and reddened as they were. She
would have liked to give her another
chance, surrounded by strict conditions
and solemn pledges; but she knew that
could not be done in the little house
with the verandah. For there was no
doubt that this was no first and abnormal
outbreak, but simply the crisis of a constant
tendency—the tumultuous outbreak
of restrained craving.

This would take years to cure, if in a
woman of this one’s age it could be ever
wholly cured. Clearly this could not
be Lucy’s work, since it was absolutely
incompatible with her direct duties as
Charlie’s wife and Hugh’s mother.

She shuddered to realise how easily
she might have been so lulled into false
security as to have left Hugh for an
hour or two in the charge of this well-behaved,
kindly woman, perhaps to find
her home a heap of cinders and her child
a charred corpse!

They had scarcely finished breakfast
when Wilfrid Somerset drove up in his
cab. He had felt anxious lest morning
might bring some violent and distressing
scene. He was soon satisfied that there
was little to fear on that head. But he
was urgent that Mrs. Morison should
leave the house at once. Lucy feared
she had but a few shillings left, and
in her present depressed state was only
too likely to spend those in bringing
more shame upon herself. So Mr.
Somerset’s advice was that the cousin,{548}
the Willesden plumber, should be communicated
with. Mr. Somerset charged
himself with the transmission of the
telegram, and worded it with much tact
and policy.

Before evening, just as the shadows
were deepening, the cousin’s wife
arrived.

She expressed great disgust at
“Jessie’s” lapse. But she did not
need it to be explained. She evidently
knew what was to be expected. All
that she could say was that she had
really hoped “Jessie” had learned
more wisdom at last. They had done
all they could for her. They had thought
her cured. She had “kept straight” for
so many weeks. They had never let her
go out without one of their children with
her, and they had kept all her money
from her. She had called on Jessie, poor
body, on the day she thought she would
get her wages, and had taken them
away, and was keeping them for her.
Jessie was quite willing for one to do
that, if one took her at the right time.
She could not think what “Jessie” had
done to get money, for she had said she
gave up all.

“I paid her a month’s wages a few
days in advance,” explained Mrs.
Challoner; “and, when I did so, she
told me that you had called to borrow
money from her, and how gladly she
had spared it.”

The cousin looked up at Mrs. Challoner,
hesitated for a moment, and said—

“She didn’t say that till she knew
you were going to pay her in advance,
did she?”

“No, she did not,” Mrs. Challoner
admitted. “Nor did she ask me for
the advance. I offered it.”

“That’s it,” said the cousin. “The
craving was on her, and the moment she
saw a way to satisfy it, she began
to tell lies. She’s as true as daylight at
any other time, and as honest.”

“I’m so sorry I gave her that money,”
sighed Lucy, forgetting for the moment
that if such a revelation was to come,
then the sooner it came the better.

“Oh, it wasn’t having the money that
did it!” answered the other reassuringly.
“As she told a lie the fit had
come, and if she hadn’t got drunk one
way, why, she would another! Once
she actually pawned my little girl’s
boots. And she so fond of the child!
’Tisn’t her fault, poor dear! We
mustn’t judge her. It’s just like a
disease.”

“But how could you think of allowing
her to use you as a reference, and yet
of not warning me of her terrible weakness?”
said Mrs. Challoner.

The woman’s eyes wandered a little.

“Well, we didn’t want her to mention
us!” she answered. “I’ll engage she
didn’t till after you’d seen the Edinburgh
letters. Jessie came home so full
of you and the little gentleman that I
thought, ‘Here’s a place where she’ll
be happy and will keep right if ever she
will.’ And when the lady came to
inquire, my husband he kep’ out of the
way. He said he wasn’t going to mix
hisself in it; but I said to him, ‘It’s our
Christian duty to do the best we can for
our own. Ain’t we told we’ve got to
bear each other’s burdens?’ says I.”

Lucy drew her breath hard. How
was one to meet this perverted sentiment,
this putting of “charity,” as it were,
upside down?

“But don’t you see you were wrong
to further her coming into my house
without telling me the truth about
her?” she urged. “She might have
burned my house, she might have killed
my boy! Could you not see that you
were not dealing justly by me?”

“I don’t know about ‘justly,’” said
the woman tartly, with a sneer on the
last word. “It’s our Christian duty to
have charity and cover a multitude of
sins. If I’d told about Jessie’s weakness,
nobody would have taken her;
and, as she’s spent her bit of money
already, there’s nothing and nobody
between her and the workhouse but just
ourselves, and my husband doesn’t like
to have his flesh and blood made a
pauper. Yet it’s rather hard he should
have to take from me and his own
children to keep her.”

Lucy’s heart fainted within her at this
strange mixture of warped exegesis,
perverted family pride, and private
self-interest. Yet she made another
attempt to get the matter set in a right
light.

“It is very kind of you and your
husband to wish to help Jessie,” she
said; “but then, if you are willing to
sacrifice yourselves in this direction, it
must really be yourselves whom you do
sacrifice, and not other people, whom
you mislead into being sacrificed blindfold.
Our sacrifices must be costly to
ourselves and not to others. If poor
Jessie is really, as you seem to say,
the irresponsible victim of her vice,
just as if it was a disease, it would
be truer kindness on your part to
sacrifice your pride for her real good.
You are only giving her freedom to
do some great harm to other people,
even if you feel it right to endure such
an example as hers among your own
children. But I do not think you need
let her go to the workhouse. I believe
there are people willing and able to
undertake the care and cure of such
cases. If you like, I will write to some
of these. But meantime, as you helped
Jessie to get into my house, I must
really ask you to take her away with
you at once.”

“Oh, yes, that’s the way burdens are
always thrown back on poor folk!”
muttered the woman.

“I am throwing no burden on you,”
said Lucy, with a firmness which surprised
herself. “I am simply handing
back a great risk which you deceitfully
imposed upon me. I think we have
nothing more to discuss,” and thereupon
she rang the kitchen bell, and summoned
Jessie into the presence of her mistress
and her cousin.

(To be continued.)

A HAPPY HEALTHY GIRLHOOD.

By “MEDICUS” (Dr. GORDON-STABLES, R.N.).

PART II.

he rose is a sweetly
beautiful flower, and
no matter where it
grows it somehow
always charms the
human eye, always
appeals to the human
heart. Lovely
it is in the garden,
especially perhaps at
early morning when
gemmed by dew, the crystalline tears left by
the dying night, or at eventide, when the
colour in a rose-garden seems to reflect the
tints of the sunset clouds. Roses of all
classes and kinds are lovely, grow they where
they may, on castle lawn or draping the
walls of the humblest cottage. And just as
sweet and tender are those lovely buds and
blossoms of the crimson rosa canina that bedeck
and mantle our hedges in the month of June.

Children are ofttimes comparable to roses—girl-children
I mean—mere opening buds, and
they ought to be none the less beautiful and
innocent-looking when older, but still in their
teens. Ah, those “teens,” would we not all
prefer to remain that age and never to grow
older! I suppose angels are all and always
in their teens, and the saints in Heaven too!

But descending from romance, with which a
medical man ought to have nothing to do, the
stern reality, life, to a girl in her teens is often
a trying time. This, for many reasons which
I shall now briefly consider and advise upon.

Every mother, if not her children, has often
heard the word “heredity” mentioned. The
offspring is part and parcel of the parents,
and inherits, somewhat changed or modified
perhaps, not only their good qualities, their
strength of body, brain, and constitution, but
their diseases also, if they have any. There is
no mystery about that, as some medical men
tell us. It would be a mystery if it were the
reverse. If you take a cutting off a pure red
rose, you could scarcely expect it when grown
into a bush to develop yellow roses. It is part
and parcel of the parent, and so is the child.
But separate life and the mode or manner of
living may alter even inherited complaints, or
prevent their showing forth at all. It does
not follow as a constant rule that the children
of, say, scrofulous parents shall be consumptive,
or that those of parents addicted to drink and
dishonesty shall follow the parental lead. It
is this fact that gives one such hope in treating{549}
the ailments and guiding the young lives of
those who may be supposed to be born with a
taint of impure blood.

Note, mother, please, that I have said
“young lives” in my last sentence, because it
is when young, and only then, that much good
can be done to combat the evils of heredity.

We are sometimes told that the particular
ailment handed down may skip one generation
and appear in the next. This should only
give us additional certainty that the trouble
may be eradicated entirely. For Nature does
not skip generations in the manner some
scientists would have us believe. If an ailment,
say phthisis or consumption, is the
trouble in one family and the children thereof
escape, while the grandchildren are attacked,
one of two things may have happened; the
first generation of the afflicted ones had been
reared in circumstances inimical to the
dispersing of the disorder, it lay latent in
their blood and revivified under circumstances
favourable to it, in the grandchildren, or—this
is just as likely—the seed of the disease
died in the first generation, and the second
were infected by ordinary means. Phthisis is
infectious: this should always be born in mind,
and a consumptive person should invariably
sleep alone in the airiest and best ventilated
room in the house.

When I say that consumption is hereditary,
I am of course showing you that I am a
believer in the microbe doctrine. So is every
sensible man. The microbes of phthisis may
be carried in the breath from the sick to the
sound; or dried sputa—ever so little—may
form dust and be breathed, thus inoculating,
as it were, the person who inhales it. Not of
a certainty, however, for there are many
chances against those microbes, even if
breathed, finding their way into the blood.
Healthy blood is in itself a protection, for the
white corpuscles thereof are veritable tigers in
miniature, and fall upon and destroy organisms
that are dangerous to the life or health of the
individual. Moreover a disease germ or seed
of consumption cannot, in every case, even
reach the mucous membrance of the lungs,
owing to the secretions therein which sweep it
away, if they do not actually destroy it. On
the other hand a weakly subject is far more
likely to fall a victim to infection of any kind
than a strong. A consumptive mother may
have several children, all of which, bar one,
are safe enough, though all must have inherited
the evil microbe or bacillus. And this is
chiefly because one is more delicate than the
others.

But I deem it my duty to say here at
once that a consumptive person should never
marry.

All mothers know, or ought to know, that
consumption is caused by a particular sort
of matter called tubercle which, by way of
getting rid of it perhaps, Nature deposits in,
say, the lungs of the young person. This
acts like a foreign body; that is, it may lie
quiescent for a long time, and as the child
gets stronger, it may even be absorbed, but
if she catches cold, that wicked little lump of
deposit is sought out and, becoming inflamed,
sets up mischief all around. It is coughed
up, but leaves an ulcer, and this forms a
cavity, after which the end is not far distant.
But consumption in children, or the young
either, is more often caused by the deposit of
tubercle in other parts of the body, especially
in the glands.

Now, the probability being that I shall
devote a whole article to a consideration of
consumption, I need not do more here than
generalise and give a few words of good
advice. I think, mater, that if this advice
proves of service to you and gives you hope,
this health sermon shall not have been written
in vain.

“I’m afraid that my lassie is dwining,” said
a Scottish mother to me once. “What think
you, doctor?”

I was only a very young fellow then, but
had inherited a modicum of common sense
from most intelligent parents, so I took Mary
in hand.

Mary was then sixteen, I but twenty, and
although a medical student, I could not have
known a deal. The mother and daughter
were country cottagers, and being poor, the
family doctor did not, probably could not,
devote overmuch time to the case. One
thing, however, I objected to: he kept
pouring cod-liver oil into his patient, completely
deranging the stomach and rendering
the digestion of the food a complete
impossibility.

From the very first week that Mary stopped
the oil her appetite improved, and—the old
doctor stopped away. The case was mine
therefore, and I took no small pains with it.
I thought that if there was any chance of
getting the girl over her trouble at all, it was
by making her strong. We live by food and
not by physic, I argued—food and fresh air.

Mary’s bedroom was a small one and
downstairs; but there happened to be a large
attic or garret above, and the father being a
handy man—and Mary the only girl-child—he
did as I told him, and made a large window
on the south side of the attic. Then it was
completely cleared out and cleaned out, the
walls whitewashed and the floor well scrubbed.
When mats were put down here and there,
and a nice bed at one side on which the
morning light could fall, the room was so far
ready for occupation.

The mother wanted bed curtains and
window curtains. I would hear of neither.
I shook my young head with an air of awe-inspiring
profundity as I tabooed the curtains.
But I permitted any amount of artistic though
rural decoration. Mary had much taste, and
the hours she spent in making that attic into
a boudoir were the best investment of time
possible, because they occupied her mind, and
I would not let her believe she was ill, or had
the seeds of consumption in her system. All
she wanted, I said, was strength. And I
really was not far wrong. I gave her Hope
instead of cod-liver oil. But I insisted upon
her being out of doors nearly all day long,
wearing clothing to accord with the state of
the weather, but never fearing the cold. She
was to sleep, not in a draught, but with her
window open. Her mother said, “My
conscience, doctor laddie!” at first, but I
insisted.

All the medicine Mary had for the next
twelve months could have been placed inside
a walnut shell. Her mental medicine was
not neglected, and this consisted of books to
read—I gave her these—and light work to
do, chiefly out of doors, also pleasant quiet
companionship.

Fresh air was the most important weapon
I used to fight the trouble. Next came food.
Cream, butter, good milk, nice bacon, and
suet dumplings were ten thousand times better
than expensive and fulsome cod-liver oil.
She had meat too, as much as she could
take, with vegetables—potatoes and greens—and
bread.

Hygienic rules were most strictly carried
out. The cottage, luckily, was surrounded by
bonnie country gardens, in which Mary spent
much of her time, not even fearing rain,
because she wore a cloak—not an india-rubber
mackintosh, be assured—and strong boots,
without disease-producing goloshes. From
top to bottom, from one end to another,
the house was kept spotlessly clean, free from
dust, and dry.

Mary was no worse at the end of a month!
Mary was better at the end of three months!!
Mary was well, and the blush of health was on
her cheeks, at the end of eighteen months!!!

The old-fashioned doctor never spoke to me
after I put my foot on his cod-liver oil. He
used to pass me on the road like a speck of
March dust, and he told a friend of mine I
was an insolent young dog. No doubt he
was right. I had all the faith and arrogance
of youth, but—I cured Mary.

It was at the end of the eighteen months I
went to sea, and seven long years elapsed
before I saw her again. She was married,
and had two bonnie healthy children. She is
living still, and her family too.

Now, mother, this is a true story, and I
have only told it as a proof of the benefits
derivable from fatty and flesh-forming foods,
perfect hygiene, and fresh air indoors and out
in cases of incipient consumption; and not in
these alone are such health-giving and curative
agents beneficial, but in all cases of chronic
ill-health in young girls.

In relating my little story of Mary, I may
have seemed to disparage cod-liver oil. I
merely wish, however, to imply that it is only
in cases where it can be easily digested that it
can do any good, and that in all others it is
positively injurious.

Mind this, mater, that the days have long
gone past when people pinned their faith
on medicine alone in the cure of diseases.
Indeed, mostly every ailment of a chronic
nature, if curable at all, has a better chance if
physic is left severely alone and a thorough
system of hygiene and dietetics adopted; for
if medicine is taken, people as a rule think
that this is of greater consequence than good
food and a life spent in the fresh and open air.

What are called “peptonised foods” are
often beneficial where there is want of proper
digestive power, or pepsin in the form of
tablets may be used. These are to be had at
most respectable chemists, and the dose is
marked on the bottle.

The new food-medicines called vivol and
marrol, so highly spoken of in medical journals,
should in many cases supersede the use of
cod-liver oil, or even shark-liver oil, in the
case of a girl who does not seem to be
thriving.

The Scotch word “dwining” is very
expressive. It was usually applied to girls
just entered on their teens, who do not appear
to be healthy, and are but little likely to make
old bones. They are rather poor in flesh,
growing rather rapidly, perhaps, but not
“building as they go,” as the farmers say
about rick-making. They have but little
appetite, are pale in face, flabby in substance,
have little real life about them, and are very
thick-headed of a morning. They feel the
cold much, and therefore seldom have their
bedrooms properly ventilated. Moreover, they
do not make bone. It is as if Nature said to
herself, “I need not bone in the case of this
girl, for it will never be wanted.”

Well, in all cases of “dwining,” the fresh air
and food treatment works wonders.

I must call the attention of mothers of
delicate girls to the fact that there are in the
market, and very largely advertised, pills
containing iron which kill thousands yearly.
Iron, in the hands of a skilful physician, who
knows how and when to prescribe it, is often
a valuable tonic, but taken without precaution,
as people do who see things advertised and
shored up with lies and so-called cures, it is
a most dangerous and poisonous drug.

What is called anæmia or bloodlessness in
girls sometimes gets the name of “chlorosis”
or “green sickness” from the peculiar appearance
of the skin. It is an exceedingly common
complaint, and really the number of white
faces one sees in the streets of great cities,
as girls hurry to and from their work, is saddening.
When one notices a face of this kind
in a beautiful carriage, the girl who owns it
being perhaps wrapped up in furs, one may
put it down as a bad case. There is either{550}
some real disease to account for it, or the
girl is over-coddled, the laws of hygiene and
dietetics ruthlessly broken, and faith pinned
on medicine alone—a broken reed.

When the working girl is anæmic, her
mother or whoever owns her must see that
she gets good food, that the system is kept
regular in every way, and that her room is
clean, tidy and well-ventilated, with no curtains
on bed or windows.

All the weariness, all the heaviness, tiredness
in the morning, the low spirits, and even
the neuralgic pains from which she suffers,
will vanish before a better diet if it is well
regulated. But in such a case, the daily bath—cold
before breakfast—will often be the
very first thing to set her to rights.

If she can get down into the country and
keep out of doors nearly all day, so much the
better, only hard exercise should be avoided.

Red meat does good in these cases. If
this is too expensive to be had in any quantity,
plenty of milk should be used. Oatmeal is a
cure in itself in many cases. Bacon is good,
especially the fat, and a teaspoonful of Bovril
should supplement this.

Peas meal, if it can be got in bulk and
fresh, makes an excellent staple of diet for
many hard-working girls. It can be made into
porridge (thick), and eaten with butter and
milk it is most nourishing and delicious. The
Aberdeen girls (factory hands, etc.) use a deal
of this, and no more wholesome, blooming
and bonnie lassies are to be found anywhere.
Indeed, I have never yet seen any to match
them. The fresh and bracing sea air may
account to some extent for their “caller” looks,
but, believe me, the diet has a deal to do with
their health.

Nervousness is another hereditary complaint.
Now although there are a great many medicines
that have an effect for good on the
nervous system, they need to be used with
caution, and only in conjunction with a well-regulated
diet.

Rheumatism is still another heirloom that
descends in families.

On both these subjects and others I shall
speak at length in early numbers of The
Girl’s Own Paper, so those interested
should look out for my papers.

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XXXIV.

s a heavy
stone falling
into a pond
sends waves
circling outward
to a
distance, so
the death of
Sir John Moore
at Coruña sent
many a wave of
sorrow to the hearts
of men, north and
south, east and
west. One such
wave found its way to the
distant town of Verdun,
where still languished the
détenus, taken captive in 1803, together
with many later Prisoners of War on
parole, sent thither.

News in those days travelled slowly,
and prisoners travelled more slowly still.
But a day arrived, though not till very
many weeks after the Battle of Coruña,
when Jack Keene found himself within
the ramparts of Verdun.

It was spring; and he carried his
right arm in a sling, and when he
moved a distinct limp might be seen.
He had just been to report himself at
the citadel, and he now stood outside,
meditating on his next move.

A rather young man, with a keen
clever face, passed him quickly, then
pulled up, turning in his direction.

“I beg your pardon. Have you just
arrived here?”

“Yes. You’re English. That’s
right,” said Jack heartily. “I’m a
prisoner.”

“Can I be of service to you? Have
you friends in the place?”

“Could you direct me to Colonel
Baron’s house or lodgings?”

“Certainly. I know them all. My
name is Curtis.”

“Ah! I have heard that name from
Roy Baron.”

“Roy and I were great friends, when
he was here. Anything you can tell me
about him will be welcome.”

Curtis looked questioningly, and Jack
answered the look.

“My name is Keene. Roy and I
have been through the Campaign in
Spain together, and on the retreat I was
wounded and taken prisoner.”

Curtis held out his hand, to be grasped
by Jack’s left.

“You have travelled all the way
from Spain.”

“With a convoy of prisoners. Yes.
Been a good while about it, too. First
part of the way in a waggon, after that
on horseback. Tell me how they all are
here. I have heard nothing for ages.”

“I’ll come and show you the way.
The Colonel keeps all right. Looks
older than he used, that’s all. Mrs.
Baron is well. One fancied at the time
that Roy’s being sent to Bitche would
kill her outright; but it didn’t. Having
to devote herself to Ivor was a mercy in
disguise, I don’t doubt. Kept her from
dwelling on her own trouble. It was a
vast relief to them all, when the kind
fellow, who got Roy away, came and told
them he’d seen the boy safe on board a
vessel for England. He was well rewarded
by the Colonel, as you may
suppose—not that he did it for reward!
But, of course, we don’t breathe a word
about it in Verdun, for the fellow’s
own sake. Only, as I know them well,
and as I know you belong to them——”

Jack made a gesture of assent.

“Ivor was ill, was he not?”

“I daresay he would have been so
anyhow, after the march from Valenciennes;
but the arrest of Roy was a
finishing stroke. You won’t find him
looking good for much now. I suppose
hardly anything could have knocked
him down like the death of Sir John
Moore. It is a fearful loss to the
country. No man living could have
been worse spared.”

Curtis paused, cast a glance at Jack,
and changed the subject.

Presently they reached the house,
where still the Barons lived, as ever
since their first arrival in Verdun.

“By-the-by, I’m not sure whether
you’ll find them in,” he said. “The
Colonel at appel said he was going to
take Ivor with his wife for a drive in the
country, hoping it might do him good.
It was worth trying. But I think they
may have returned before now.”

“You’re allowed to go where you
will?”

“Why, no! Douceurs are efficacious,
however. Will you let me show you the
way upstairs?”

Jack hesitated.

“No, I understand. Of course,
you’d rather see them first alone; and
I didn’t mean to go in. But you can’t
mistake the room. First landing, first
door to the right.”

Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying
the directions, came to a door slightly
ajar. He pushed it wider, and went
softly through.

It was a good-sized salon; empty,
except for the presence of one man,
writing at a side table. By build and
bearing, Jack recognised Ivor instantly;
but, finding himself unnoticed,
he had a fancy not at once to make his
presence known. He drew a few steps
nearer, and then stood motionless. He
had a good side-view of the other.

Jack studied him gravely, recalling
the splendid physique and health of
the young Guardsman six years earlier.
The physique was in a sense the same;
and the fine bearing of head and
shoulders remained unaltered; but the
sharpened delicacy and pallor of the
face impressed Jack painfully, as did
a streak of grey hair above the temple,
a stamp of habitual lassitude upon the
brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made
right hand, which moved the pen.
Jack began dimly to understand what
the long waiting and patience of these
years had been.

Ivor seemed to become conscious of
Jack’s gaze. He laid down his pen,
glanced round, and started up.

“Jack! Is it possible?”

“Just arrived,” remarked Jack, with
an insouciance which he was far from
feeling. “Come across Spain and{551}
France. Yes, wounded; but I’m getting
all right. Always was a tough subject,
you know.”

“Where were you taken?”

“On the march, at Lugo. Two days
off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of
my men. Wounded in the leg first;
then, as I was defending myself, a
musket-ball broke my right arm. So I
had to give in.”

“You are lame still. Sit down. You
a prisoner, too! I hardly know how to
believe it.”

“Fortune of war, as our French
friends would say. I’ve no right to
complain. Had my share, though ’tis
a shame to be cut off from more of
it. Den, you’re looking very far from
well.”

Denham did not heed the words.

“What of Roy?” he asked. “We
have had no home-news for ages.”

“Roy is Ensign in my Regiment.
Didn’t you know even that? Been with
me through this Campaign. He and
I were in the Reserve—under his
eye”—in a lower voice. “You have
heard——”

“No particulars. The fact of a battle
at Coruña—and—— Tell me all you
can.”

“You know that it was victory.”

“I know!”—in a stirred deep tone.
“Not from the papers. French papers
never admit defeat. But—under him—how
could it be otherwise?”

“It never was otherwise. Never—once!”

Denham rested his face on both
hands.

“Tell me all you know. We are cut
off from everything here.”

Jack’s information was but partial.
Before starting for France, he had been
kept by his wounds some time in the
neighbourhood of Lugo; and thus a few
details of that heroic death had filtered
round to him. It was hard work for
Jack to repeat them in a steady voice.
Once Ivor raised his head; and the
dumb white sorrow of his look all but
overcame Jack’s fortitude. Then Ivor
returned to his former position, and Jack
went on resolutely.

“That’s about all,” he said at length.
“As much as I’ve heard yet…. He
was his own grand self to the last!…
It was the death he would have chosen
to die…. He always wished for it….
On the field—in the moment of victory!
But the loss to us—to England!…
The best—the noblest——”

Jack could say no more. Silence
followed.

“Soult is a brave fellow. I heard
that he was going to put up a memorial
stone[1]—to him! The French know
what he was.”

Silence again. Denham had not
stirred.

“He saved the Army—and baulked
Napoleon. None except we who were
there could know the true state of
things—the hopeless inefficiency of the
Spaniards. If he had had treble the
number of men, and sufficient supplies,
England might have told a very different
tale to-day. What could be done by
mortal man, under such circumstances,
he did.”

Renewed silence. Jack studied the
other gravely.

“You’re not fit for any more of this!
When did you hear last from home?
So long? And you actually didn’t
know that Roy was in Spain? Smart
young officer, too. He came in more
than once for particular notice.” Jack
found himself verging on another allusion
to the name which filled their thoughts,
and he turned to a fresh subject. “This
Commandant of yours at Verdun—Wirion—must
be a queer chap, judging
from reports of him in the English
papers.”

“He—was.”

“Not here now?”

“Courcelles is the present Commandant.
Wirion went too far. There
were some scandalous cases—young
Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five
thousand pounds.”

“What a vile shame!”

“Some of us made a stir, and facts
were carried to headquarters. Wirion
was suspended, and he received a hint
that he might as well put himself
out of the way. He acted upon the
hint.”

“You mean that he——?”

“Shot himself.”

“Present man any improvement?”

“Oppressions are a degree more
carefully veiled.”

Denham lifted his face from his hands
with a sudden movement.

“What am I thinking about? You
must be in want of food.”

“No, it’s all right. I went to a café
on arrival. Your next meal is soon
enough for me.”

The absence of any inquiry after
Polly was arousing Jack’s wonder. At
first, in the engrossing interest of that
other subject, he had not so much
noticed Denham’s reticence, but now
each minute it grew more marked.
Should he speak of Polly himself? No,
that would not do. The first mention
ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided,
not realising that his own silence might
be misconstrued. Some questions as to
his wounds followed. Denham had
moved to the large arm-chair, and was
leaning back with a spiritless look.
Jack wondered anew, and at length he
could not resist putting forth a slight
feeler.

“Are there no folks at home of whom
you would fain hear?”

Ivor took the hint, looked straight at
him, and said—

“Is Polly married yet?”

Jack’s breath was taken away. He
was like one who has received a slap in
the face. This—from Ivor!

“Upon—my—word!” he ejaculated.
“You take it coolly. Uncommon
coolly!”

“I have at least a right to ask the
question.”

For a moment Jack was very nearly in
a passion, but the anger went down as
fast as it had arisen.

“Of course you don’t mean—— But,
I say, what in the wide world made you
think of such a thing? Polly married!
No, nor like to be.”

“I heard that she was engaged.”

“To whom?”

“The Admiral’s nephew—Peirce.”

“Who told you the lie?”

“Then—it was a lie!”

“You might have known it. Who
told you?”

“One whom I should have counted
trustworthy.”

“When did you hear the tale?”

“The year I was in Valenciennes.”

Jack recalled Roy’s description of
Ivor’s return from that absence, and he
began to grasp the state of the case.

“When did you hear last from Polly
herself?”

“Over two years ago. A letter which
had been written before the date when
she was said to have become engaged.”

The last remnants of Jack’s anger
died out. Two years of silence following
upon such a report!

“You have not writ yourself to Polly,
this great while.”

“How could I—not speaking of this?
And—how speak of it—if it were not
true?”

Silence again. Jack observed slowly,
as he watched the other’s colourless
lips—

“Den, I’m going to be frank. ’Tis
no case for half confidences. There
was a time, I’ll confess, when I had a
doubt in my own mind of Polly’s constancy.
She’s a pretty creature, and
she has had an uncommon lot of admiration.
But I wronged her, for she has
been ever faithful to you, and she has
cared for none other. And the night
before I started for Spain, she and I
talked together, and she spoke out
plainly. She said that, if you but asked
her to come to Verdun she would come—and
gladly. She wondered, if indeed
you cared for her still, that you had not
so done.”

A flush came, and Denham’s hand
was held hard against his forehead.

“Never!” he said, in a low voice.

“You would not wish to have her
out?”—incredulously.

“Never! If Polly were here, I might
be taken from her in a week—sent to a
dungeon, leaving her unprotected.”

“I see! Nay, that would not do.
Polly and you must wait a while longer.
But you will know now that she is
waiting too.”

“It might be better for her—not——”
Denham broke off.

“Your head is not often like this, I
hope,” Jack said, in a concerned tone.

“Not much respite lately.”

“Have you had medical advice?
Can nothing be done?”

“One infallible remedy—if it might
be had.”

“And that is?”

“Freedom—and Home.”

There was a short breath between the
words, which said much, for Denham
was not given to sighing. Then voices
outside told of the return of Colonel and
Mrs. Baron. Denham stood up, murmured
a hasty apology, and left the
room.

“Poor fellow!” Jack said aloud.

(To be continued.)

{552}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER”

I have seen nothing more wonderful this
season than the combinations of colour in
dress. To hear the suggestions of your dressmaker
on the subject is to hear all your preconceived
notions disputed and set at naught.
The other day I went with a friend to order a
dress, and she selected one of the new canvas
grenadines, blue with a white silk spot. The
blue was rather a bright one, and the material
very transparent, and open in its meshes.
There were several suggestions made for the
silken lining by the very clever woman who
was attending to us—white, pale blue, a
darker blue, emerald green, pink, rose, red,
lemon, orange, and, finally, a mauve—and
mauve it was—being the latest colour combination
and newer than the rest. But violet
or heliotrope goes best, to my mind, with
crimson; and that is a colour combination
which came in as long ago as the early seventies,
after the Franco-Prussian war; and nothing
can exceed its effectiveness if you get the right
shades for your mixture. Then heliotrope and
light blue is very pretty; but much less so
than the other. The favourite mixture of this
season is, without doubt, black and white, and
a very useful one it is. One of the favourite
materials for the everyday wear of the season
is alpaca, and next to that, for best gowns,
comes canvas grenadines, and a new make of
crepon. Nothing can exceed the beauty of
the satin-faced foulards, which everyone seems
to be ordering; and there is a great return to
spots, either placed at regular distances over
the material, or else arranged in irregularly-shaped
masses. The new nun’s veilings are{553}
also very pretty, and make delightful summer
frocks for girls.

SOME SUMMER GOWNS.

There is much to be said on the subject of
linings, and on all sides you will probably hear
it said that no silk, or, at least, no rustling
silk linings are used now; and that all dresses
are so soft and clinging that only very soft
linings are used, such as batiste, which is either
watered or plain, muslin, or any kind of unstiffened
material. Alpaca is lined with the
same material, and not with silk, but canvas
must be silk-lined, so a new kind of foulard
silk is to be found which is non-rustling and
flows in straight lines in the skirt.

Instead of a braid at the edge of your skirt,
you must now use velvet, which is to be obtained
at all the shops for that purpose, and
black velvet is most used for the purpose.

The attenuation of the quite up-to-date
woman is very remarkable, and her skirts are
so long and so unstiffened that they wrap
round her feet, and make her look “like a
mermaid,” as one of our many fashion-writers
assures us; but, whatever the creature is that
she may be like, the effect is startling; it is so
long and so unshapely when the new style is
applied to a thin figure.

TWO HARMONIES IN BLACK AND WHITE.

The group of figures which I have called
“Two harmonies in black and white,” are
two pretty gowns in the two hues which are
the most fashionable of all. The figure on the
left holding a bird wears a gown of white lace
over black satin, which is trimmed with crescent-shaped
pieces of silk, shading from black
to grey and white. These are laid on in regular
sequence of size on the skirt as well as on
the bodice. The other dress is of plainer
character, and is of black, with a white design.
It is, in fact, one of the new satin-faced
foulards, the pattern being of small leaves and
dots. The vest is of pleated white satin, with
revers of the same covered with lace. The{554}
bodice and skirt are also trimmed with ruches
of cream-coloured lace, which are laid over the
dress in pannier fashion, and go round the skirt
at the back. These small ruchings, made of
ribbon, narrow lace, or pinked-out silk, are
quite one of the features of this season’s gowns
and mantles.

MUSLIN FROCK FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

The frocks for young girls are especially
pretty this season, and the use of muslin makes
them always youthful-looking and light. The
frock illustrated in our sketch is made of a
dotted muslin, which may be of cream or
écru, or even of a colour. It is lined with
either a good sateen or a silk, rose, pink, or
blue being pretty colours; and the bodice has
a deep yoke of silk of the colour of the lining,
which has a ruching of lace round it, or else
one of silk gauze, which is almost equally
popular. The muslin which covers the bodice
is tucked, and also that on the pointed tunic,
which is edged with deep muslin frills, having
lines of narrow pink or blue ribbon on them.
The sash is of the same colour, tied at the
back, the ends of which are fringed, and
trimmed with bands of a deeper shade of the
same colour. This might be made in an
easier manner by tucking the skirt, as shown
in the drawing, in a pointed shape, and then
putting the muslin flounce on as a trimming to
it. This frock could, of course, be copied in
any other material, such as cambric nun’s
veiling or a grenadine. Pale grey grenadine
over pink or blue silk is a very fashionable gown
for young people this season.

The second figure of this group wears a
black corded silk jacket, made very short,
with white revers, and cordings of white satin.
It is quite tight-fitting, and has an under vest
of white satin, and a high collar at the back.
A large scarf of lace is worn with a big bow
under the chin. These last-named are donned
by everyone this year, and they are also universally
becoming, and lend much softness to
the face. They are very easy to make for
oneself at home, with the aid of a yard or so
of net and a little pretty lace. But beware of
getting either of these too cheap, for cheapness
here would destroy the good effect; and
poor materials will not wash. The skirt worn
by this figure is of pale grey, trimmed with
flat bands of silk, and made with a pointed
tunic. The hat is a very pretty one, of white
chip, trimmed with black tulle, ruched. A
gold buckle and black feathers are worn with
it. The edge is bound with black velvet, and
underneath the brim is a bunch of pink roses.

In the hair-dressing of the present moment
there is an enormous amount of frizzing and
waving; in fact, too much of it for the symmetry
of the head, and the work of the curling-irons
is all too evident. One thing of which
everyone complains is, that all heads are alike,
and it is much to be desired that more individual
thought should be devoted to the dressing
of the head. The back hair is dressed in coils,
winding round and round smoothly, except
when the door-knocker style is still retained;
but this form of hair-dressing is fast going out.
Then the head is covered with a mass of
frizzled hair, which is too disorderly to be
beautiful, and in which the beauty of its colour
is lost.

A great many women and girls have deserted
the use of hot irons, and have gone back to
curl-papers, and hair-pins, to wave the hair.
In order to avoid the use of either of these, an
inventive genius has found out a way of winding
a ribbon round with the hair-pin, so that,
after the hair is wound in and out on it, the
hair-pin can be slipped out, and the two ends
of the ribbon which have been left out are tied
tightly together, and the hair is then held on
the ribbon only. The little bunch thus made
is far less ugly than the spiky wire-fencing
made by the hairpin ends. The ribbon used
is baby ribbon, of course, and when a becoming
colour is selected, the effect is quite pretty.
Silk pieces of various colours are used also,
on which to curl the hair, and in some measure
do away with the ugliness of the usual papers.
I have heard lately of a young married lady
who had a false front made, to put on at night
over her hair-wavers, which, she said, were so
ugly, she could not bear to look at herself in
them, and so tried this way to surmount the
difficulty.

In the group of three figures called “Some
Summer Gowns,” the first figure on the right
wears a light-grey gown, with trimmings of
coffee-coloured lace. The flounces are edged
with the same, and the vest has alternate
stripings of grey and black. There is a draping
of white satin on the vest, which is like a sash
from the side of the bodice. There are revers
of the same lace, and upstanding frilling at the
back of the neck. The sleeves are fluted in
puffs, from the shoulder to the elbow, with
rows of coffee-coloured lace insertion between
them, and are finished with a pointed cuff over
the hand. The centre figure wears a blouse
of écru silk, the sleeves and yoke being mitred,
and a pointed epaulette at the shoulder. With
this a white muslin collar is worn. The last
figure, at the extreme left, wears a cape of
white silk with a cover of black net, and
ruches of black and white satin ribbon; small
black rosettes round the collar, and a ruche of
black and white lace at the neck. A white
hat, bound at the edge of the brim with a
black velvet, the trimming being of black tulle,
with pale-pink roses, and brownish leaves and
buds; the same flowers under the brim at the
back.

I do not think, in spite of Viscountess Harberton,
that the majority of English women
desire to wear knickerbockers, nor even the
divided skirt with which her name has been so
much associated in the past; and I hear that
French women of the better classes are adopting
the skirt of the English women, which
they consider much more becoming. After
all, there is no need of complaint, for several
English firms supply a most ingenious skirt,
which—though divided, and giving all the advantages
of that shape—when on the bicycle,
falls into the usual folds of the skirt which is
not divided, and looks just the same. I must
confess that this appears to me to meet all
requirements, and that the extreme ugliness of
the knickerbockers, when worn, need not make
them an object of attraction to any woman
who values her appearance. There seems to
be a universal consensus of opinion that nothing
can look better than an Englishwoman in a
tailor-made and carefully-fitted dress, quiet in
colour, and of the suitable length and shape
of skirt. She looks one with her machine, and
has nothing flying in the way of decorations to
make her untidy.

{555}

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART VIII.

SUNDAY AND REST.

his evening, my dear
girls, we will try to
realise as far as possible
how Jesus, our
one perfect pattern,
spent His Sabbaths.
We get glimpses of
them, here and
there, in the history
of His life on earth,
and because they
are only glimpses
they are all the
more precious.

It is an astonishing
fact that the
events of only one
complete day of
Christ’s life are
recorded, and that
day was the last of
all, and ended on
the cross. But we know well what sort of
working days Jesus spent. Days of temptation,
but no yielding, though the keenness
of it was sharpened by hunger. Days of
ceaseless work and weariness, but also of uncomplaining
perseverance in doing what the
Father had given Him to do. Nights spent in
secluded spots or on the mountains, in prayer,
and in communion with God, after days passed
in healing, blessing, teaching and feeding the
hungry multitude. Jesus was always ready to
help all who sought His aid, or who needed it
without expressing their wants. Words were
not necessary to the Son of God, Who could
read the heart-longings of His brethren according
to the flesh.

Do you wish to know whether Jesus set the
example of attending public worship on the
Sabbath? Here is the answer: “And He
came to Nazareth, where He had been brought
up: and, as His custom was, He went into the
synagogue on the Sabbath day, and stood up
for to read.” On this and on other occasions
we find Him teaching and preaching, as well
as reading, and it is certain that the presence
of Jesus at public worship was no fitful thing,
but the habit of His life.

It was in the synagogue that Christ healed
the man with the withered hand, and taught
the sweet lesson that acts of mercy and good
doing are lawful on all days and at all times.
There, also, He loosed from her infirmity the
poor woman who had been bowed together
for eighteen years and could in no wise lift up
herself.

It was on the Sabbath day that Jesus made
clay, anointed the eyes of the blind man, and
sent him to wash in the pool of Siloam, whence
he returned seeing, and full of gladness.

We get other glimpses of the Sabbaths of
Jesus besides these which have shown Him in
the synagogue. They were not days of gloom
or unsocial isolation. See Him walking
through the cornfields on the Sabbath day
with His hungry disciples, who satisfied their
craving by plucking a few ears and rubbing
them in their hands. This picture leaves a
sweet thought. Christ’s followers may even
want bread, yet be blessed with a sense of
their Master’s presence and sympathy, in every
time of need.

Jesus accepted an invitation to eat bread
with one of the chief Pharisees on the Sabbath
day; thus we see that He did not abstain
from social intercourse on the day of rest.
The Jews were most particular in buying and
preparing beforehand the best food for the
Sabbath day, in order to do it honour. An
old writer, in alluding to this, says, “The
Sabbath should not be a day of austerity.
The most nutritive food should be procured, if
possible, that both body and soul may feel the
influence of this Divine appointment, and give
God the glory of His grace. On this blessed
day let every man eat his bread with gladness
and singleness of heart, praising God. If the
Sabbath be a festival, let it be observed unto the
Lord; and let no unnecessary acts be done.”

It was whilst partaking of the chief Pharisee’s
hospitality that another suffering man came
under the notice of the Great Physician, and was
healed, and sent away rejoicing on the Sabbath
day. In like manner, the impotent man, who
had been thirty-eight years helpless, was
bidden to take up his bed and walk. With
the command came the power to obey, and
“the same day was the Sabbath.”

What have we learned from these glimpses
of Jesus on the day of rest? Surely that it
was a happy day which included attendance
at public worship, the study of the Scriptures,
the teaching of them to others, healthful outdoor
exercise, indoor social intercourse, and
the acceptance of hospitality, together with
the instant seizure of every opportunity for
good doing. There is no trace of gloom in
connection with the Sabbaths of Jesus. So
you and I, dear ones, when in God’s house,
can say, “Coming here regularly, I follow
Christ’s example.” If teaching the little ones
of the flock, “My master taught in the
synagogue. In my humble way I can pass on
to those younger than myself the lessons He
gave. I can work no miracle of healing,
but, if the mind is in me that was in Christ,
I can and I will make some poor sufferer’s
Sunday the brighter for my presence and
my help.”

If I am walking by the way, or a guest at
the table of another, my conduct shall be in
harmony with the day. I will neither act nor
speak so that I should be ashamed to think,
“My Master knows the thoughts of my
heart, and has heard my words and seen my
actions.”

We can do, or leave undone, many things in
the home which will be helpful to the servants.
We can save them trouble without any effort
to ourselves, and thus give them a fair share
of Sabbath privileges. It is sad when servants
have to say “Sunday is the hardest day of the
week to us,” yet this often happens, not because
of necessary work, but owing to the
indolence and self-indulgence of the family,
and the extra labour entailed by many visitors.
Believe me, only those can truly enjoy God’s
gift of a day of rest who are His servants, and
who have in them the spirit of love, which
comes from Him Who “is love.” With it
they will need no written rules. They will be
a law to themselves. The Sabbath will be
looked forward to with gladness as a day to be
dedicated to God and our neighbour, by
worship, good doing, occupation without toil
or weariness, and happy intercourse with those
we love. We shall not say, “I can make the
fields my church, and worship the Creator in
the midst of His works as well as I could
under the roof of a cathedral.” We shall love
to join with those who are gathered in His
name and house, but we shall not on that
account forget to praise Him when we walk
by the way and discern Him in His works.
We shall be glad to put the toils and cares of
the workaday world as far out of sight and
mind as possible, that Monday may find us
strong and ready to bear the heat and burden
of the six coming days.

I was once deeply touched by the words
of a dear woman, a cottager’s wife, of whom
it might be said she just “knew, but knew no
more, her Bible true,” for she could read it,
and that was all, and it was her one book.
How real it was to her! How she dwelt on
its messages of cheer and hope, and was
gladdened as she spelled out the words of
some sweet promise! How she revelled in
Sunday as a gift that only those who toiled
week in, week out, could fitly value! She
would not have the worries of the other days
intruding themselves upon the hours sacred to
joy, and peace, and rest.

It happened that she and her husband had
been passing through a time of trouble and
anxiety. There had been sickness in the
home, and this meant suspended work and
wages, more need for money and less to meet
it. The week-end saw them in sore straits
for quite a little sum, and the thought of
what might happen on the Monday, if it were
not forthcoming, troubled the mother’s mind
for a moment.

“But it was Sunday,” she said, when
speaking of it afterwards, “and I wouldn’t
have that spoiled. There was the rest day
for us, whatever Monday might bring, and
bread for so long, anyway. Every now and
then I seemed to hear those words, ‘The
Lord will provide,’ and I took the message
and put the worry right out of my mind. I
had got into a way of never asking for money
or anything of that sort on Sundays, and I
didn’t on that one. I just enjoyed it in the
reg’lar way with my John and the children,
and, though I did see a bit of a cloud on his
face now and then, I never pretended to
notice, but smiled back, and it went. I never
slept better than I did that Sunday night.”

“And when Monday came?” I asked.

“Help came, in quite a nateral sort of
way, as it seemed, through John’s old master.
He said we had been on his mind all Sunday,
and he’d brought us the loan of a sovereign.
We could pay it back at sixpence a week, but
there was no hurry. We must be a bit
behindhand through John’s illness. The
master was always just, but he was reckoned
a hard man, and he went out of his way when
he lent that sovereign. Didn’t my heart go
up to God in thankfulness that Monday
morning, and wasn’t I glad to tell my John,
‘He has provided.’”

I have always thought that this dear woman
realised the privileges and preciousness of the
Sabbath in a greater degree than anyone else
I ever knew.

Let us cull a thought or two from the
utterances of George Herbert, the country
parson, who was, in 1630, inducted into the
parsonage of Pemberton, and who has been
called the “Keble of the age which boasted
of Shakespeare, Bacon, Spenser, and Ben
Jonson.” I could wish that his life (written
by Izaak Walton) and his works, in prose and
poetry, were in every girl’s bookcase. It is
passing from the unlettered peasant woman to
the cultured divine, but the quotations I will
give you show how the same spirit actuates
high and low, the ignorant and the learned,
when, as the children of God, they express
their sense of the infinite preciousness of the
Sabbath. Herbert’s poem called “Sunday”{556}
is too long to quote as a whole, but you will
enjoy reading some quotations from it.

In alluding to the change from the seventh
to the first day of the week, now observed as
the Christian’s Sunday, the poet uses very
beautiful and expressive imagery to account
for the alteration.

It is related that, on the Sunday before his
death, Mr. Herbert rose suddenly from his
bed, called for one of his instruments, and,
having tuned it, sang the following verse from
the same poem.

Our poet-pastor was no gloomy ascetic.
He revelled, so to speak, in this good gift of
God, and sang His praises with a joyful heart.
Whilst picturing all the varied aspects of the
country parson’s life, and noting its sad
experiences, he gives us a picture of him “In
mirth.” “As knowing that nature will not bear
everlasting droppings, and that pleasantness
of disposition is a great key to do good;”
and “Instructions seasoned with pleasantness
both enter sooner and root deeper. Wherefore
he condescends to human frailties, both
in himself and others, and intermingles some
mirth in his discourses occasionally, according
to the pulse of the hearer.” Other duties
ended, “At night he thinks it a very fit time,
suitable to the joy of the day, either to
entertain some of his neighbours or be
entertained by them, and to discourse of
things profitable and pleasant. As he opened
the day with prayer, so he closeth it, humbly
beseeching the Almighty to pardon and
accept our poor services and to improve them,
that we may grow therein, and that our feet
may be like hinds’ feet, ever climbing up
higher and higher unto Him.”

I feel sure, my dear girls, that in giving you
these beautiful pictures of Sabbath joy, I have
done you a real service. I have never
forgotten either the words of my village friend
or the effect produced on me by the first
reading of the country parson’s “Sunday.”
Both reflected the mind of the Master they
served, and to-day their example and words
are well worthy of our imitation.

Thus far I have said little about “Rest,”
except in connection with the “Day of Rest.”
It is delightful to note that from the very
beginning there was a Divine recognition of
the need for rest, and that the Creator’s
plan for bestowing the blessing was so wide
in its application. It was ordained for man
in the first instance, then extended to the
animals that had been subdued to service
under him, and, later still, to the land. Long
before the children of Israel had ended their
wanderings in the desert, the command was
given to them by Moses, “When ye come
into the land which I give you, then shall
the land keep a Sabbath unto the Lord.” “In
the seventh year shall be a Sabbath of rest
unto the land.”

The Israelites, who had been for so many
generations the bondsmen of Egypt, and then
for forty years wanderers in the desert, had to
be divinely taught what pertained to a settled
mode of life. As landowners, they had to
learn that each crop yielded takes something
out of the ground, and that it must have a
period of rest, or its power of production will
be exhausted. Hence the Sabbath for the
land. In our time the chemist has taught the
farmer that by putting certain substances into
the ground, he can restore what the crop has
taken from it; but in times within my own
memory the remedy was to let the land lie
fallow—that is, at rest for a year before it was
sown again.

What a delightful word “rest” is! It has
so many meanings in everyday use, and in the
Bible also; and all of them are suggestive of
benefit and good to soul, mind, and body.
Glance for instance at Psalm cxvi., and you
will find a picture of one who had “found
trouble and sorrow,” and been full of fears
and anxieties; but he had gone with crying
and prayers to God, who heard and answered.
So, bursting into a hymn of gratitude and
triumph, he exclaims—

“I love the Lord, because He hath heard my
voice and my supplications. I was brought
low, and He helped me. Return unto thy
rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt
bountifully with thee.”

Here, my dear ones, you see that rest means
the calm confidence in God which brings the
soul a peace which passeth all understanding.
This is the rest which Jesus linked with those
sweetly familiar words of invitation so often
quoted: “Come unto Me, all ye that labour
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for
I am meek and lowly in heart; and ye shall
find rest unto your souls.”

This rest means “peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ,” which those who love
and trust in Him enjoy even in this troublesome
world. With this soul restfulness all
the trials of life lose much of their keenness;
without it they pierce more deeply and are
doubly hard to bear. Yet there are so many
worries and anxieties in daily life to give us
unquiet minds. Even when our own paths
are fairly smooth, we often have uneasy minds
and sleepless nights on account of those we
love, or we are harassed by mental visions of
coming evil, till we are ready to cry, as David
did, “O that I had wings like a dove! for
then would I flee away and be at rest.”

A little later, in the same Psalm, comes the
remedy: “Cast thy burden upon the Lord,
and He shall sustain thee.”

From Psalmist, Apostle, and, better than
all, from the lips of Jesus Himself, we receive
unfailing guidance to the one source of rest,
both for troubled souls and disquieted minds.
When all the world fails us, let us, my
dear ones, try to remember that He is faithful
Who promised, “I will give you rest.”

Then there are these poor frail bodies of
ours that have to bear weariness and the pain
which makes the rest they cry out for
impossible. How many of us have felt our
utter helplessness at the sight of suffering
which we could not relieve, though we would
gladly have borne it for a while in order to
purchase an interval of rest for one we loved?

One of you, who asked that the subject of
“Rest” might be considered at a Twilight
gathering, told me that she was an invalid,
crippled with sciatica and muscular rheumatism,
only able to move from place to place
by means of a wheeled chair, seldom free from
pain, and sleeping but little. Yet she was
able to show me that her mind was active in
planning for the good of others, and that her
thoughts shaped themselves into songs of
thankfulness and longings for a more complete
submission to God’s will. So, as I read, I
said to myself, “Thank God for this record!
Though it tells of pain, it also tells of patience.
The body suffers, and the burden is a heavy
one; but it is borne by means of God-given
strength, and ‘There is a rest that remaineth’
for His people.”

When this world, with its sorrow, suffering,
trouble, and weariness, shall have passed away
they shall find eternal rest in the Father’s
home above. “And God shall wipe away all
tears from their faces, and there shall be no
more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither
shall there be any more pain.”

(To be continued.)

SHEILA.

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

CHAPTER VIII.

MONCKTON MANOR.

“They ought to have asked me too,”
said Effie, looking rather black. “I
call it quite rude; but these grand
county people always are so rude.”

“Oh, but, Effie, I am only going to
practise accompaniments! I go to
River Street for that, and you don’t
mind. Why should you mind this?
We never can get those difficult
passages right without a proper, long,
steady practice, and one can’t get it at
the hall. Everybody is wanting their
turn; and I get flurried with so much
chattering and noise. I thought it such
a good idea when Miss Lawrence asked
me to come to the Manor.”

“She should have asked me too,
then,” said Effie, with a pout. “Not{557}
that I care about going. I’m not such
a great admirer of May Lawrence or
her voice; it’s too low and gruff for
me.”

“Oh, not gruff; it’s a beautiful, rich
contralto. It’s quite a pleasure to hear
her.”

“Oh, you think so because she likes
your playing, and butters you up! But,
anyhow, I don’t think much of it, and
I do say she ought to have asked me
too.”

“People know you are delicate; they
don’t like to bother you to take long
drives,” suggested Sheila pacifically;
but Effie was cross and would not be
amiable, though she ceased to make
complaints about not being asked with
Sheila to the Manor.

“How are you going?”

“I thought I would ride Shamrock.
Then I should be quite independent.
Cyril is going there for a day’s fishing,
and he can bring me back.”

Again Effie’s face darkened. She
did not say anything this time, but she
had a feeling as though Sheila was
cutting her out of everything. She was
keenly alive to the fact that, though
Cyril’s visits were paid more frequently
now, it was Sheila who engrossed the
bulk of his notice. Effie, with all her
tendency to selfishness, fostered by her
mode of life, had not naturally an
ignoble disposition, and her ideals were
high. She fought rather hard against
the tide of rising jealousy, and had
never betrayed it either to Sheila or to
her mother; but the pain of seeing
another preferred to herself rankled
rather keenly; and during these past
days—indeed for a week or two now—it
had been hard work to keep down
the unworthy feeling.

All the young people of Isingford
were keenly excited about the forthcoming
effort which was to extinguish
the debt upon the two churches. All
were eager to help, and Effie herself
had been roused to desire to do something.
She had practised with new
energy, so as to be able to take part in
the concert of local talent, and her song
was already selected and placed in the
programme. But she did not think
anybody showed any enthusiasm over
her performance. Perhaps her voice had
deteriorated somewhat, though nobody
said so. She was listened to quite
kindly, and her friends said her song
would be certain to “go down”; but
that was all. Whereas, over May
Lawrence’s performance there was a
little furore, and she was entreated to
sing twice, and was called quite openly
the prima donna. Effie had not expected
that title for herself, yet she was
not quite pleased by the treatment she
received.

And then Sheila was in such request.
Sheila was so popular. It was quickly
discovered that, though no very brilliant
performer on the piano as a soloist, she
had a very pretty gift for accompanying.
Her touch was soft and sympathetic;
she never played wrong notes, even if
she missed the right ones. It became
quite the usual thing for the soloists to
beg her to play for them, and, as she
was delighted to please and very fond
of this sort of work, she soon became
the acknowledged accompanist of the
concert, and a person in great demand.

May Lawrence was one of those who
had taken a great fancy to her, and this
invitation to Monckton Manor, a place
Effie had only seen once upon a formal
call, was rather galling to her.

Sheila started out a little depressed
in spirits, for she disliked the feeling
that Effie was “cross with her.” She
was sensitive, like all young things, to
the disapproval of those about her, and
thought it very hard to be blamed when
she had really done no harm. Sheila
was for the first time tasting a little of
the discipline of life, and she did not
enjoy the experience. She wanted it
always to be sunshine about her. She
liked to be petted and caressed. She
was ready to love everybody, if they
would only love her. It seemed to her
very hard when she was criticised for
something that was not the least wrong.
It had never been so in old days, and
why should it be now?

However, upon her arrival at the
Manor House all troubled thoughts were
quickly dissipated by the warm reception
she met with. May Lawrence met her
with a kiss. The two girls fell into
Christian names almost at once. The
pleasant old semi-Tudor house was
delightful to Sheila, reminding her in
many ways of her own home. Mrs.
Lawrence welcomed her kindly, saying
she had heard a great deal about
her and her pretty playing, and May
took her into the orchard-house and
regaled her with delicious peaches
before they did a note of practising.

“And we have such a nice visitor
here now, Sheila,” she explained, “an
old friend of mother’s, though she is
not really old—Miss Adene; only she
makes me call her Cousin Mary. She
had a very lovely voice when she was
young, and it’s quite pretty still, though
she laughs when I tell her so. She has
given me a lot of hints about my songs.
She sings little bits to show me how to
do it. She must have been splendidly
taught herself! Let’s come to the
music-room! Perhaps she will come
and listen.”

Sheila followed her willingly, and on
their way to the house May exclaimed,
“Oh, there she is!” and the next
minute Sheila was shaking hands with
Miss Adene.

Somehow Sheila’s heart went out at
once to this stranger lady. She could
not say how it was, but she felt at home
with her almost immediately; and Miss
Adene seemed to take a liking for the
big-eyed, soft-voiced Sheila. She asked
her questions about herself, gave her
hints about her playing, and was
altogether so friendly and kindly that
Sheila felt almost more at home in this
house after two hours than she had done
at Cossart Place after two months.

Cyril appeared at luncheon in company
with some of the Lawrence sons.
They had known each other at
Cambridge, and saw a fair amount of
one another in the vacation. May was
the only daughter; but she had several
brothers, and was good at most games
herself, and would have liked to play
tennis with Sheila, only that her habit
was rather against any such plan.

“But you must come another day—you
must come often. I have so few
girl-friends here. There are not many
houses where mother cares for me to be
intimate. But I should like to have you
for a friend! I hope you will come
often!”

“I should like to,” said Sheila
eagerly, “but I don’t know if I can.
There is Effie! I am supposed to be
her companion. I could not leave her
very often.”

“I don’t see why not,” said May, with
some of the frank and unconscious
selfishness of the present-day girl.
“You’re not her nurse or her white
slave, I suppose?”

Sheila laughed and blushed, and
Miss Adene came unexpectedly to her
assistance.

“One need not be a nurse or a white
slave, and yet one may have duties and
little kindly offices to fulfil. The happy
people in this world, May, are those who
do their duty from a sense of love, and
not compulsion; and we idle people
must not tempt them away from the
place where they are wanted.”

Sheila looked up with a heightened
colour to say—

“I’m afraid I don’t always love my
duties. Sometimes they seem very tiresome.
And I’m sure you’re not an idle
person, Miss Adene; but I am very
often. Sometimes I think I’m no real
good to anybody.”

“Then you must make yourself some
good, dear; though I do not think that
any of us can quite help being of some
service to our friends and fellow-creatures.
You have a delicate cousin
to cheer up and help back to health and
strength; and you must do your best to
be kind and patient. And you will soon
find how much pleasure there is in such
a task, and gain yourself a sister, since
you say you have never had one of your
own.”

Sheila’s day at the Manor was a very
happy one, and she particularly enjoyed
her bits of talk with Miss Adene, who
promised to help at the bazaar and, if
needed, to give some assistance at the
glee club, where extra voices were
wanted with a view to the coming
concert.

May and one of her brothers rode
part of the way back with Sheila and
Cyril, the girls in front, the young men
behind.

“Do you like your cousin Cyril?”
asked May with the freedom only possible
between quite young people.

“Yes, rather,” answered Sheila. “I
liked him very much at first. He seemed
more like the people I had been used to,
but I think I get rather tired of him. Do
you like him?”

“Not very much,” answered candid
May. “The boys get on pretty well
with him; but they call him rather a
bounder all the same.”

“What’s that?” asked Sheila, laughing.

“Well, I’m not quite sure if I know;
but it’s not a thing he’d like to be
called. What the boys mean about him
is that he’s half ashamed of his own{558}
family, and the way in which his father
has made his money, and that’s always
awfully snobbish. Why, to my thinking,
the other brother, North, is much more
a true gentleman. I despise people
who are ashamed of their origin. It is
nice to be a landed proprietor and a
country gentleman, of course; but
there’s no disgrace in honest trade.
Why, three of our boys have had to go
into business in some of its forms; but
do you think they’d be ashamed of it, or
that we should be ashamed of them?
I should despise myself for ever if I
were!”

“Yes, I suppose he is rather ashamed
of the works,” said Sheila slowly. “He
never would have anything to do with
them. I don’t quite know what he does
want for himself. Sometimes he talks
about the Bar, and sometimes the
Church, and sometimes he thinks he’ll
take up literature. I suppose he’s
clever.”

“The boys don’t think so; he only
got a pass, you know. And I don’t
think I like men to take to the Church
just for a profession. I’ve got a brother
a clergyman; but I know how he felt
about it before he took Orders. He used
sometimes to talk to me. He felt that
he had been called; that is a very
different thing from choosing for yourself,
and shilly-shallying as Cyril is
doing.”

Sheila began to see that May, although
not much older than herself, thought
things out more deeply than she had
ever done.

“The boys have always talked to me,
you know,” she said, “and Arnold in
particular. He is the clergyman, you
know. That made one think. It would
be nicer to believe in everybody; but
perhaps it’s better sometimes to see
below the surface. Sometimes I wish
almost that something would happen
just to try the metal we and our friends
are made of. In olden times, when
there were wars and dangers, it must
have been so much easier to know what
they were like; but nothing ever does
happen in the nineteenth century—not
in that sort of way.”

Nevertheless, a good deal was happening
in other ways, and the excitement
increased as the time for the bazaar
arrived.

The town hall was a spacious building,
and it was decorated in an effective
fashion with festoons of greenery and
paper and tinsel flowers. Some people
called it trumpery stuff; but it looked
well, and was cheap, and to keep down
expenses was one of the chief aims of
the assistants.

The bazaar was held in the great
hall; but there were two smaller rooms,
off-shoots from this, reached by short
wide flights of steps, and in these rooms
the supplementary entertainments were
to be held.

One was a museum of curiosities and
beautiful things lent, for which extra
admission was charged; the other was
given over to entertainments. On the
first day there was to be a phonograph
and some experiments with electrical
apparatus, in which Oscar was to assist.
On the second the concert, and on the
third some tableaux.

The whole town was in excitement
over the affair, and upon the first day
the thoroughfares were quite crowded
with carriages and foot passengers.
Everything went off beautifully. A
great deal was sold; the refreshments
were excellent, the band good; and the
people went away declaring they should
come again upon the morrow, which
accordingly they did.

The concert was almost the most
exciting experience for Sheila—she had
so much accompanying to do; but she
soon lost her first feeling of nervousness,
and forgot everything in the effort to
help everything to go well.

It was all a great success. Effie sang
her song very creditably, and got an
encore; though some people did say it
was her father who so stubbornly led the
rounds of applause. May’s singing
delighted everybody, and the glees went
beautifully; Miss Adene was there,
kindly and encouraging, giving steadiness
to any wavering part by her clear
rounded tones, and taking the greatest
interest in everything.

Indeed, all the Monckton Manor party
had come in force; and they were to
appear also upon the next day, for May
had a part in several of the tableaux,
and two of the brothers also, and they
were both very clever and helpful as
scene shifters. For everything was done
as far as possible by volunteers, and
there was no professional aid which
could possibly be dispensed with.

The third day was in some sort the
grandest, for, though the things from
the bazaar were mostly sold off, there
was great interest over the tableaux;
and there was to be a troop of performing
dogs in the great hall for the young
folks, since the upper room would not
hold everybody, and all must be entertained.
Also the tea was to be on
a grander scale; and the hall was
early thronged with eager buyers and
spectators.

There was nothing, perhaps, very
original in the tableaux, but they were
very prettily got up, and it was interesting
to the spectators because they knew the
actors in them.

One of the most effective ones was the
presentation of the French ambassadors
at Queen Elizabeth’s court after the
massacre of St. Bartholomew. Effie
was the sharp-featured Queen in sable
robes, and the stage was crowded by
her black-robed courtiers and ladies-in-waiting;
whilst Oscar, Cyril, Fred
Monckton, and a few more, in their
gorgeous frippery, stood evidently taken
aback and confounded by the unwonted
sight of this evidence of stern woe and
regal horror and offence.

The applause for this picture was loud
and long, and the curtain was just
rising again when in the hush that had
succeeded the clamour there penetrated
a sound of noise and confusion from the
hall below, and then the clear terrible cry:

“Fire! Fire!”

(To be continued.)

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE II.

SOLUTION.

An Accidental Cycle II.

3. When Bathing.

4. Earthquakes.

Prize Winners.

Ten Shillings Each.

• Rebecca Clarke, 130, Newland Street West, Lincoln.
• Alison H. Halden, 13, Duke Street, Edinburgh.
• Margaret S. Hall, 13, Roseneath Terrace, Edinburgh.
• Carlina V. M. Leggett, Burgh Hall, Burgh, Lincolnshire.
• Florence Lush, 26, Scotland Street, Edinburgh.
• Mrs. Mason, 30, Cambridge Street, Great Horton, Bradford.
• Robina Potts, Aln Lodge, Blacket Avenue, Edinburgh.
• Isabel Snell, 51, Mere Street, Leicester.
• Helen B. Younger, 5, Comiston Gardens, Edinburgh.

Seven Shillings Each.

• Rev. J. Chambers, Woodhead Vicarage, Manchester.
• E. M. Dickson, 2, Bank Parade, Preston.

Very Highly Commended.

Eliza Acworth, Annie A. Arnott, Frances
A. Baker, Rose S. Bracey, Louie Bull, Kate
Campsall, Amy T. Child, Agnes Dewhurst,
Katie Doyle, Margaret A. Fisk, E. J. Friend,
Caroline Gundry, Mrs. Jenks, Agnes McConnell,
Marie McQueen, Susan F. Manderson,
Mrs. E. J. May, Isobel S. Neill, E. A.
O’Donoghue, Charles Parr, Nina E. Purvey,
Annie Roberson, S. A. Sanderson, Violet
Shoberl, Helen Singleton, Mrs. G. W. Smith,
R. Majorie Thomas, Eva Waites, Florence
Whitlock, Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. A. J. Wilson,
Emily M. P. Wood, Agnes M. Vincent.

Highly Commended.

May Adamson, “Annis,” Edith Ashworth,
Alice M. Cooper, M. A. C. Crabb, Edith E.
Grundy, Percy H. Home, E. Marian Jupe,
Eliza Learmount, John Lush, John Marshall,
E. Mastin, Edith A. Newbould, Kate Robinson,
Mildred M. Skrine, Frederick W. Southey,
Chas. Stephens, Constance Taylor, C. E.
Thurgar, Elizabeth Yarwood.

Honourable Mention.

Maud Abbott, Mrs. Acheson, Eva M. Allport,
Agnes Amis, Mary S. Arnold, Rev. S.
Bell, S. Ballard, Lily Belling, Isabel Borrow,{559}
Margaret E. Bourne, Nellie D. Bourne, Edith
Burfield, E. Burrell, R. E. M. Button, A. C.
Carter, Muriel L. Clague, Dora Clarke, J.
Ethel Collingham, Maggie Coombes, Rev.
Joseph Corkey, R. Swan Coulthard, E. Vivian
Davies, Mrs. Frank Dickson, Rev. F. Dobbin,
Jessie F. Dulley, Winefride Ellison, Eleanor
Elsey, A. and F. Fooks, F. Fuller, Annie M.
Goss, A. Grainger, Ellie Hanlon, Bessie Hine,
Carrie Hine, Gertrude Hire, Ethel W. Hodgkinson,
L. Holt, Edith C. Hoon, Arthur W.
Howse, Annie M. Hutchens, Lizzie M. Iggulden,
“Iseult,” Margaret Jaques, Alice E.
Johnson, Edith B. Jowett, A. Kilburn, Clara
E. Law, Fred Lindley, E. E. Lockyear, Gertrude
Longbottom, Jennie M. McCall, Ethel
C. McMaster, M. G. Mill, F. Miller, J. D.
Musgrave, Jessie Neighbour, Rev. V. Odom,
G. de Courcy Peach, Ernest Plater, Hannah
E. Powell, A. O. Prentice, Ellen M. Price,
Lucy Richardson, Katherine M. Scott, Ellen
Shattock, A. A. L. Shave, A. C. Sharp,
Mrs. Sherring, Wm. Dunford-Smith, Norah
M. Sullivan, G. Swaine, G. Thomas, Ellen
Thurtell, Wm. J. Trim, May Tutte, Mary F.
Wakelin, Mabel Wearing, Frances H. Webb-Gillman,
Gertrude West, Eleanor Whitcher,
Mrs. E. A. Wilson, Adelaide Wright, Edith
M. Younge.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

Nearly nine hundred competitors tried their
skill upon this puzzle, and with such good
effect that our award is long enough to excite
editorial remonstrance. To make room for
it we must cut down our report to the verge
of terseness.

Many solvers left out the “An” in the
heading. In a way it was only a trifling error,
but as it could only be attributed to carelessness,
it did not commend itself to our sympathy.
It was less wonderful that the unwonted
exercise of the hen in the first title was not
correctly interpreted by all. Let us say at
once that the excited fowl was not “drowning”
nor “in danger of drowning;” the water was
too shallow. “When in water” was not quite
explicit enough either as a title or as an interpretation
of the picture. The hen was in a
bath, and therefore presumably bathing.

In the first line we often found “big” and
“large” instead of great. It is more customary
to speak of big and great waves than
of large waves, and we gave slight preference
to the former readings.

In the title of the second puzzle a few
solvers failed to notice the s and wrote “An
earthquake.” It was a pity. Likewise in the
first line the s was sometimes missing, and
more often the apostrophe. But it was in the
fourth line that the real trouble was found.
Was the h under the w, or was it inside or was
it outside? Opinions widely differed, but the
majority voted it to be beneath, appreciating
the sense of the advice in spite of poetic
obscurity of expression.

While we were wrestling with the point a
learned professor came into our room. We
read the lines to him, and asked what impression
they conveyed to his mind. Without
an instant’s hesitation he threw open the door
and stood beneath the lintel, and we returned
to our work with much comfort and increased
admiration for learned professors.

The advice may seem to be strange to those
unacquainted with earthquakes and their ways,
but it is based upon wide experience. However
great the “tumult,” the framework of
the doorway generally affords ample protection.

In the same line “whatere” was sometimes
erroneously substituted for whate’er. Here we
must call attention to the fact that whatever is
one word, and that the contraction is one word
also.

In very many solutions tho’ appeared in
place of “though.” On this point one competitor
very clearly puts the correct ruling.
He writes—“‘Tho’’ for ‘though’ phonetically
(as ‘ma’ for ‘may’ in line following).
‘Tho’’ is not admissible, nor any shortenings
by an apostrophe of the spelling of a word
where, abbreviated or unabbreviated, the
pronunciation remains the same.”

In writing, these abbreviations are sometimes
used, but they indicate a lack of refinement
in style, and are much to be deprecated.

It only remains for us to say that absolute
perfection was attained by the first prize-winners,
and by no one else. As to the
mention lists, those solvers who took the
trouble to indent the lines of the first verse, as
in the published solution, will find their names
in a higher class than those who did not. The
rhyming lines of the second puzzle run in
pairs, hence no grouping by indentation was
necessary.

An expert and critical solver has written a
letter about the puzzle, “An Ideal Garden,”
which deserves attention. He first contends
that he “sent in a perfectly correct solution,”
but we have been able to set his mind at rest
on that point by returning it to him. He
next maintains that in punctuation “the
printed solution is wrong.” According to him
the first line should read “A garden, like a
room, should be,” and not “A garden like a
room should be,”.

But it all depends upon the meaning of the
lines. In our version it is that a garden
should be like a room, it should have a green
carpet, and for furniture, a few trees.

In our correspondent’s version the sense is
altogether different. It is that a garden
should have a green carpet like a room, and
we feel inclined to apply to it Euclid’s most
popular utterance. And yet indifferent as the
reading is, we let it pass, for as we have before
remarked, we only take punctuation into
account when it is absolutely wrong.

Again, our critic complains of the absence of
commas in line 4, which should, in his opinion,
read—“And on it, here and there, a tree.”
Here we prefer the amended version to that
printed, but it is entirely a question of taste
and not of accuracy. He further asserts that
the note of exclamation can correctly follow
either the interjection or “happiness” in line
10. So it can, and our only crime is that we
did not print it in both places. Finally he
complains that while his solution was not
mentioned, some solutions which owed their
perfection to his help were more fortunate.
The information is no surprise to us, for we
have often traced our correspondent’s hand in
solutions under another name. He says—“I
suppose this is allowable.” It is allowable
inasmuch as we have no rule forbidding it, but
we do not think that help ought to be asked
from a rival competitor. It does not accord
with our notions of strict fairness, and a less
generously-minded solver would not place his
ingenuity at the disposal of his friends.

And this is the way in which we cut down a
report!

CONSOLATION PRIZE 1897-8.

The highest number of marks, in accordance
with the conditions laid down, was obtained
by Mrs. J. Champneys, Croft House, Winchester,
to whom one guinea has been sent.

FOREIGN AWARDS.

A Well-bred Girl (No. 2).

Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each).

• Amy and Ethel Beven, Rose Cottage, Kandy, Ceylon.
• Miss L. Gamlen, École Normale d’Institutrices, La Rochelle, Charente Inferiéure, France.

Very Highly Commended.

Elsie V. Davies (Australia), Elizabeth M.
Lang (France), Helen Shilstone (Barbados).

Highly Commended.

Louis E. Blazé (Ceylon), Nellie M. Daft
(Portugal), Frank, Hugh, and Robert Glass
(India), Polly Lawrance (Barbados), Mrs.
Hastings Ogilvie, Mrs. G. Marrett (India),
Winifred Bizzey (Canada).

Honourable Mention.

Grace Carmichael, Fontilla Greaves (Barbados),
Harriet Kettle (France), M. R. Laurie
(Barbados), M. E. Lewis (Hungary), Alice J.
Moffitt (Switzerland), Gladys D. G. Peacock
(France), Anne G. Taylor (Australia), Herbert
Traill (India).

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.

⁂ Prizes to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved for competitors
living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of the above Puzzle Poem. The following
conditions must be observed:—

1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.

2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.

3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.

4. Send by post to Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London. “Puzzle
Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.

5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be July 17,
1899; from Abroad, September 16, 1899.

The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age.

OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY
COMPETITION.

ONLY A SHOP-GIRL: A STORY IN
MINIATURE.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

• May Shawyer, Penrith.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

• Mabel Gibson, Wandsworth Common, S.W.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

• Lucy Bourne, Winchester.

Honourable Mention.

Rose Cooke, Lowestoft; Lily Chamberlain,
Forest Hill, S.E.; Letitia E. May, Alton,
Hants.; Kate Betts, Kemp Town, Brighton;
Mabel Jenks, Cambridge; Kate Nora Norris,
Stoke Newington; Elsie Olver, Brockley;
Bessie Hine, South Tottenham; Jane Bailey
German, West Bromwich; Ethel G. Goulden,
Finsbury Park Road, N.; Jessie Elizabeth
Jackson, Beverley; Relda Hofman, Fontenay-sous-Bois,
France; Maggie Bisset, Aberdeen;
W. Bruin, Greenwich; Jessie Middlemiss,
Ripon; Laura Johnson, Richmond, S.W.;
Edith Alice Hague, Stockport; “Little
Nell,” Lincs.; Violet C. Todd, Cornhill-on-Tweed;
Winifred Botterill, Driffield, East
Yorks; Mabel Moscrop, Saltburn-by-Sea;
Margaret W. Rudd, Anerley; Jessie H.
Hughes, Croydon; May Adele Venn, West
Kensington Park, W.; Gertrude Borrow,
Goldhurst Terrace, N.W.; Jessie Aitchison,
Wandsworth, S.W.

SUNDROPS,[3]

Our Extra Summer Number, is now published
(price 6d.), and our readers must order it at once
from their booksellers, if they wish to possess
a copy, as the Number cannot be reprinted.

CONTENTS.

Frontispiece: Sweet Summer Eve.