[Pg 49]

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

A DREAM OF QUEEN’S GARDENS: Part 2.
HINTS ON MODELLING IN CLAY.
LOVE ON, LOVE EVER.
DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY: Chapter 4.
A PRINCESS WHO LIVED TWO LIVES.
VARIETIES.
MERLE’S CRUSADE: Chapter 4.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

A DREAM OF QUEEN’S GARDENS.[1]
A STORY FOR GIRLS.—IN TWO PARTS.

By DANIEL DORMER, Author of “Out of the Mists.”

PART II.
A QUEEN’S DREAM.

“LILACS AND LABURNUM TREES BLOOM ABUNDANTLY AROUND.”

Yet the recollection of that book
is helping to soften Hazel. There
is a tender bit of writing at the
close of the lecture which can
hardly fail to reach any woman’s
heart, unless it be wholly hardened;
and Hazel’s is not a hard heart.
So she muses on it, growing gradually
calmer and happier. After
all, she might be of some use in the
world if she were to try, and if One
Divine would be with her.

She stoops down to throw some
coal on the fire. She is too much
exhausted physically to make it up
carefully; but with an effort piles
on large blocks and small indiscriminately,
then throws in a handful
of matches from a box within
reach. What strange chaos there
seems to be in the grate after a
little while! One after another
the matches go off with a phiz
and short-lived flare, and each
seems to light up a more curious
scene than the last. From being
mere piled-up blocks of coal in a
grate, they grow to be a half
blocked up entrance to some unknown
place. There is a large
shining black portal, half ruined,
surrounded with débris. By degrees
Hazel’s languid curiosity is
excited, and she wonders whither
it leads. Why should she not
explore?… The next
match which takes fire lights up
the slight form leaning far back in
the big chair, with the soft, golden
brown hair half loosened, and the
dark, shadowed eyes fast closed.
And Hazel has passed through
the dark gateway, and is in a
wonderful world.

[Pg 50]

What a strange black gateway to have led
into so fair a garden! Hazel pauses at the
entrance, her eyes glistening, her breath
taken away with delight at the beauty of the
scene before her. A paradise of fresh green
shade and exquisite light and colouring.
Wide-spreading chestnuts, graceful, feathery
birches, and a hundred other trees, clothed
and robed in their tender young leaves,
mingle with a glory of pink and white spring
blossom, which seems to fill the air like a
snowstorm in the clear, blue sky. The
South wind blows and fans Hazel’s cheek, and
wafts delicious breath of flowers and sweet-brier
around her. Beneath the shower of
snowy blossom stretches smooth, green
grass, and masses of brilliant flowers glow,
expanding their petals up towards the sun.

After a while Hazel wanders forward in a
dreamy intoxication of delight, every moment
discovering fresh beauties. She finds a
beautiful grotto, where are large rocks and
cascades and running streams and fountains.
She enters by a low archway of stone, covered
with drooping ferns, and there, right before
her, is a large clear pool at the foot of a huge
rock. She flushes with the prettiest of shy
pleasure and frank admiration at sight of her
own reflection.

How beautiful! A girl in a long, white
robe, with a sweet, dark-eyed face, which she
knows to be her own. She is leaning slightly
forward, and the eyes—so often heavy and
weary—are brimming with happiness, the
lips parted in a smile. Her hair, with its
pretty, sunny ripples, is unbound, and the
wind blows it slightly back from her shoulders.
And, most wonderful and striking of all, a
circlet of pure gold rests upon the shapely
head, and a second circlet is clasped round
the waist. Then she is a queen? No doubt
of it. And then comes, to the joy of admiration
of all she has seen, the added joy of
certainty that all is her own. This is a
queen’s garden, and she is the happy
queen!

More and more dawns gradually upon her.
There are those near at hand dear to her, to
whom she is also dear, whose queen she is.
Oh the joy of it all! She clasps her hands in
ecstasy, and the pretty reflection in the pool
is more than ever lovely, only she has forgotten
it now.

A serious thought must have come into
Hazel’s mind, for suddenly a different
expression appears in her eyes; a look of
perplexity and shade of sorrow. The consciousness
in her new life is growing, and,
alas! it is not unmixed with pain. This
garden is not all the world, then? She puts
her hand to her brow, trying to recall something.
Slowly it comes back to her in words,
noble words, spoken by one whose face is a
darkness to her. And she listens—

“It is you queens only who can feel the
depths of pain, and conceive the way to its
healing.”

Ah! that is enough. She has lost her
desire to recall more. She would fain turn
back to the former delight and forget the
existence of pain. But the steady voice
persists, and will not be quenched.

“Instead of trying to do this, you turn
away from it; you shut yourselves within
your park walls and garden gates; and you
are content to know that there is beyond
them a whole world in wilderness, a world of
secrets which you dare not penetrate, and of
suffering which you dare not conceive.”

Hazel looks round on the garden. How
pleasant it is! Why should she leave it?
Why should she concern herself with what
may lie outside this home-kingdom of hers?
She tries again to banish the voice, yet she
knows in her heart, if she would only look for
its knowledge, that, outside of that little rose-covered
wall, the wild grass, to the horizon, is
torn up by the agony of men, and beat level
by the drift of their life-blood.

Yes, it is useless; there is no escaping the
truth the voice tells. So Hazel yields herself
to listen as it goes on.

“I knew you would like that to be true;
you would think it a pleasant magic if you
could flush your flowers into brighter bloom
by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if your
look had the power, not only to cheer, but to
guard…. This you would think a great
thing! And do you not think it a greater
thing that all this (and how much more than
this) you can do for fairer flowers than these,
flowers that could bless you for having blessed
them, and will love you for having loved
them; flowers that have thoughts like yours,
and lives like yours, and which, once saved,
you save for ever? Is this only a little
power? Far among the moorlands and the
rocks, far in the darkness of the terrible
streets, these feeble florets are lying, with all
their fresh leaves torn and their stems broken;
will you never go down to them, nor set them
in order in their little fragrant beds, nor fence
them, in their trembling, from the fierce
wind?”

Engrossed with the voice, Hazel has been
walking on, little heeding whither she goes,
when, as its tones die away, a groan startles
her. How terrible its sound; how incongruous,
interrupting the soft harmonious chorus of
the soaring, singing birds! So painfully
near it seemed, too, it could but have been a
very little distance off outside that gate which
she sees before her. Her first impulse is to
draw back and retire, shuddering, far into the
garden. But, behold! the gate swings back
of its own accord, and in the face of that fact,
and with the remembrance of the words she
has heard, she dare not do other than pass
through the open way.

What a strange, wide world, and how
dreary! A great, mad battle is raging; the
grass, sloping up to the horizon, is scorched
with the heat of the sun—the sun which only
made a pleasant warmth in the shady garden.
There is the fierce galloping of horses, and
wrestling and fighting of men. Shouts and
groans fill the air and drown the song of the
birds. There are heaps of dying and wounded.
Ah! there is one man not a stone’s throw
from her; his must have been the voice that
reached her within her gates. How remarkable
that she should have heard nothing
before of all the great din. Another groan,
followed by some inaudible words, causes
Hazel timidly to approach the wounded man.
He is evidently one of the very poorest of the
“common” soldiers; and there is a look in
his face which speaks the word death with a
shudder in the girl’s heart. A gleam lightens
the agony in the man’s eyes as he sees the
white form and gentle face above him. He
gazes steadily a moment, as though to make
sure his vision is not a passing illusion; then
Hazel catches the words, “Were you sent to
me?”

Very quietly she tells him in whose name
she comes. Then, with a long, struggling
sigh of satisfaction, without a shadow of
further questioning in the dying eyes or voice,
he whispers—”Hope even for me in Him,
then, since He sent you!”

So the low, flickering flame of life, set free,
leaps up to its source; and the forsaken
home rests in unbroken peace.

Saddened, and yet peaceful, too, Hazel turns
slowly away from the battle-field, and walks
on, not noticing whither she goes. Jarring
sounds recall her, and she finds herself in a
narrow valley, surrounded by noisy children
and brawling women. No one seems conscious
of her presence. A lot of men are
lounging against the wall of a public-house.
The low building is conspicuous by its being
in good repair, while its neighbours are all in
a shattered condition. The window-frames
are painted and varnished, and the open
entrance discloses a smart interior. A few
doors beyond this the houses reach the
climax of desolate disorder. The whole place
is tumbling down; the window is broken;
the battered door is off its hinges, propped
up against the wall. A cripple girl is sitting
on a broken box, turned upside down,
immediately outside this miserable hovel.
Her face is a greater shock to Hazel than any
of the other wretchedness around. There
is a desperation of bitterness in that set,
white face, with its hollow eyes and cheeks,
which is absolutely appalling. Hazel had
always imagined that suffering must of
necessity, by its own inherent nature, bring
with it a patience which would be reflected in
a sweet face. Slowly, as she scans those
immovable features, full of pain, and still
more full of dogged rebellion, this idea has to
be abandoned. Here obviously is a human
being in the midst of a noisy squalor, whose
physical disease and torture is unlightened by
one softening ray of hope; whose misery is
too sullen and dull to rise even to the hope of
putting an end to itself.

One moment and the deformed girl starts
apprehensively. A sob has sounded in her
ear, and some one, unlike any she has ever
seen heretofore, stands beside her, taking her
hand in mute, unspeakable compassion. She
cowers back against the wall and drags away
her hand; Hazel’s purity and loveliness raises
in her only a shrinking dislike and dread of
contact.

It is long before the pleading, loving voice
gains any hearing; but at last, before the
two part, some faint expression of intelligent
thought has dawned on the lame girl’s brow;
and in her mind a question has been raised,
“Can it be that there is one who loves me
and has need of me?”

The evening sunlight is falling through the
birches in the beautiful garden; the air is full
of fragrance and harmony; the queen is
returning. Wearily she opens the gate to
enter. She is filled with pain, for the many
sadnesses to which she has drawn near have
touched her own soul with the shadow of
suffering.

Suddenly, in the chequered shade of the
trees at the entrance of the garden, she stops
and turns round, for a bright radiance
envelops her. And, lo! there stands One, in
glorious light—One in whose Divine face
love is shining. Hazel bows down, her
whole soul overwhelmed with reverent awe.
Then her hand is taken and held with a touch
which thrills her with exquisite rapture, and a
voice in her ears says—

“Come, see with Me My garden.”

And the air, which is filled with light,
grows buoyant, and, while her hand is still
clasped by the Divine Guide, she is wafted upwards.

Stretched out below, the hills and vales of
the earth are one vast garden. All is indistinct
at first; expanses of misty colour and
tint; but by degrees the scene resolves itself
into more definite form. The whole is intersected
and watered with streams, more or
less clear and pure, which arise and are
replenished from a bright vapour, the Spirit
of Life, which shines, issuing forth from an
empty tomb in a rock in the East. There are
banks of wild violets and primroses, and
woods filled with anemones and hyacinths—myriads
of beautiful flowers, reaching over all
the world.

Hazel has hardly taken in anything of the
wonder of the scene, when her attention is
attracted by an arch of white mist above the
earth, and, as it seems, but a few paces from
her. Gradually this path of mist grows clear
as crystal, and the colours glancing in it take
shape, and form a clear, transparent picture.[Pg 51]

A cornfield on a summer evening, filled
with blossoms of poppies and corn-flowers. A
wild storm sweeps over the field; the corn is
broken down; the flowers are crushed beneath
its weight, draggled and withered. A poppy,
torn up by its roots, is whirled through the air.

A mist sweeps over the crystalline cloud,
and where it grows clear again the scene is
changed to a wild hill-side. Scarlet and blue
flowers intermingle in the distance; in the
foreground lies a single poppy, withered and
dying. Slowly, beside it a lily grows up;
as it grows the fading poppy is stirred,
touched by its leaves; and the tiny bells
waving over it inspire new life and vigour,
till at length, grown whole and fresh, it is
loosened from the brown uptorn roots, and
floats upwards, to bloom more beautiful in
Paradise.

Again the mist passes over the light
picture and changes it. A woodland scene is
painted there now. Amid the fern and moss
and twigs under the trees, wild flowers are
blowing. A pathway intersects the little
wood, and across it shadows of the trees fall,
with sunlight between. In the foremost
patch of sunshine, at the edge of the path, is
a sprinkling of anemone leaves. And there
amongst them a delicate blossom, half
crushed by the superincumbent weight of
moss, the fallen leaves of last year, and tiny,
lichen-covered twigs. The white, transparent
petals are soiled and deformed, thrust down to
the earth. As Hazel looks, regretting that
she has not the power to stretch forth her
hand and clear away the destructive weight,
the leaves and twigs tremble, and are uplifted,
and fall away from the slender plant,
for close beside it a hardy little fern frond
slowly uncurls itself and arises. The frail
blossom stirs slightly, released from the overwhelming
pressure; but has no strength to
do more. Oh, for water to revive it! And,
lo! from the fair green fern drops of dew
embosomed there are shed and scattered over
the downcast head. They are drunk in, and
by degrees the drooping cup is raised to the
friendly fern. And then, the straight young
frond, itself ever growing, waves aside in a
natural, graceful sweep, and allows the sunshine
in all its strong radiance and reviving
force to fall full on the flower. And the half-closed
bell joyously expanding, grows white
and strong and beautiful.

And so the crystal pictures change and
change, till Hazel’s every helpful act has been
set forth. Then, as the last fades, and the
arch of storied light itself dissolves and melts,
with one all-absorbing passion of eternal
devotion flooding her whole being, Hazel
turns to Him who has kept her beside Him
throughout, her hand retained in His. For
one moment she beholds Him, the Unutterable
One; and in His Sacred Face she reads, amid
ineffable love and infinite majesty, a look of
gratitude. And once more the Divine accents
fall on her ear, saying—

“‘Inasmuch as thou didst it unto one of
these My brethren, even these least, thou
didst it unto Me.’

“Let not those, the queens of the earth, to
whom I have given the priceless gifts of life
and leisure, hold either lightly. Life, with
its sorrows and its joys, is but the education
time fitting them to live for ever with Me.
The leisure I have bestowed may be used for
Me, in doing work in My garden—work
which I have prepared for them to do, and
which I long to see done. Let them see to
it that they waste not the opportunity in
fretful discontent and idleness—’And whosoever
shall give to drink unto one of these little
ones, a cup of cold water only, in the name
of a disciple, verily I say unto you, she shall
in no wise lose her reward.'”

Hazel awoke. The moon was streaming in
through the window. The grate was filled
with shining blocks of coal, and a few half-burnt
matches. Aching all over, and shivering
with cold, she closed her eyes once more, and
a period of insensibility followed.

Many days and nights of feverish illness
ensued—days and nights in which Hazel had
much to suffer, and was only from time to
time conscious of the loving, unceasing care
which watched over her. In those intervals
when her mind was not dazed and confused,
she saw a face, old and plain and wrinkled,
which was to her as the face of an angel, for
Miss Bright tended and watched her with all
the self-sacrifice of a noble, true woman.

At length, after a weary, weary time of
pain, Hazel fell asleep once more. Her
dream came back to her, for she thought she
was resting in the warm sunshine on a bed
of lilies in the same beautiful garden. And
when she opened her eyes she found her room
was really bright and warm with a fire and
sunshine, and fresh and sweet with the
fragrance of lilies of the valley, a large
bunch of them standing beside her, and more
lying on the white coverlid of her bed. Her
eyes filled and her heart swelled with
gratitude. Softly she whispered, as though
she spoke to someone close beside her,
“Dear Lord, I am so thankful to Thee for
making me better. I so longed to live a
little while more to do some work for Thee in
Thy garden. I bless Thee so!”

The door opened, and Brightie came in.
The brave old woman broke down as she
clasped Hazel in her joy at the improvement
in her. The two cried together for a little
while; there was so very much to be glad
about that the gladness was too great for
self-control.

A few days later, a girl with a white but
radiantly happy face is resting in a cane armchair,
her feet supported by a footstool, in the
garden of a pretty country house at Fridorf.
The sunshine is hot, but she is shaded from
it by a trellis work of young-leaved creepers
overhead. Lilacs and laburnum trees bloom
abundantly around. The lawn before her is
smooth and green, and beyond is the sea.

“How wonderful God’s love is!” the girl
says, presently, reaching out her hand to an
old woman with a peaceful face who shortly
joins her, and who clasps and retains the hand
with an answering look more eloquent than
speech.

THE END

HINTS ON MODELLING IN CLAY.

By FRED MILLER.

odelling in clay is a very
agreeable change in one’s
artistic occupation, for
it is quite unlike other
branches of art, and calls
into play a different set
of faculties for its performance.
It needs a greater
amount of “hand cunning”
than does painting, and is
in that sense akin to wood
carving, to which delightful
craft it is, indeed, almost indispensable,
and, I might add, part of the
necessary training one has to undergo to
become a carver in wood. And as on another
occasion I am going to write a few hints on
wood carving, the present article may be
taken as a prelude to the one on that subject.

The materials necessary to try one’s hand at
modelling are very inexpensive. The clay is
the most essential thing, and this can be purchased
at one or two artists’ colourmen, or,
better still, at any pottery. I have had clay
sent me from the potteries in Staffordshire,
and those of my readers who live near a
pottery would have no difficulty in supplying
themselves with clay. The clay used for
flower-pots does for coarse work, but is not
sufficiently carefully prepared for fine work.
It burns a rich red colour, and is, of course,
terra-cotta. The clay used in making the
terra-cotta plaques and vases is what you
require for fine work. There are two or
three firms who supply London shops with
terra-cotta vases, etc., and I have no doubt
that clay might be purchased of them.

The clay used in making tiles does for
modelling, but perhaps the best is that which
burns a cream colour. It is a dull grey
colour, rather dark before it is fired, and it
should be noticed that it is difficult to tell
the colour clay will burn by its appearance
when unbaked. Thus a grey clay may burn
a rich red or pale cream. The qualities necessary
in clay for modelling are plasticity, which
enables it to be worked without falling to
pieces, and fineness—a perfect freedom from
grit, small stones, and other impurities. It
should be quite soft to the touch, and when
pressed and kneaded should feel smooth and
silky. Old clay is more plastic as well as
being tougher than new, and in potteries clay
is often kept a considerable time before it is
used. The clay should not be allowed to dry
when it is not in use, and to prevent this it
must be wrapped in wet flannel. Should it
dry quite hard, there is nothing to do but to
put it into a vessel and pour water on it,
allowing it to stand until the clay becomes
soft. Some of the moisture must then be
allowed to evaporate, otherwise it is too soft
for use. This is another point to be observed
in clay used for modelling. It must not be
too damp. If it sticks to the fingers it is too
wet, and if it resists the pressure of the fingers,
too dry. The state between stickiness and
stubbornness is what is wanted.

Now as to the tools. Wooden modelling
tools can be purchased at some artists’ colourmen,
and also at some tool shops. You must
choose those tools you think look handiest.
A little practice will soon show you which are
the best to have.

Each modeller has a predilection for certain
tools, and it will take my readers very little
time to find out which tools give the best
results. I often shape those I buy myself
to fit them for particular work. In
addition to these wooden tools, it is necessary
to have a fine steel one to work
the clay when it is dry. Modelling tools are
very inexpensive. You really require no other
tools but these wooden ones and a steel one,
but it is necessary to have a few boards to
work your clay upon. They should be strong,
with battens at the back to prevent them[Pg 52]
warping, which they are liable to do owing to
the dampness of the clay.

We will start our work with a very simple
design, for our aim should be to overcome the
difficulties by degrees. The design I have
chosen (fig. 1) was modelled as a tile about
eight inches square, and the first thing to be
done is to roll out a piece of clay about half
an inch thick, and fairly flat all over. It is as
well to work the clay up in one’s hands, damping
it occasionally if too dry. If clay be
allowed to remain untouched for any length of
time it gets set, and does not work easily;
therefore, thoroughly work it up with the
hands. It may be made into a ball, and can
be rolled out flat with a thick ruler or rolling
pin. The clay has a tendency to curl up
round the rolling pin, and care must be taken
to prevent this. If the rolling pin be covered
with leather, this is to a great extent
prevented. The design can be made on
tracing paper, and by marking over the tracing
paper placed over the clay with a hard point,
an impression sufficiently distinct will be left
to guide one in doing the actual modelling.
The first thing is to build up the oranges,
which can be done by sticking little pellets of
clay on to the slab, pressing them down with
the fingers, and rounding the oranges roughly
into shape.

FIG. 1.—A TILE.

Our First Experiment.

Don’t be too particular about this part of
the work; be content to get some approximation
to the shape, leaving the finishing to be
done with the tools. Build up the stem in like
manner, or you might roll out a thin piece of
clay and stick this on to the slab. In sticking
clay on to clay, it is always advisable to wet
both the clay and the slab to ensure thorough
adhesion, and in working the design
into shape it is even a good plan to dip the
fingers into water, as the extra moisture makes
it easier to press the clay into the requisite
shape.

The leaves can be modelled separately,
and stuck on to the clay slab one by one. Do
as much of the work as you can with the
fingers. In modelling, the fingers are the best
tools, after all. They do their work so much
more expeditiously and effectively than the so-called
“tools” do, and, depend upon it, the
more the preliminary work is done with the
fingers the better, as the use of the fingers
tends towards boldness of design and vigour
of execution. People, in starting a new employment,
are very apt to be finiking owing
to timidity, and this must be overcome from
the outset—this tendency to pettiness—and in
the case of modelling, the best way to overcome
it is to do all the preliminary work with
the fingers. Build up the design boldly and
freely, studying only the principal masses and
most important forms. When this is accomplished,
let the clay stand a little time uncovered,
as the use of water will have made it
very sticky, and the modelling tools cannot be
used as efficiently when the clay is in this
state as when it is drier.

The modelling tools will enable you to
begin to finish up the design, for at
present the design exists only in its rough
state. Pick the clay out of the interstices of
the design, and begin to refine the different
forms by putting in the more delicate curves.
It very much depends upon the nature of the
design as to how far in the direction of finish
you carry the work, but as your modelled tile
will not be exposed to rough usage, you may
under-cut it, as modellers say. Under-cutting
is the taking of the clay away from
the back of the various forms. In the leaves,
for instance, instead of leaving a solid mass of
clay at the back, this should be carefully cut
away underneath, or under-cut, so as to give
lightness and delicacy to the work. Of course,
it is necessary to leave some clay here and there
to attach the various forms to the slab. The
under-cutting may be carried to such a pitch
as to make the design look weak, and as though
it would fall to pieces with a puff of wind.
When this is the case, I reckon the finishing
has been carried too far. Clay should always
look strong enough to hold together, and I
may say I never thought much of that fancy
china one sees which is covered with flowers
and foliage modelled as delicately as though
wrought in some precious metal. Sooner or
later the edges get chipped off, and the charm
of such work is immediately gone. Of course
we know that an accident may destroy work
that is not wrought in this delicate manner,
but modelled clay should be delicate without
being weak—it should at least look as though
it could hold its own with fair usage.

Get as much of the work done as possible
while the clay is plastic, and with a little
practice a modelled design can be finished
entirely while the clay is damp. In fact, the
work is better when wrought from the plastic
clay than when finished up with steel tools
after the clay is dry. There is a certain crispness
about the modelling when wrought from
plastic clay, which is often wanting
in work tooled up when the
clay is hard. To my thinking,
the best work is always that which
looks as though it had been
thrown off in a happy moment,
and which has a certain number
of the tool marks showing, as
though the worker were not
ashamed to let his craftsmanship
be seen. Work which has been
touch and retouched, and rubbed
down and smoothed until all life,
vigour, and crispness have departed
from it, looks what it
is, amateurish (in the worse sense)
and weak.

I have had many opportunities
of seeing amateurs work during
the years I have been teaching,
and I have noticed that they
have a mistaken notion of what
finish really is. It certainly does
not consist in smoothing the work
until it has the texture of a wax
doll, and I have often noticed that
work is often wholly spoilt in the
so-called finishing.

In the subject I am dealing
with—modelling in clay—this is
particularly the case, and, reader,
I pray you avoid it. I would
sooner you leave the work rough,
with all the marks of the tools
showing, so that you get vigour
and crispness in your work, than
that you should in your endeavour
to efface the marks of the
tools make your work tame and
effeminate.

FIG. 2.—A PLAQUE.

In working up the leaves, don’t
attempt to put many veins in
them. Hardly do more than indicate
the centre vein. Nothing
looks worse than to see the various
forms covered with a network
of minute markings. You
will find, if you try and put in the
veins in your modelled tile, your
leaves will not look as though[Pg 53]
they were veined, but as though some stiff-legged
insect had crawled over the damp clay,
and had left its trail behind it. In putting
in the stamens in flowers, you will have to
have recourse to an expedient, for it is evident
that you cannot copy every individual stamen
in clay any more than you can make your clay
petals as thin and delicate as nature. You
must translate the effect of nature into clay,
and in the case of the stamens you will find it
a good plan to build up the centre of the
flower, and then press into it a pointed stick,
repeating the operation until the whole of the
centre is perforated, as it were, like a grater.

In order to make a contrast between the design
and the background, you can dot or line
over the slab upon which the design is lying, so
as to make the surface rough in texture. When
the clay is quite dry, which will take some
week or more to effect, you can put any
further work into the design with the steel
tool, which must be used to scrape the clay;
for if you exert any pressure upon the dry
clay it very soon chips, and it is almost
impossible to repair such damage, and for
this reason: that if you stick on a piece of
wet clay to the dry clay, the moisture of the
wet clay is soon absorbed by the dry, and the
piece stuck on immediately falls off. The
only chance is to keep damping the part
damaged until the clay all round gets quite
moist again, and you must then model
another piece on to the broken part. Dry
your work very slowly at first, to prevent it
cracking or warping, and when it seems quite
hard put it into a warmer place, for, though
clay may appear hard on the surface, there is
sure to be a good deal of moisture inside,
especially if the clay be thick, and should it be
put into a kiln before the moisture is entirely
evaporated, the modelled clay will fly into
minute fragments, and cause incalculable
damage to other work in the kiln. I recommend
my readers to put their work into a hot oven
two or three times after it has been drying for
two or three weeks, so as to insure the clay
being quite hard. I lost several works
through firing them before they were dry
enough.[2]

The heat that china is put to fix the
colours is not sufficient for baking clay, and it
must be sent to some place where underglaze
pottery is fired. This first firing turns[Pg 54]
the clay into “biscuit,” and if any painting is
to be done on it, now is the time to do it.
Underglaze or Barbotine colours should be
used, and they should be put on in thin
washes. The whole work must then be
glazed and fired. But I shall not touch
further on this part of the subject here, for I
must say something about modelled decoration
applied to vases and plaques.

The plaque or vase to receive modelled
decoration must be of the same degree of
dampness, or nearly the same degree of dampness,
as the clay used in modelling, for reasons
already stated. You cannot put modelled
decoration on to clay that is dry, or ware
that has been fired. To make a plaque,
it is almost necessary to have a plaster mould.
You might make this for yourself by buying a
china plaque the shape and size you require,
and filling this plaque with plaster-of-Paris,
being careful to let the plaster come to edge
of plaque all round. When the plaster is dry,
trim the edge round, and take it out of
plaque. You must now roll out a flat sheet of
clay sufficiently large to cover this plaster
mould, and, by pressing the clay evenly all
over the mould, and trimming round the edges
with a knife, you will get a clay plaque sufficiently
good to answer your purpose. Don’t
attempt to remove the clay immediately from
the plaster, but let it remain on a few hours,
to enable the clay to set. The surface of this
plaque may be kept moist by keeping a damp
flannel over it. When the modelling has been
started, the damp cloth must not press upon
the modelled portions, but be supported on a
wicker frame.

It is always better to model direct from
nature—and for this reason. By taking a leaf
and pressing it into a piece of clay, and marking
it round with a darning-needle, you get
the exact shape of the leaf, and by pulling off
the leaf you can bend the clay impression into
any form you like, and put it upon your clay
plaque or vase, pressing it into the curve you
wish it to take. A little very wet clay should
be put on back of leaf, to ensure it sticking to
plaque. I have taken as my illustration (fig. 2)
the garden poppy, and if I were modelling it
direct from nature, I should first of all roll out
a strip of clay for the stem, and put this on
the plaque so that it makes a graceful curve.
Strip off the leaves one by one, and take impressions
in clay, and then fasten them to
plaque, following the natural growth, and yet
arranging them so that the leaves fall into
their places agreeably. The back leaves, instead
of being modelled, might be just marked
in outline on the plaque itself. This will give
depth to the design. The leaves should not
be put on the plaque flatly, but should be bent
and twisted as is necessary to suggest the
growth of nature. The flower will present the
greatest difficulty, as the serrated edges of the
petals must be carefully done.

FIG. 3.—A VASE.

In the case of flowers like chrysanthemums,
it is necessary to build up the most prominent
flower solidly in clay, putting on the outer
petals separately. The back flower can have the
near petals modelled, while the distant ones
can be just indicated on plaque with incised
lines. Don’t attempt to copy every petal in
clay, which is an impossibility, but try and
get the general effect of the flower in your
modelling. Take the prominent petals first,
and put them on in their proper positions,
and the less important petals can then be
filled in in the intervening spaces. This is
the plan to adopt in all intricate work. Put
down your principal forms first of all, and
you will have little difficulty in getting in the
less important ones, for the principal forms
act as measuring points to the rest of the
work, and enable you to preserve that pro[Pg 55]portion
between the various parts of the
design which is essential in all good designs.
It is necessary in modelling to simplify nature
somewhat, for we cannot imitate nature in
clay. What we have to do is to seize upon
the principal points, the curves of the stems,
the position, form, and characteristics of the
flowers and leaves, and put them down intelligently
and in as telling a manner as possible.
Let the work dry carefully before having it
fired, and you can either finish it up in colours,
and have it glazed, or let it remain as it is.
I often used to use my Barbotine colours (see
articles on “Barbotine Painting,” in Nos. 440
and 584, vol. iv., of the G.O.P.) for colouring
modelled work and glazed it with my soft
glaze. I have also sent some work to the
potteries, and had a coloured glaze put over
the whole work. I may here say that much
may be learnt by studying good modelled
work, and even copying some stone or wood
carving in clay. The pottery of Della Robbia
and Palissy should be studied whenever the
student has the opportunity of so doing.

I need not say much as to modelled work or
vases. You must have some shapes sent up
from the potteries in the “green” state, for it
is almost impossible for amateurs to “throw”
their own vases on a wheel. Space forbids
me to describe the potter’s wheel, but visitors
to the Health Exhibition two years ago had the
opportunity of seeing a potter at work, which
is much better than reading about one. Those
adventurous spirits who wish to try “throwing”
vases, should get a small wheel from the
potteries (it will cost, including carriage, about
£8), and have a few lessons from a practical
potter. In the meantime, get some firm to
procure for you a few unbaked vases, and
when you receive them it will be necessary to
wrap them up in damp flannel for a day or
two, so that the modelled work will stick on
the vase. Let the shape of the vases be very
plain and simple, with a good broad surface to
receive the modelled decoration. I have chosen
as the illustration (fig. 3) the blackberry, as it
is a very ornamental plant and one familiar to
all readers. Throw on your stalk first of all,
letting it wrap round the vase, and so place it
that the leaves, flowers, and fruit can spring
from it so as to be seen to the best advantage.
The stalks might be placed in such a way as
to form handles. Get a certain quaintness
into the modelling, and don’t be too intent
upon imitating nature, for, do what you will,
you will find it impossible to accomplish this.
Therefore, be content to decorate your vase
with a graceful spray of bramble, with all
essential characteristics of the plant indicated,
and the general “swing” of the plant expressed
in your work. Model each part separately,
either by pressing the leaves into clay
and marking them round, or by modelling
pure and simple, and then fasten the various
parts on to the vase with diluted clay. Don’t
let any part of the work stand out too prominently;
for not only will the shape of the vase
be destroyed, but there is always much more
liability to damage if the design be very prominent
than when it just lies, as it were,
closely to the surface of the vase. And yet it
is not necessary to put everything perfectly
flat on the vase. The stems, for instance,
can be raised in places, so that there is a space
between the stem and vase; and so with leaves,
flowers, and other details.

It will be seen that I make the stems form
an ornamental rim round the vase and also
round the neck. Dry the vase very slowly,
and in sending it to be fired, wrap plenty of
cotton wool around it so that no pressure can
be exerted upon any portion of the modelling.
This applies with equal force to all modelled
work. Red terra-cotta vases decorated with
modelling, and merely baked, are most
effective. Terra-cotta vases should not be too
small; the larger they are the more effective is
appearance in a room. I have some more
than two feet high, and when filled with dried
rushes, etc., they fill up a corner charmingly.

As a general rule let your modelled work
be drawn to a natural size, and let it be rather
over than under the natural size, for if modelled
work is smaller than nature, the effect is apt to
be petty and insignificant. Birds and insects
can often be introduced with advantage.

I have recently been modelling some large
works, using clay employed in making drain
tiles, and having them fired in an ordinary brick
kiln. In fact, I started some of my work with
large size drain tiles, which I obtained when
they were quite wet, and by pulling up the top
and spreading it out a little, and putting a slab
of clay on the bottom, I obtained cylindrical
vases, upon which I modelled some decoration;
but as the subject is one of peculiar
interest, and is somewhat new to my readers,
I must just reserve a few remarks upon this
subject for another occasion, when I will give
sketches of some of the vases I have recently
been modelling. This work is within the
reach of everyone, especially my country
readers, for there are few villages of any size
that have not a brick kiln in their vicinity,
and for large work, such as ornamental flower-pots,
vases for holding bulrushes, and garden
vases, this is most admirably adapted.

LOVE ON, LOVE EVER.

By RUTH LAMB.

“Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of earth.”

DRESS: IN SEASON AND IN REASON.

By A LADY DRESSMAKER.

The extreme warmth of September has naturally postponed
ideas of winter, and our preparations are generally very backward.
In fact, at the end of September many people would
have said that they knew nothing whatever about new things,
and that they did not want them either, and the secret of this
indifference would have been attributable to the weather. It is
to be hoped that we shall have a seasonable winter, less cold
and disagreeable than the last.

During my visit to Paris I found but little to chronicle
in the way of winter novelties. The chief changes seemed to
be in materials and their designs. Checks are in high favour,
and it is said they will supersede stripes; and last year, when
I was there at this season, they said much the same thing,
but this year they seemed more determined to vote stripes old-fashioned.
To tell the truth, I think the Parisians, and the
women in France generally, are great admirers of plaids, and do
not find stripes becoming, simply because they are usually very
short and stout. Englishwomen, who are tall and stout, like
them because they decrease their apparent size, and give an effect
of length while decreasing breadth. On tall people plaids have
a bad effect.

AUTUMN CLOAKS, ULSTERS, AND GOWNS.

[Pg 57]

Rough-faced materials constitute the majority
of those prepared, and plain stuffs
are still united with plaided and striped ones
in the same dress; but this is not an absolute
rule this year, for some dresses are
entirely of either plaids or stripes, or else
are of plain material only. Many of the
materials are plain, with a bordering at one
edge of plaid. For instance, a grey of rough-faced
stuff had a bordering of a large check in
lines of a paler grey, a little relief being given
by pale lines of a clear Naples-yellow. The
effect was quiet and subdued by the roughness
of the surface of the cloth. With this
gown the underskirt was made of the plaid
material, quite plain, and the overskirt of the
bordered part was draped above it in simple
straight long folds, the plaid part being at the
lower edge of the overskirt. The bodice was
of the plain, and it had a plastron, or waistcoat
front, of the plaid. The buttons (as are
many in use this year) are of smoked pearl,
and are very small for the fronts of gowns and
larger for the jacket-bodices. Bretelles of
velvet are used as trimmings to the bodices of
these rough woollens, and the collars and
cuffs are almost invariably of the same
material, which seems likely to retain its
popularity through the winter. The velvet
collars are both useful and becoming, and, in
addition, they save white trimmings at the
neck. We rather rejoice in our emancipation
from that bondage, and I hear many people
say they will never resume it again, now they
have once found that they can look well without
the once inevitable white collar or frill.
The tendency in every woman’s mind who is
possessed of ordinary good sense is to simplify
everything connected with clothes, and I feel
sure we shall all be healthier and happier
when we have banished many things from our
wardrobes which we now think absolutely
needful.

“Dr. Jaeger’s sanitary woollen clothing,”
about which I have so often written in praise,
has raised up some rival manufactures
amongst our English makers, who have long
been famous for their merino or lambswool
stuffs. Pure woollen under-garments in
England have always been thought to wear
and to wash badly, and much of this has
probably been owing to the fact that the
washing was very bad and that no one before
Dr. Jaeger ever tried washing woollens scientifically,
so as to take out the grease and
perspiration, and not to harden the material
at the same time. By Jaeger’s method this
is done with lump ammonia and soap. The
soap is cut into small pieces and boiled into a
lather with water, and the lump ammonia is
then added. This lather is used at about
100° Fahrenheit, and the clothes must not be
rubbed, but allowed to soak for about an hour
in the water, and must then be drawn backwards
and forwards repeatedly in the bath till
clean. Three waters are to be used, the two
after the first lather being of the same heat,
and of pure clean water. This leaves the
clothes delightfully soft and supple, and their
wearing qualities suggest nothing further as
an improvement.

Some of the new English underclothing is
very light and good, and claims to be of pure
merino-wool. It is of varying thickness, and
many ladies, both young and old, are adopting
it for combinations; these and one petticoat
forming the whole of the clothing. Of
course, the thickness of these garments is to
be suited to the season, and the gossamer
clothing manufactured for the warm season
leaves nothing to be desired in its lightness
and apparent coolness.

BY THE LAKE SIDE WITH THE BOATS.

One does not associate thick materials with
great heat, and the mere look of thick wool[Pg 58]
would make one begin to feel hot, however foolish
it may sound to say so. When the skin becomes
used to wearing wool it will be found
more comfortable than either cotton or linen,
and we, moreover, avoid the chance of chills
after being over-heated. I know several
people who date their almost perfect immunity
from colds to the use of woollen underclothing,
who previously had been martyrs to colds and
coughs, and had been constantly imprisoned
in the house during quite mild seasons. In
England the climate (need I say so?) is fickle
and changeable, and, singular to say, we may
be, and many people are, apparently wrapped
up carefully and seasonably, and yet we may
all err on every hygienic point, in regard to the
weight and porosity of materials.

So far as I can see in the newest styles, the
loose-fronted bodices have it all their own
way. Many of them only fasten at the throat
and waist, either large buttons or handsome
clasps being used. These jackets stretch open
over the front to show a full waistcoat, this
latter being a scarf long enough to continue
below the waist and round it at either side, so
as to form a sort of sash, showing under the
edge of the bodice and ending under the long
coat-tails at the back in ends or a bow.

The newest bonnets are still high in the
front, or, if not high themselves, the trimmings
are high. The horseshoe crowns which
were introduced in the summer bid fair to
become extremely popular, and the stringless
bonnet will be in vogue as long as possible,
and I have no doubt many people will wear
it through the winter, too. Beaver bonnets
are announced to take the place of kid or felt,
and I have seen some black beaver crowns
with open-work jet fronts, which appeared
incongruous.

Leaves of all bright hues, the bramble and
its berries, the blackberry, and the virginian-creeper,
are likely to be in great favour for
trimmings this autumn. These will be used
even upon velvet and beaver bonnets.

There is a very strong feeling in many
quarters in favour of restoring the “princess”
cut of dress to favour. In a letter from a lady,
it is very wisely said, in writing to a contemporary,
“For active exercise, a dress ought to
be cut all in one—’princess,’ as the milliners
call it—and so arranged in the skirt that there
is no drapery which will catch in things, come
unstitched, and look untidy; everything wants
to be taut and trim, like tailor’s work. But
even the ladies’ tailors will insist upon making
a skirt and little jacket-bodice, instead of a
dress in one piece. It is almost impossible to
use the arms freely—to go out in a sailing-boat,
for instance, and help in its management—or,
in fact, to raise the arms high,
without causing a hiatus between the two
parts of the garment at the sides of the waist.
I have noticed this happen so often, even with
smart tailor-made gowns, the wearer being
generally blissfully unconscious of the accident,
that I feel bound to draw attention to it.

“It was curious to note the awful revelations
made recently by a storm of wind on an elevated
promenade by the sea. Every steel
stood out in bold relief even under the most
bouffante drapery. Upper-skirts broke away
from the under, and displayed the sorry fact
that the latter were only shams, formed of
lining-calico, with patches of good material
put in here and there, where the over-garment
was cut open. One neat tailor-gown revealed
the cotton back to the pretty waistcoat, a
pretence which is carried out in every suit of
clothes made for men, but which seemed an
aggravated offence to art in a well-dressed
woman. It was comforting to turn from such
sartorial mistakes to a group of young girls
sensibly clad in simple gowns, guiltless of
pretence, of steels, or tournures. Gathered
bodices and full plain skirts, confined by broad
sashes, combined the elements of grace and
utility, and exhibited no foolish attempt to
distort and pervert nature.”

I have given the full extract, as it contains
much matter for thought for my readers, both
young and middle-aged. I suppose everyone
read with interest the celebration of the centenary
of M. Chevreul, the great French
chemist, who has been for years a great
student of colour, and to whom we owe
many alterations, inventions, and suggestions
in dyes and colours. Trade has been assisted
and developed by his researches, and the
subject of colour harmonies has been placed
by him in the position and basis of a science.
When we admire the loveliness of our
coloured materials, and notice the wonderful
improvements of late years, we women may
thank the industry and talent of M. Chevreul.
I put in a long quotation from him some
months ago, and it may interest some of my
readers to hear that M. Chevreul has attained
his hundredth year as a total abstainer, but
drank his own health in a glass of champagne,
tasted for the first time!

A LADY’S PYJAMA.

From a recently-published book I gather
the following ideas, and as they coincide with
what I am always impressing on my readers
with reference to tight dresses and stays, I
quote them gladly, as showing that there are
other sensible women in the world, a class
which I hope will every day increase:—”If
you lace tightly, nothing can save you from
acquiring high shoulders, abnormally large
hips, varicose veins in your legs, and a red
nose. Surely such penalties, to say nothing
of heart disease, spinal curvature, and worse,
are sufficiently dreadful to deter either maids
or matrons from unduly compressing their
waists? No adult woman’s waist ought to
measure less in circumference than twenty-four
inches at the smallest, and even this is permissible
to slender figures only. The rule of
beauty is that the waist should be twice the
size of the throat. Therefore, if the throat
measure twelve and a half inches, round the
waist should measure twenty-five. The celebrated
statue know as the ‘Venus de Medici,’
the acknowledged type of beauty and grace,
has a waist of twenty-seven inches, the
height of the figure being only five feet two
inches.”

And, while on this subject, I must mention
that some new stays, made of elastic material,
have recently been advertised, which I should
imagine were comfortable. Dr. Jaeger also
has an elastic knitted bodice on his list, which
is in reality a description of stays, and would
afford sufficient support to a slight figure.

The illustrations to our dress instructions of
this month show the prevailing characteristics
of the gowns of the month, and also demonstrate
how little change there is in them. As
the majority of the community is still moving
about at this season, most of the dress thought
about and worn is suitable for travelling, as well
as autumn. Now that we no longer think it
needful to put on all our old clothes and to make
our appearance grotesque, as was formerly the
case, we very frequently follow the French and
American plan, and have a special dress made
for the tour we are about to undertake, which
will do for day wear, as well as for journeying
while we are away; then, furnished with a
second nice black silk or satin for very best
occasions, we are sufficiently well clad for
every purpose. A dust cloak, travelling cloak,
and short jacket are added, and some wise
people take their fur capes; in fact, for short
expeditions of a month or six weeks we do not
like large trunks nor encumbrances, so we
curtail all our wants, and are so much the
happier, having less anxiety and worry. In
addition to all this, we save our shillings in
fees, and charges for over-weight, very considerably,
and, when we are rid of the heavy
trunks, last, not least, we break no backs.

While I am on this topic, I must mention
that the late Exhibition (the Healtheries)
was of great assistance to travellers in showing
how much can be done to decrease weight
and bulk in every way, and setting wits to
work to improve in all directions. Thus we
have wonderfully improved waterproofed
cloaks, hygienic boots and shoes; and the
improvement in trunks and bags is immense,
in addition to their moderation in price.

The greatest unanimity prevails with regard
to the small jackets, which seem patronised
by young girls, as well as married women of
every age. They are generally loose-fronted,
but tight-fitting at the back, the fronts being
lined with coloured silk. Many of them are
braided, some gold braid being used, and
many have a flat braided plastron in the front
to button over and give a double-breasted
effect. Serge in all hues seems very much
liked, but the most popular are dark navy-blue
and cream-white. Short cloaks, with sling-sleeves
and hoods, are very much worn, also
short mantelettes, like our paper-pattern for
last month. These may be made in the
material of the dress.

This autumn I must again mention the
numbers of slightly full bodices of the “Garibaldi”
and “Norfolk jacket” class that this
season has brought out, to be worn with skirts
of different materials. The different ladies’
tailors of renown have taken up this idea, and
it is probable that we shall see them greatly
worn during the winter season. Some of
these have a yoke, and some have a straight
band on the shoulders, into which they are
fulled. They are made in flannel, linen, and
twilled silk, in all colours, striped, spotted,
and plain, and with them the becoming
fashion of the full basque has come in.
Yoked bodices will be a decided winter
style.

With these bodices there is generally a
turned-down collar and long cuffs of velvet,
and the belt should be also of velvet. In
other cases the belt matches the full bodice,
and is of moiré or Petersham ribbon.

The fancy for stripes as well as plaids is
shown by the dresses in the illustration of the
autumn fashions. The figure standing in the
centre of our boating picture at the English
lakes, shows a blue flannel or serge, made up
with a striped material. The vest and revers
show the stripe as well as the underskirt.[Pg 59]
The back of this dress is shown by one of the
distant figures. The other wears one of the
new blouse bodices, which will be the style of
the winter. In the larger of our illustrations is
shown the general tendency of the day. The
cloaks and ulsters are of plaid, and there is but
little change in the shapes. The girl in the
sailor’s hat shows one of the full white under-vests,
the jacket being almost of a Breton
style. The edge is braided, and so is one
panel at the side of the skirt. The two bonnets,
one in each picture, show one with
strings and one without. They are not quite
so high, and both have the horseshoe crown,
which, as the last summer novelty, bids fair to
be adopted for the autumn and winter.

The pattern for this month will, I hope, be
a surprise, as well as a great comfort, to those
of my readers who select it, and who wish to
attain to the greatest amount of comfort and
hygienic advantages in their underclothing.
The pattern in question is a combination
nightgown, or lady’s “pyjama,” and is a
novelty which will be found of much value
and comfort. It consists of five pieces—front,
back, lower back, and two sleeve pieces.
The method of putting together is carefully
indicated by marks in the pattern, and no
difficulty will be experienced in the making-up.
The amount of material required will be
from 4½ to 5 yards, and calico, flannel, or
swansdown, or the new cotton flannel, may,
any of them, be used to make it. For the
winter season it will be found to supply a
great increase in warmth, and, to the invalid,
a great comfort, as it fits closely, will not
form creases, nor “ruck up,” as the ordinary
nightgown always does, to the discomfort of
the wearer.

Each of the patterns may be had of “The
Lady Dressmaker,” care of Mr. H. G. Davis,
73, Ludgate-hill, E.C., price 1s. each. It is
requested that the addresses be clearly given,
and that postal notes, crossed so as to be
eligible only to go through a bank, may be
sent, as so many losses have occurred through
the sending of postage stamps. The patterns
already issued can always be obtained, as
“The Lady Dressmaker” shows constantly
in her articles how they can be made use of.

The following is a list of those already
issued:—April, braided loose-fronted jacket;
May, velvet bodice; June, Swiss belt and
full bodice, with plain sleeves; July, mantle;
August, Norfolk or pleated jacket; September,
housemaid’s or plain skirt; October,
combination garment (underlinen); November,
double-breasted out-of-door jacket; December,
zouave jacket and bodice; January,
princess under-dress (under-linen, under-bodice,
and skirt combined); February, polonaise with
waterfall back; March, new spring bodice;
April, divided skirt and Bernhardt mantle
with sling sleeves; May, Early English bodice
and yoke bodice for summer dress; June,
dressing jacket, princess frock, and Normandy
peasant’s cap, for a child of four years; July,
Princess of Wales’ jacket-bodice and waistcoat
for tailor-made gown; August, bodice
with guimpe; September, mantle with stole
ends and hood. October, “pyjama” or nightdress
combination with full back.

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.


By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER IV.

eanwhile,
Mrs. Shelley
had washed and
dressed her own
three boys, and
had introduced
the little
stranger to the
two elder,
Charlie, the
baby, being already
on intimate
terms with his
foster sister, for whose
sake he had to submit
to much less attention
than had hitherto
fallen to his share,
for which reason he
was unusually cross
this morning. Willie, the second boy,
the living image of his father, was barely
three years old, and too young to pay
much attention to the baby, or to understand
that it had arrived in an unusual
way; but Jack, the eldest boy, quite
took it in, and stood lost in admiration
of the wonderful baby with its beautiful
clothes, so unlike Charlie’s, and the
lovely coral and bells, as his mother
showed them all to him. Jack was five
years old, a tall, strong child for his
age, and very like his mother in face;
he had her quick temper, too, though
Mrs. Shelley had hers pretty well under
control, while little Jack often got into
trouble by giving way to his. Nothing
ever escaped Jack’s notice; he was
always all ears and eyes, and he took in
every detail of the strange baby’s
belongings as intelligently as his mother
could have done, and, to her joy, for she
was by no means sure what kind of a
welcome Jack, who resented the arrival
of little Charlie, saying, “Mother didn’t
want anyone else to love her when she
had him,” would give to the strange
baby, he was enchanted with it, and
was as anxious as Mrs. Shelley herself
to keep it.

“It is the fairies’ baby; they brought
it, didn’t they, mother? We will always,
always keep it, won’t we?”

“I don’t quite know yet, Jack; father
says perhaps we shall have to send it
away,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“It shan’t go away. How dare
father say so? He is a wicked man to
want to send it away,” cried the boy,
with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks.

“Jack, I am ashamed of you; you
must not speak of your father in that
way; if he says it is to go away it must
go, whether we like it or no.”

Jack hung his head and hid his face
on his mother’s shoulder, while she,
remembering how indignant she had
been with the shepherd for hinting at
sending it away the night before,
stooped and kissed her boy’s curly head,
and Jack raised his head again and
renewed his attentions to the baby.

“What a pretty little thing it is; see
how it holds my finger. I think it will
love me, mother, though it is not my real
sister. Oh! do make father keep it, will
you?”

For the first time since Mrs. Shelley
had had the baby, she now hesitated
about keeping it; the boy had unconsciously
struck a wrong chord, and his
mother, with a prophetic instinct,
coupled with a quick imagination, for a
moment saw that it was possible this
little stranger who, as Jack had already
grasped, was not his real sister, might,
in future years, destroy the harmony and
peace of the home circle. But it was
only a momentary hesitation; the thought
flashed across her mind and vanished
again, almost as quickly as it had come.
Could she have known how true that
prophetic instinct was, would she not
have gone counter to all her own inclinations,
and disregarded all Jack’s
wishes and prayers, rather than
have run the risk of introducing strife
into her peaceful household? As it
was, the motherly pity she felt for the
baby was stronger at the moment than
the foreboding light which had flashed
across the distant future, and she
answered hurriedly—

“I must go and see Mr. Leslie first,
dear, and hear what he says; do you
think you could take care of Charlie
while I am gone with the baby? I shall
take Willie with me, or he will be getting
into mischief.”

Jack, proud to be of use to his mother,
professed his ability to look after
Charlie, privately regretting it was not
the beautiful strange fairies’ baby which
was to be left under his charge.

“Jack, I can’t be back before the
clock has struck twelve; it is now half-past
ten, so it will strike twice before I
come back, do you understand; and
both the hands will have to be on the
twelve at the top, do you see? So now,
if it seems a long time, do not be frightened,
I shall be back soon after twelve.
If baby cries, rock the cradle, but don’t
try to take him out; if he sleeps you may
wash the potatoes for dinner. Now,
good-bye,” and Mrs. Shelley, with the
infant in her arms and Willie running
by her side, set off to the Rectory, while
Jack stood at the door watching her out
of sight.

The first half-hour passed quickly
enough. The baby slept, and Jack
washed the potatoes, and was delighted
when the clock struck eleven. But the
next hour was interminably long, and
little Jack got very tired of rocking
Charlie, who was awake now, and would[Pg 60]
scream every time his brother stopped
rocking. Every few minutes Jack ran
to the door to see if his mother was
coming, and then ran back and rocked
violently at the cradle. At last he
thought he heard footsteps, and, running
to look, saw, not his mother, but Dame
Hursey, making her way towards the
house.

Now, Jack did not care about Dame
Hursey’s visits even when his mother
was at home. He was half afraid of the
witch-like old woman, and to have a
visit from her while he was alone was
the last thing he desired, so he came in
quickly and banged the door, hoping
she would think they were all out and
go away, if only he could keep Charlie
quiet. But Dame Hursey had seen and
heard the door shut, and so, after knocking
two or three times without any
result, she quietly lifted the latch and
walked in, while Jack, who was kneeling
by the cradle, looked up, half defiantly,
half frightened.

“Mother is out; there is no one at
home but me,” said Jack, sharply.

“Oh, is she? Well, I’ll sit and rest a
bit till she comes in. Who have you got
there in that cradle?”

“Charlie, my new brother,” said
Jack.

“And where is the fairies’ baby? Ah!
you see, I know all about it. I know
everything; there is no keeping secrets
from me. That is the shawl it was
brought in, isn’t it, now?” said
Dame Hursey, rising and examining
minutely the Indian shawl in which the
baron had wrapped his daughter, and
which was lying on a chair.

Jack, more convinced than ever that
Dame Hursey was a witch, thought
perhaps she might be able to tell him
where the fairies had brought the baby
from if he were civil to her, so he
answered all her questions and described
minutely all the baby’s belongings.

“Ah! well, it is the Pharisees you
have to thank for bringing her here.
Mind you all take care of her, and one
of these fine days she’ll turn into a
beautiful princess and make you all
very rich; but if you talk much about
her the fairies will be angry and take
her away. You tell your mother I said
so; I can’t wait any longer.”

And Dame Hursey, who had been
prying about the kitchen to see if she
could find any other belongings of this
mysterious baby, took her departure,
much to Jack’s joy.

Shortly after she left Mrs. Shelley
came home, and Jack was so full of
Dame Hursey’s visit and her account of
the fairies’ child that he forgot to ask
the result of his mother’s interview with
the rector, while Mrs. Shelley, on the
other hand, was not at all pleased to
find Dame Hursey had been prying
about her cottage in her absence, and
congratulated herself on not having left
any of the baby’s little garments about,
for she might never have found them
again if she had.

The next day the rector called and had
a long talk with the shepherd and his
wife about the baby, though he could
throw but little light upon it, except, of
course, to utterly discredit the ridiculous
notion that the fairies had brought it.
That it belonged to rich people was clear
from its clothes; and to foreigners, from
the coronet, which was certainly not
English. More the rector could not say,
except that its parents evidently wanted
to get rid of it, and had connived at
placing it on the shepherd’s doorstep.

As to keeping it, that was a point
entirely for the shepherd and his wife to
decide. If they chose to send it to the
workhouse, no one could blame them for
doing so. He doubted exceedingly anyone
ever claiming it, but he advised
Mrs. Shelley to lock up all its clothes
and things in case of their being needed
for identification at any future period.
He also counselled them, if they thought
of keeping the child, to weigh the matter
well before they decided, as it would be
cruel kindness to take it in for a time and
then tire of it and send it to the union.

But John Shelley was not a man to
do this, as his wife well knew. If he
decided to keep the child he would do
his duty by it, and go to the workhouse
himself before he suffered that to do so.
All that day John was very thoughtful,
but when he came in to supper that
night he told Mrs. Shelley he had made
up his mind, and they would keep the
baby and bring it up as their own
daughter. Here, however, Mrs. Shelley
raised an objection.

“We will keep it, by all means, John,
but we can’t bring a delicate little thing
like this up as we shall our own strong
boys, who must work for their living.
This child may be claimed any day by
its parents, so we must try and have it
educated like a lady when it gets old
enough.”

John was inclined to dispute the wisdom
of this; but as its education was a
thing of the far future, he very wisely
thought it was useless to discuss it, and
resolved to let matters shape themselves,
feeling sure the baby would take its own
place as it grew older. One matter
puzzled the good shepherd sorely. He
was most particular in having his own
children baptised when they were a
month old, and they could not tell
whether this baby had been baptised or
no, though the rector thought its parents
were most likely Roman Catholics, in
which case it would be sure to have been
christened, as it was two or three months
old.

The next question was, what was it to
be called? For, if baptised, they had
no means of discovering its name. But
here Jack came to the rescue.

“Let’s call her Fairy, mother. Dame
Hursey says she is a fairy, and it is a
pretty name.”

“So it is, my son; and though she is
no fairy, but a real child like you, we
will call her Fairy. It is a very good
name for her, and when she is old
enough we will tell her why,” said the
shepherd.

And so Fairy was the little stranger
called as long as she lived in the shepherd’s
family.

(To be continued.)

A PRINCESS WHO LIVED TWO LIVES.

A ROMANCE OF HISTORY.

here was no lovelier woman in
all the Russias than Carolina,
the wife of Alexis, eldest son and
presumptive heir to Peter the
Great. Her beauty was not only
that of the body, for her sweet
temper and gentle disposition
made her beloved by all who
were brought in contact with
her. The only being who did
not yield to the charms of her
surpassing beauty and amiability
was the one who ought to have
prized her above all others—her
husband. His nature was
far too coarse and brutal to
appreciate the treasure that he possessed, and
the more he saw how universally beloved his
wife was, the more did she become an object
of aversion to him. For some time he treated
her with cold neglect, but by degrees he became
more brutal in his behaviour, until one
day, when she offended him in some trifling
respect, he dealt her an inhuman blow which
stretched her, apparently lifeless, at his feet.
Well pleased at being delivered so easily from
what he only regarded as a hateful burden, he
gave orders that she should be buried with all
due pomp, and hastened away to another part
of the kingdom.

But when her ladies of honour came to raise
the unhappy princess, they found that she still
breathed. Under the devoted attention of
the Countess of Konigsmark, who had always
been her confidential attendant, she slowly
won her way back to life, and this while her
funeral obsequies were being celebrated with
the greatest pomp throughout the length and
breadth of Russia, while the principal courts
of Europe were mourning her premature decease,
and while her unnatural husband was
drowning the remembrance of his horrible
crime in revelries and excesses of all kinds.
None knew that she was still alive but the
Countess of Konigsmark and one or two other
of her most devoted adherents. They kept
her concealed from everyone; for well they
knew that Alexis, should he hear of her recovery,
would take measures to rid himself of her
effectually. Acting under their advice, the
princess collected all the valuables she was
able to lay her hands on, and, in company with
an old domestic, who assumed the character
of her father, set out for Paris. Here, however,
she felt still within reach of Alexis, and
so, with her supposed father, she set sail for
Louisiana, where the French had lately formed
extensive colonies. They settled down in New
Orleans, and Carolina began to rapidly recover
her health and beauty.

A young man, by name Moldask, who held
a Government appointment in New Orleans
and who had spent many years in Russia[Pg 61]
thought that he recognised in the beautiful
stranger the princess who had been the
brightest star of the Muscovite Court. However,
he could not believe that the highborn
lady of whose death he had heard and the
daughter of the feeble old man who had lately
arrived from France were the same person,
wonderful though the resemblance between
them might be. He kept his ideas secret, but
made himself so useful and agreeable to the
strangers, that finally they settled to cast in
their lot with his, and live under the same roof.
Before the lapse of many months the news of
Alexis’ death reached New Orleans. Moldask
noticed the agitation with which his friends
received it, and told them that their secret
was his. They did not attempt a denial; so
he offered to sacrifice his private fortune,
throw up his position in New Orleans, and
take Carolina back to Moscow. This offer
she would hear nothing of. She thanked
Moldask again and again for his noble generosity,
but expressed her fixed determination
not to revisit the scene of all that had been
most unpleasant in her life. She begged him
not to betray her secret, and he readily promised
to keep it inviolate. The truth was
that he had lost his heart to the widow of
Czar Peter’s son. Respect, however, controlled
his feelings. He knew how exalted
was her real station compared to his, and
resolved to conceal his love.

Time passed on, and one autumn evening a
pararalytic stroke carried off Carolina’s pseudo-father.
After this it was, of course, impossible
that she and Moldask should continue to
inhabit the same house. He came to her on
the morning after her faithful old friend’s
funeral, and explained that he must seek a
new abode unless she would so far cast away
all thoughts of her former station as to consent
to call him husband. The princess, who
had long regarded him with feelings warmer
than those of mere friendship, agreed to link
her fate with his, and from now began the
happiest period of her so far troubled life.
Their union was blessed by the advent of a
little girl; nothing seemed wanting to render
her happiness complete.

Years rolled by, and Moldask was attacked
by a disease which baffled the skill of the New
Orleans doctors. His wife was determined
that he should have the best medical advice,
and so persuaded him to sell all his possessions
and embark for Paris. Their journey
was not in vain; the skill of the Parisian physicians
restored Moldask to good health, and
he obtained employment in a department of
the French Government.

One day, as Carolina was walking in the
public gardens with her little girl, she met the
son of her faithful friend, the Countess of
Konigsmark. She recognised him instantly,
and, fearing that he might know her, tried to
brush past him with averted head. The
Marshal, however, was struck with her appearance,
and, turning round, followed her until
she sat down beneath some trees. The instant
that he caught a fair sight of her he recognised
his former mistress, and quickly approaching,
bent his knee and carried her hand to his
lips. She implored him not to divulge her
secret, but to come with her to her home, and
hear how she had fared since Alexis had, as
he thought, killed her. The Marshal consented
to accompany her; he listened with
interest to her tale, and when he had heard it to
the end announced his intention of informing
the King of France, that her highness might be
restored to her proper position and honours.
Carolina, however, was quite determined that
this should not be. She begged the Marshal
to keep her secret for one week, as her husband
had certain negotiations, which would be
ruined if her identity were disclosed. This he
consented to do, and Carolina dismissed him,
with the assurance that on that day week he
should be definitely informed of her wishes in
the matter.

On the appointed day the Marshal found
that the princess and her husband had left
their home. However, he succeeded in tracing
them, and told the king of the noble lady
who was then in his dominions. His Majesty
entered into negotiations with the Empress
Maria Theresa, with a view to deciding upon the
manner in which her august aunt should be
treated. The upshot of these negotiations was
a most tender letter from the Empress to
Carolina, asking her to make the Austrian
court her home, and promising to load her
husband and herself with honours and distinctions.
But the happy wife and mother felt
that the life she had been leading for the last
few years was preferable in every way to the
artificial existence of a court, and refused her
niece’s generous offer. It was renewed again
and again; but nothing could shake her determination.

For many years she led a life of the utmost
happiness, and then death deprived her of
both husband and daughter. Maria Theresa
renewed her offers; but Carolina preferred to
pass the rest of her days in solitude. She
accepted a small pension from the Empress, and
retired to a small cottage at Vitry, near Paris.
After a quiet existence here for some few years
more she passed away, without ever having
regretted her refusal to rejoin the brilliant
circle of a court.

VARIETIES.

Curious Fresco.

In the Carthusian Monastery of Garignano,
a few miles from Milan, are some frescoes by
Daniel Crespi, of Busto, which are said to be
marvels of art and imagination. One of them
is grim enough, at any rate, and awful. It
represents a dead person rising from his bier,
to announce to all whom it might concern
that, although they were burying him in the
abode of holiness, and were now adoring
him as a saint, he was, as a fact, condemned
to hell.

Perhaps one of our own famous modern
divines was thinking of this fresco when he
declared that one great source of surprise, to
those who went to heaven, would be to find
so many there they had not expected to see,
and to miss so many they had thought to
meet.

“No’ the day, honest woman!”

Dr. John Erskine, a well-known Scottish
divine, was remarkable for his simplicity of
manner and gentle temper. He returned so
often from the pulpit minus his pockethandkerchief
that Mrs. Erskine at last began to
suspect that the handkerchiefs were stolen by
some of the old women who lined the pulpit
stairs. So both to baulk and detect the
culprit she sewed a corner of the handkerchief
to one of the pockets of his coat tails. Half
way up the pulpit stairs the good doctor felt
a tug, whereupon he turned round to the old
woman whose was the guilty hand, to say, with
great gentleness and simplicity:—

“No’ the day, honest woman, no’ the day.
Mrs. Erskine has sewed it in!”

A Brave Wife.

In 1872 a storm overtook a Boston ship on
the banks of Newfoundland. The captain—Captain
Wilson—had his shoulder-blade
broken by the fall of a mast, and the first
mate and part of the crew were at the same
time disabled.

No sooner, however, had the captain
been carried to his cabin than his wife, a
woman of one-and-twenty, hurried on deck,
told the men to work with a will, and she
would take them into port. The wreckage
was cleared, the pumps manned, and the gale
was weathered. Then a jury-mast was rigged,
the ship put before the wind, and in twenty-one
days she reached St. Thomas. After
repairing damages there, finding her husband
still helpless, the indomitable woman navigated
the ship to Liverpool.

Captain Wilson was never able to resume
work, and for seven years his brave wife supported
him and their only child by working as
clerk in a dry goods store. Then he died, and
Mrs. Wilson was deservedly appointed to a
custom-house inspectorship by the American
Government.

Old Friends.—The world has few greater
pleasures than that which two friends enjoy in
tracing back, at some distant time, those
transactions and events through which they
have passed together.—Dr. Johnson.

A Rare Companion.—She whom you
can treat with unreserved familiarity, at the
same time preserving your dignity and her
respect, is a rare companion, and her acquaintance
should be cultivated.

Things of Value.

Beethoven in Germany.—When the
German talks of symphonies he means Beethoven;
the two names are to him one and
indivisible; his joy, his pride. As Italy has
its Naples, France its Revolution, England its
Navigation, so Germany has its Beethoven
symphonies. The German forgets in his
Beethoven that he has no school of painting;
with Beethoven he imagines that he has again
won the battles that he lost under Napoleon;
he even dares to place him on a level with
Shakespeare.—Robert Schumann.

A New Use for a Dog.—A farmer’s
daughter in the West of England received a
hairy poodle dog from a friend in town. The
unsophisticated damsel wrote back thanking
her friend for the present, and saying that she
found it very handy, when tied to a stick, to
clean windows with.

The Worst of Success.—She that has
never known adversity is but half acquainted
with others or with herself. Constant success
shows us but one side of the world, for, as it
surrounds us with friends who will tell us only
our merits, so it silences those enemies from
whom alone we can learn our defects.

Rights and Duties.—There is no right
without its duties, and no duty without its
rights.[Pg 62]

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER IV.
MERLE’S LAST EVENING AT HOME.

o it is all settled,
Merle.”

“Yes, Aunt
Agatha,” I returned,
briskly, for
she spoke in a
lugubrious voice,
and as one sad
face is enough
beside the family
hearth, I assumed
a tolerably cheerful aspect. If only Aunt
Agatha’s eyes would not look at me so
tenderly!

“Poor child!” she sighed; and then,
as I remained silent, she continued in a
few minutes, “I wish I could reconcile
myself more to the idea, but I cannot
help feeling a presentiment that you will
live to repent this strange step you are
taking.”

I found this speech a little damping,
but I bore it without flinching. One can
never set out down some new road without
a few friendly missiles flying about
one’s ears. “Remember, I told you
such and such a thing would happen if
you did not take my advice. I am only
warning you for your good.” Alas!
that one’s dearest friend should be
transformed into a teasing gad-fly!
What can one do but go straight across
the enemy’s country when the boats
are destroyed behind one? I always did
think that a grand action on Xenophon’s
part.

“You have not given me your opinion
of my new mistress,” was my wicked
rejoinder.

Aunt Agatha drew herself up at this
and put on her grandest manner. “You
need not go out of your way to vex me,
Merle. I am sufficiently humiliated
without that.”

“Aunt Agatha,” I remonstrated; for
this was too much for my forbearance,
“do you think I would do anything to
vex you when we are to part in a few
days? Oh, you dear, silly woman!” for
she was actually crying, “I am only
longing to know what you think of Mrs.
Morton.”

“She is perfectly lovely, Merle,” she
returned, drying her eyes, as I kissed
and coaxed her. “I very nearly fell in
love with her myself. I liked the simple
way in which she sat down and talked
to me about my old pupils, making herself
quite at home in our little drawing-room,
and I was much pleased with her
manner when she spoke about you; it
was almost a pity you came into the
room just then.”

“I left you alone for nearly half an
hour; please to remember that.”

“Indeed! it did not seem nearly so
long. Half an hour! and it passed so
quickly, too. Well, I must say Mrs.
Morton is a most interesting woman;
she is full of intelligence, and yet so
gentle. She has lost her baby—did she
tell you that? only four months ago, and
her husband does not like her to wear
mourning. She is a devoted wife, I can
see that, but I have a notion that you
will have some difficulty in satisfying
Mr. Morton; he is very particular and
hard to please.”

“I have found out that for myself; he
is a man of strong prejudices.”

“Well, you must do your best to conciliate
him; tact goes a long way in
these cases. Mrs. Morton has evidently
taken a fancy to you, Merle. She told
me over again how her baby boy had
made friends with you at once; she said
your manner was very frank and winning,
and though you looked young you
seemed very staid and self-reliant.”

“I wish Uncle Keith had heard that.
Did she say any more about me, Aunt
Agatha?”

“No, you interrupted us at that point,
and the conversation became more
general; but, my dear, I must scold you
about one thing: how absurd you were to
insist on wearing caps. Mrs. Morton was
quite embarrassed; she said she would
never have mentioned such a thing.”

“But I have set my heart on wearing
them, Aunt Agatha,” I returned, very
quickly; “you have no idea how nice I
shall look in a neat bib apron over my
dark print gown, and a regular cap such
as hospital nurses wear. I should be quite
disappointed if I did not carry out that
part of my programme; the only thing
that troubles me is the smallness of my
salary—I mean wages. Thirty pounds
a year will never make my fortune.”

“You cannot ask more with a good
conscience, Merle; you have never been
out before, and have no experience.
Mrs. Morton said herself that her husband
had promised to raise it at the end
of six months if you proved yourself competent;
it is quite as much as a nursery
governess’s salary.”

“Oh, I am not mercenary,” I replied,
hastily, “and I shall save out of thirty
pounds a year. I must keep a nice
dress for my home visits and for Sundays,
though it is dreadful to think that I
shall not always go to church every
Sunday until little Joyce is older; that
will be a sad deprivation.”

“Yes, my poor child, but you must
not speak as though this were the only
serious drawback; you will find plenty
of difficulties in your position; even Mrs.
Morton confessed that.”

“The world is full of difficulties,” I
returned, loftily; “there have been
thorns and briars ever since Adam’s
time. Do you remember your favourite
fable of the old man and the bundle of
sticks, Aunt Agatha? I mean to treat my
difficulties in the same way he managed
his. I shall break each stick singly.”

She smiled approvingly at this, and
then, as Uncle Keith’s knock reached
her ear, she rose quickly and went out of
the room.

The moment I was left alone my
assumed briskness of manner dropped
into the mental dishabille that we wear
for our own private use and comfort.
Those two had always so much to say to
each other that I was sure of at least
half an hour’s solitude, and in some
moods self is the finest company. Yes,
I had destroyed my boats, and now my
motto must be “Forward!” This afternoon
I had pledged myself to a new
service—a service of self-renunciation
and patient labour, undertaken—yes, I
dare to say it—for the welfare of the
large sisterhood of waiting and working
women. A servant? No, a soldier; for I
should be one among the vanguard,
who strive to make a breach in the
great fortress of conventionality. Not
that I feared the word service, considering
what Divine lips had said on that
subject—”I am among you as one who
serveth—” but I knew how the world
shrank from such terms.

I have always maintained that half
the so-called difficulties of life consist
mainly in our dread of other people’s
opinions; women are especially trammelled
by this bondage. They breathe
the atmosphere of their own special
world, and the chill wind of popular
opinion blows coldly over them; like the
sensitive plant, they shiver and wither
up at a touch. I believe the master
minds that achieve great things have
created their own atmosphere, else how
can they appear so impervious to criticism?
How can they carry themselves
so calmly, when their contemporaries are
sneering round them? We must live
above ourselves and each other; there is
no other way of getting rid of the shams
and disguises of life; and yet how is one
who has been born in slavery to be absolutely
true? How is an English gentlewoman
to shake off the prejudices of
caste and declare herself free?

Ah, well! this was the enigma I had
set myself to solve. And now the old
life—the protected girl’s life—was receding
from me; the old guards, the old
landmarks were to be removed by my
own hands. Should I live to repent my
rash act, as Aunt Agatha predicted, or
should I at some future time, when I
looked back upon this wintry day, thank
God, humbly and with tears of gratitude,
that I had courage given me to see the
right and do it, “ad finem fidelis,”
faithful to the last?

I found those last few days of home-life
singularly trying. Indeed, I am not
sure that I was not distinctly grateful
when the final evening arrived. When
one has to perform a painful duty there
is no use in lingering over it; and when
one is secretly troubled, a spoken and
too discursive sympathy only irritates
our mental membrane. How could Job,
for example, tolerate the sackcloth and
ashes, and, worse still, the combative
eloquence of his friends?[Pg 63]

Aunt Agatha’s pathetic looks and
pitying words fretted me to the very
verge of endurance. I wished she
would have been less mindful of my
comforts, that she would not have
insisted on helping me with my sewing,
and loading me with little surprises in the
shape of gifts. But for the bitter cold
that kept me an unwilling prisoner by
the fireside, I would have escaped into
my own room to avoid the looks that
seemed to follow me everywhere.

But I would not yield to my inward
irritability; I hummed a tune; I even
sang to myself, as I hemmed my new
bib aprons, or quilled the neat border for
my cap. Nay, I became recklessly gay
the last night, and dressed myself in
what I termed my nurse’s uniform, a
dark-navy blue cambric, and then went
down to show myself to Uncle Keith,
who was reading aloud the paper
to Aunt Agatha. I could see him
start as I entered; but Aunt Agatha’s
first words made me blush, and in
a moment I repented my misplaced
spirit of fun.

“Why, Merle, how pretty you look!
Does not the child look almost pretty,
Ezra, though that cap does hide her nice
smooth hair? I had no idea that dress
would be so becoming.” But the rest of
Aunt Agatha’s speech was lost upon me,
for I ran out of the room. Why, they
seemed actually to believe that I was
play-acting, that my part was a becoming
one! Pretty, indeed! And here such
a strange revulsion of feeling took
possession of me that I absolutely shed
a few tears, though none but myself was
witness to this humiliating fact.

I did not go downstairs for a long
time after that, and then, to my relief, I
found Uncle Keith alone; for men are
less sharp in some matters than women,
and he would never find out that I had
been crying, as Aunt Agatha would; but
I was a little taken aback when he put
down his paper, and asked, in a kind
voice, why I had stayed so long in the
cold, and if I had not finished my packing.

“Oh, yes,” I returned, promptly,
“everything was done, and my trunk
was only waiting to be strapped down.”

“That is right,” he said, quite
heartily, “always be beforehand with
your duties, Merle; your aunt tells me
you have made up your mind to leave us
in the morning. I should have thought
the afternoon or early evening would
have been better.”

“Oh, no, Uncle Keith,” I exclaimed,
and then, oddly enough, I began to
laugh, and yet the provoking tears
would come to my eyes, for a vision of
sundry school domestics arriving towards
night with their goods and chattels,
and the remembrance of their shy faces
in the morning light seemed to evoke a
sort of dreary mirth; but to my infinite
surprise and embarrassment, Uncle
Keith patted me on the shoulder as
though I were a child.

“There, there; never mind showing
a bit of natural feeling that does you
credit; your aunt is fretting herself to
death over losing you—Hir-rumph; and
I do not mind owning that the house
will be a trifle dull without you; and, of
course, a young creature like you must
feel it, too.” And with that he took my
hands, awkwardly enough, and began
warming them in his own, for they
were blue with cold. If Aunt Agatha
had only seen him doing it, and me,
with the babyish tears running down my
face.

“Why, look here,” continued Uncle
Keith, cheerily, with a sort of cricket-like
chirp, “we are all as down as
possible, just because you are leaving
us, and yet you will only be two or three
miles away, and any day if you want us
we can be with you. Why, there is no
difficulty, really; you are trying your
little experiment, and I will say you are
a brave girl for venturing on such a
brave scheme. Well, if it does not
answer, here is your home, and your
own corner by the fireside, and an old
uncle ready to work for you. I can’t say
more than that, Merle.”

“Oh, Uncle Keith,” I returned, sobbing
remorsefully, “why are you so good
to me, when I have always been so ungrateful
for your kindness?”

“Nay, nay, we will leave bygones
alone,” he answered, a little huskily.
“I never minded your tandrums, knowing
there was a good heart at the bottom.
I only wished I was not such a dry old
fellow, and that you could have been
fonder of me. Perhaps you will understand
me better some day, and——” Here
he stopped and cleared his throat, and
said “hir-rumph” once or twice, and
then I felt a thin crackling bit of paper
underneath my palm. “It will buy you
something useful, my dear,” he finished,
getting up in a hurry. A five-pound
note, and he had lost so much money
and had to do without so many comforts!
Who can wonder that I jumped up and
gave him a penitent hug.

It was long before I slept that night,
and my first waking thoughts the next
morning were hardly as pleasant as
usual. A premonitory symptom of homesickness
seized me as I glanced round
my little room in the dim, winter light.
Aunt Agatha had made it so pretty; but
here a certain suspicious moisture stole
under my eyelids, and I gave myself a
resolute shake, and commenced my
toilet in a business-like way that chased
away gloomy thoughts.

Never had the little dining-room
looked more inviting than when I
entered it that morning. One of Uncle
Keith’s carefully hoarded logs blazed
and crackled in the roomy fireplace, a
delicious aroma of coffee and smoking
ham pervaded the room. Aunt Agatha,
in her pretty morning cap, was placing
a vase of hothouse flowers some old
pupil had sent her in the centre of the
table, and the bullfinch was whistling as
merrily as ever, while old Tom watched
him, sleepily, from the rug. I was
rather long warming my hands and
stroking his sleek fur, for somehow I
could not bring myself to look or speak
in quite my ordinary manner; and
though Uncle Keith did his best to
enliven us by reading out scraps from
his newspaper, I am afraid we gave him
only a partial attention. When Uncle
Keith had bade me a husky good-bye,
and had gone to his office, Aunt Agatha
and I made a grand feint of being busy.
There was very little to do, really, but I
considered it incumbent to be in a great
state of activity. I am afraid to say
how many times I ran up and down
stairs for articles that were safely
deposited at the bottom of my box.
Aunt Agatha put a stop to it at last by
taking my hand and putting me forcibly
in Uncle Keith’s big chair.

“Sit there and keep warm, Merle;
the cab will not be here for another
half hour; what is the use of our
pretending that we are not exceedingly
unhappy? My dear, you are leaving
us with a sore heart, I can see that,
and it only makes me love you all the
better. Yes, indeed, Merle,” for I was
clinging to her now and sobbing softly
under my breath; “and however things
may turn out, whether this step be a failure
or not, I will always say that you are a
brave girl, who tried to do her duty.”

“Are you sure you think that, Aunt
Agatha?”

Then she smiled to herself a little
sadly.

“You remind me of the baby Merle
who was so anxious to help everyone.
I remember you such a little creature,
trying to lift the nursery chair, because
your mother was tired; and how you
dragged it across the room until you
were red in the face, and came to me
rubbing your little fat hands, and looking
so important. ‘The chair hurted
baby drefful, but it might hurted poor
mammy worser:’ that was what you
said. I think you would still hurt yourself
‘drefful’ if you could help someone
else.”

It was nice to hear this. What can
be sweeter or less harmful than praise
from one we love? It was nice to sit
there with Aunt Agatha’s soft hand in
mine, and be petted. It would be long
before I should have a cosy time with
her again. It put fresh heart in me
somehow; like Jonathan’s taste of
honey, “it lightened my eyes,” so that
when the final good-bye came, I could
smile as I said it, and carry away an
impression of Aunt Agatha’s smile too,
as she stood on the steps, with Patience
behind her, watching until I was out of
sight. I am afraid I am different to
most young women of my age—more
imaginative, and perhaps a little morbid.
Many things in everyday life came
to me in the guise of symbols or signs—a
good-bye, for example. A parting
even for a short time always appears to
me a faint type of that last solemn parting
when we bid good-bye to temporal
things. I suppose kind eyes will watch
us then, kind hands clasp ours; as we
start on that long journey they will bid
God help us, as with failing breath and,
perhaps, some natural longings for the
friends we love, we go out into the great
unknown, waiting until a Diviner Guide
take us by the hand. “God help you,
poor soul,” we seem to hear them say,
and perhaps we hear the drip of their
tears as they say it; but in that other
room, who can tell how gently those
human drops will be wiped away, in that
place where pain and trouble are unknown?

(To be continued.)[Pg 64]

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Imperium et Libertas.—There is no question of
etiquette in the matter of the Highland friends of
the bridegroom appearing at the wedding in their
national costume. It is only a matter for their own
decision and their friends’ permission.

V. D. V.—You were exceedingly wrong in taking
walks with any man without your parents’ permission,
and you degraded yourself by enlisting the
aid of a servant to get letters from him unknown to
them, and so led her to do wrong and to act in an
untrustworthy way to her master and mistress. You
ought to tell her that you regret having so done, and
will do so no more.

A Devonshire Dumpling says: “I would rather not
drink vinegar or raw lemon-juice, if you do not mind,
please.” Dear little reader, pray do not feel uneasy
on that score; nothing is further from our wishes!
If your health be so good, leave yourself and your
wholesome fat alone. If out of health, the case is
otherwise. Dropsical puffing should be prescribed
for by a doctor.

Ross-shire Lassie.—The 5th October, 1869, was a
Tuesday; the 25th March, 1865, was a Saturday.

Lily.—The passage you quote may mean that the
blessed ones who have attained to perfect purity in
the kingdom of their Father above were greater than
the greatest still on earth.

A Lively Girl is not likely to “get
too stout.” She inquires, “What
is the best kind of a fiancé to
have?” Judging of her suitability
for assuming the responsibility of
selecting one, and of leaving her
mother’s sheltering wing, we should
reply—a gilt gingerbread man.

A Meteor.—The Rosicrucians were
a mystic brotherhood, made known
to the outer world in certain books
published in 1614-15-16. The last
book, published in 1616, was acknowledged
by Johann Valentine
Andreæ, and entitled “The Chymische
Hochzeit Christiani Rosenkreuz.”
The former works are likewise
described by him. From these
we learn that one Christian Rosenkreuz,
a German noble of the fourteenth
century, founded a brotherhood
of seven adepts on his return
from the East, and that among their
laws was one that they should each
heal the sick gratis (or, at least,
endeavour to do so), should meet
annually at a certain secret place,
and adopt the symbol of the Rose
Crux, or rose springing from a
cross, the device on Luther’s seal.
In 1622 societies of alchymists at
The Hague and elsewhere assumed
this title, and the tenets of the community
were held by Cabalists,
Freemasons, and Illuminati, and
professed also by Cagliostro. It is
said that a Lodge of Rosicrucians
now exists in London.

Tumpy.—Our answers depend on the
questions and style of the letters
addressed to us. You were right in
your surmise. Your writing is
legible, but not sufficiently regular.
If you write us a ridiculous letter
we promise you a suitable answer.
We are so sorry for your poor father.
Could he not subscribe for Punch,
or procure a few copies of the
famous “Mrs. Brown” series?

Highland Mary inquires, “Who was the author of
the first settler, and where is it?” How can we tell
“where it is”? There have been “first settlers” in
every part of the globe. The first part of your letter
is better written than the concluding portion, and
gives good promise for a good running hand by-and-by.

C. Horsell.—The lines you send us are very faulty;
in fact, are only badly-rhymed prose; but if it amuses
you to write such, do not desist, as outlets are useful
to very young people, and it seems desirable for
them to give vent to their feelings a little.

Nolens Volens.—Many people do not begin “My
dear So-and-So,” nor end with “Yours sincerely,”
etc., on a postcard, but merely write their address
in full at the top, and the message signed beneath it,
with initials only. But you can do as you like in the
matter; there is no rule. We wonder that, having
such suspicions of our honesty, you continued to read
our paper.

Rousseau and Flossy.—We know of no cure for mere
nervousness, unless, as sometimes happens, it passes
into a disease, when a doctor should be consulted.
Try to forget yourself in the pleasure of adding to
the enjoyment of others.

Hope Atheling.—A.E.I. means “for ever.” “I don’t
think” is a common colloquialism used by everyone,
and is not more incorrect than such expressions
generally are.

J. S. F.—

is from Keble’s “Christian Year,” 24th Sunday after
Trinity, verse 1.

Marie.—The quotation—

is from Wordsworth’s poem, “Peter Bell,” part i.;
stanza 12.

Era.—The signification of the bee appearing on the
monument of the Prince Imperial, is that the French
royal mantle and standard were thickly sown with
golden bees instead of “Louis flowers” or Fleurs de
lys. The origin dates back to the time of the early
Egyptians, who symbolised their kings under this
emblem, the honey indicating the reward they gave
to the well-doers, and the sting the punishment
they inflicted on the evil. More than 300 golden
bees were found in the tomb of Childeric, a.d. 1653.
Offer your song to some composer. Sometimes they
are in request; more frequently there are more
offered than are required. All depends on the fancy
of the composer. Only two questions are allowed,
and the answers
given at the discretion
of the
Editor. We regret
that you have
been disappointed.

Cissie.—You cannot
interfere with
the laudable work of the rector in building a school-house
for the use of his parishioners; it is his duty.
But the parents of the children will have the right
of choice between this school and your private one.
Mourning for a parent lasts a year; but you are
free to wear it longer if you like.

Winnie E. L.—You should consult a doctor. We
cannot usurp his place, though we are always willing
to give sensible advice on hygienic and sanitary
matters.

Polly and Others.—The measurements of a classic
figure, as given on authority, are: height, 5 feet
4½ inches; bust, 32 inches; waist, 24 inches;
9 inches from under the arm to the waist, with long
arms and neck. The proportions of a larger and
more stately woman or girl would be: height, 5 feet
5 or 6 inches; bust, 36 inches; waist 26½ inches;
hips 35 inches; thick part of arm, 11½ inches;
wrist, 6½ inches. The hands and feet should not be
too small. “Polly” will see that no arrangements
are made by judges of true beauty and its lines for
waists of 15 or 16 inches. They are simply deformities.

Buddie.—The book was published anonymously.

C. B. Gloucester.—Easter Day fell on the 25th March,
in 1546, 1641, 1736, 1886, and will fall next time in 1943.
Tram, used as a prefix to way and road, is the last
syllable of the name of their inventor, Mr. Benjamin
Outram, who in 1800 made improvements in the
system of railways for common roads, then in use in
the North of England. The first iron tramroad from
Croydon to Wandsworth was completed July 24th,
1801. Mr. Outram was the father of the celebrated
Indian general, Sir James Outram.

Wild Hyacinth.—We know of nothing save to benefit
your general health. The intense perspiration is
evidently an effort of nature. Do you take a tepid
bath every morning, and as much exercise as possible?
You have doubtless received your book.

R. H. P.—We do not think cold and haughty people
are at all nice, nor do we think they could be happy
themselves, or make others happy. The Christian
ideal is neither coldness nor haughtiness, but sympathy
and love. You must take care of those long
tails at the end of your words in writing. Better tie
them up as the Dutch farmers do the tails of their
cows. They are in writing ugly and useless appendages.

Nannie B. and Fiddlesticks have our best thanks
for their letters.

Isis.—We are much obliged for the account of your
visit to the Temple, and we regret we can make no
use of it. You will acquire more ease in writing by
constant practice.

Gertrude.—We think the first year you must take
what is offered to you in the way of salary.

A Field Officer’s Daughter.—We
have perused the two poems,
and consider that they hold some
promise of better things, though
both are faulty in construction and
rhyme.

Inconsistency’s paper is too much
like a schoolgirl’s composition for
our pages; but she evidently tries
to think, which is more than many
people do.

Elsie.—We never heard any more of
the saying about Brighton, than “a
country without trees and a sea
without ships,” and we have looked
for the original authorship in vain.

Sweet Violets.—We know of nothing
but constant rubbing and the
practice of gymnastics to do your
shoulders good. You probably have
some trick of standing crookedly
that has helped to make it grow out,
such as standing on one leg, or giving
down on one side.

Forever and Ever writes English
very well, though her writing is
rather too pointed to suit English
tastes. But at 16 she has plenty of
time to alter it if she likes.

B. H. M. W.—The lines show much
good feeling and affection, but no
poetic talent.

A Well Wisher.—Rydal and Loughrigg,
a township of England, Co.
Westmoreland, on the Leven, two
miles N.W. of Ambleside, celebrated
for its beautiful lake, on the
banks of which stands Rydal
Mount, long the residence of the
poet Wordsworth.

Madge.—We think “Madge” must not worry herself,
as she certainly cannot help people who will not
allow themselves to be helped, in her way at least of
assisting them; good advice is generally unpalatable.
She must look on the best side of the matter, and
hope that her friend may be happy and comfortable
in her own way. We doubt that you could have
prevented the marriage, as your friend is very
likely tired of the trouble of earning her living, and
thinks of marriage as a way of escape. You must
commend both her and her affairs to God, and cease
worrying yourself.

Nell.—Your mother’s brother is your uncle, no matter
whether by the father or the mother. To put the
case in another way, your grandfather’s son is your
uncle by whatever wife he had, first or fourth. Of
course you could not marry him. See the “table
of degrees of affinity” in the Book of Common
Prayer.

One of our Girls.—We think that men not much
exposed to cold and damp, and night work, such as
sailors and soldiers, do not need the warmth nor
stimulant obtained by smoking any more than
women do. Nevertheless, a single cigar or pipe
daily would not be injurious to a grown man, though
much so to a young lad in his teens. Men are so
careless about cleansing their pipes from that
poisonous nicotine, that multitudes have found their
habit of excessive smoking a highly provoking cause
of cancer in the mouth.

Hebridean.—We think some foolish person has been
worrying you with nonsensical fault-finding. We can
not see that you were wrong in any way. You were
with other girls and with your brothers, and that
should be sufficient protection, whoever you were
walking with. Do not allow yourself to be teased.