THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.

“THE DAINTY PORTFOLIO.”

All rights reserved.]

Miss Colbourne was expecting a visitor to
tea. Not to the ordinary lodging-house meal
which was prepared for herself every evening,
but to a special four o’clock tea, every detail
of which was arranged by her own hands.
The little copper kettle was purring on the
old-fashioned hob, the unsteady round table
was covered with a dainty white cloth, and
weighted with the silver salver and porcelain
cups without handles that had belonged to
her grandmother. Hot cakes were keeping
warm in front of the fire, and there was a
special little jug of cream.

The room itself was of a very common type.
Carpets and curtains were in clashing shades
of crimson, while a green table-cloth disagreed
with both. There was the usual profusion of
china ornaments with various photographs of
the landlady’s friends. Miss Colbourne had
inhabited the room for years past. She
objected to the ornaments, but respect for{402}
her landlady’s feelings enabled her to keep
silence and to endure them. Nothing else
troubled her. Her own possessions were
disposed inartistically enough; books encumbered
the sideboard, more lay in piles on the
floor. She had few pretty things, and had
not the knack of so arranging her surroundings
as to make a nest for herself. Her room
reminded the onlooker of a temporary halting
place—never of a home.

She had only just finished her preparations,
and was in the act of rolling up an easy-chair
close to the fire, when a slight tap at the door
was followed by the entrance of the expected
visitor.

Jessie Blaher was a slim rosy-cheeked girl
of sixteen, who had been one of Miss
Colbourne’s favourite pupils from the time
she was a tiny trot of seven. Lessons had
only been given up when Mr. Blaher removed
his family into the country.

Jessie had not seen her old teacher for
more than twelve months. Over tea and
cake they talked of the past and present, of
books and men. Then Jessie helped to wash
up and put away the cherished relics. Miss
Colbourne was bringing out some photographs,
when she exclaimed—

“Oh, I want so much to see the views of
Florence that Lena sent you!”

“Do you mean the illustrations of Romola?”

“Yes, please!”

Miss Colbourne walked across to the corner
of the room that held her especial treasures.
There stood a bookshelf brought from Bellagio
by a friend, carved out of the olive wood with
inlaid work. On the bottom shelf were
arranged her Italian books, one or two rare
editions among them. Above was a fine
likeness of Dante and a plaster medallion of
Savonarola, with some trifling objects picked
up by friends on their wanderings. One of
the most precious of these treasures was the
dainty portfolio which she now brought forward
and laid on the table.

Jessie took it up eagerly.

“Lena amused herself last winter,” said
Miss Colbourne, “with collecting all the views
she could find to illustrate Romola. She
knows it is my favourite story.”

“And did she make the case too?”

“Yes, out of a piece of Italian silk. These
are the Florentine lilies she has embroidered
on the front.”

Miss Colbourne untied the ribbons—green,
white, and blue—carefully, and showed the
contents—the Via de Bardi, Santa Croce, the
Convent of San Marco, and many another.

“Lena could not get pictures of all the
places,” she said, “so she took several
sketches herself. These in the side-pocket
don’t belong exactly to Romola—they are
photographs of some of the great pictures in
the Galleries.”

“How well you explain it!” said Jessie
admiringly as she put the case carefully back.
“Just as if you had been there! But you
haven’t been to Italy, have you?”

“No,” said Miss Colbourne, “but I hope
to go soon,” and her face glowed with
suppressed fervour. “It has been the dream
of my life to see Italy ever since I was a little
girl. It seemed impossible then, but now I
think it may be managed next year.”

After Jessie had gone, Miss Colbourne
settled down to her books. It was after
eight when Mrs. Coombes, the churchwarden’s
wife, bustled in. She was a stout, pleasant
little woman who knew everyone’s business.

“Good evening, Miss Colbourne. Why,
bless me, you have let your fire out! Aren’t
you cold?”

“I have been busy and forgot it,” said Miss
Colbourne apologetically, rising to meet her,
“and it is rather early for fires, don’t you
think?”

“Oh, I don’t know! It looks pretty
dismal without one on a wet evening. I have
just run in to pay for Gertie’s lessons. Mr.
Coombes wrote you out a cheque two or three
days ago, but I’ve been too busy to get round
with it.”

While Miss Colbourne was receipting the
account, Mrs. Coombes went on—

“I suppose you have heard about Mrs.
Bateson? I can’t say that I was surprised.”

“No,” said Miss Colbourne, turning round,
her pen suspended in her hand. “What is it?
Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“It seems when she went home in August
her mother wasn’t satisfied with her looks and
made her see a physician. He said she is
consumptive—one lung affected—and that she
ought to winter abroad.”

“Dear, dear, I am sorry!”

“Yes, it’s a bad business. I don’t know
what they can do! A curate with four
children can’t be expected to have means to
send his wife abroad at a moment’s notice.”

“But can nothing be done?”

“Well, Mr. Coombes has been talking to
the Vicar, and they are making a collection.
Fifty pounds will be wanted, and so far they
have fifteen towards it. I’m afraid they will
never raise it. It’s a pity, because the doctor
said she was a hopeful case—probably the
winter away would save her life. But I must
be going, Miss Colbourne; my husband will
be wondering where I am. You do look cold.
Why don’t you have your fire lit again?”

Her visitor gone, Miss Colbourne did not
settle to her work again. Usually she did
not find time for all she wanted to accomplish,
but to-night she tried one thing after another
without success. At last, flinging her books
on one side, she fell to pacing up and down
the room.

After a while she opened the secret drawer
in her desk, and taking out an old-fashioned
long silk purse, she turned out its contents—five
ten-pound notes and a little loose gold.
She weighed them in her hands—the savings
of ten years. Often had she sat without a
fire and gone without a hot meal to add to
that hoard. It explained why she wore a
threadbare jacket and shabby bonnet. With
it she thought to turn the dream of her youth
into reality. Once and again she had been
on the point of visiting Italy, but illness and
bereavement had barred the way. Now she
was so near attainment that she had planned
to go after Christmas. She did not lock the
money up again, but laid it in a heap on the
open desk and resumed her pacing.

She knew the Batesons well. She respected
and admired the curate and sincerely loved his
wife. She knew enough of their circumstances
to be sure that, unless help from outside were
forthcoming, the doctor’s advice could not be
followed. She felt equally sure that Mrs.
Coombes was right, and that the necessary
sum would not be raised by so poor a
congregation.

Must the invalid then face the rigours of an
English winter? There seemed no other
solution to the problem. And yet as she
turned in her deliberate walk, there was the
little pile of money glittering in the lamplight
that offered quite another solution.

Miss Colbourne was not given to sentiment;
she was a woman who had faced the
world and earned her own living for thirty
years, and was not quickly moved by any
sudden impulse of compassion. Neither was
she one to grasp at her own advantage. Had
it been merely her own pleasure she was asked
to sacrifice, she would have done it willingly.
It was characteristic that this aspect of the
question did not trouble her. In her heart
she knew well that this was her last opportunity
of realising her dreams: never again
would she possess the necessary funds; youth
had gone, health and strength were both on
the wane. To give up now meant to give up
for life. She realised this, but it did not move
her; it hurt her, but it did not shake her
purpose. It was not her own pleasure that
she hesitated to relinquish; it was rather a
question of her duty to herself. Miss Colbourne
took life very seriously, and lived up
to a delicately poised standard of right and
wrong. She had a few months before refused
an invitation to a performance of the Agamemnon,
because she did not consider her
knowledge of Greek equal to its perfect comprehension,
and she would not pose as a Greek
scholar. The pleasure the spectacle would
have given her was not allowed to influence
her decision. In the same way now she
hesitated whether she ought to give up this
opportunity of widening and enriching her
mind, cramped by narrow horizons at home.
The months she dreamed of spending abroad
would not only increase her mental stores,
but send her back with enlarged and quickening
powers to her pupils. “Where,” she
debated, “does one’s duty to one’s higher
nature leave off and that to one’s neighbour
begin? Shall I not be a more useful member
of society if I go abroad, and ought I not to
consider my work first?”

In her pacings she picked up one of the
views that had dropped from the portfolio and
carried it back to its place. It was a quaint
representation of the bonfire of vanities. She
handled her treasures tenderly, and with her
handkerchief wiped an imaginary speck of
dust from Savonarola’s medallion. As she
did so she wondered whether the great ascetic
would have thought this dream of hers a
“vanity” too. Very lightly did culture
weigh in his mind.

This was a new thought; she was called to
another kind of self-denial than that of food
and clothing. Might not the culture of the
mind be dearly bought at the expense of
another’s life? Myra Bateson’s life, too, involved
the happiness of the little ones gathered
about her knees. The problem grew complex;
contrasted with the well-being of this
family group Miss Colbourne felt the insignificance
of her own needs.

“I don’t want to believe it,” she said at
last, with a half-smile, “but after all the
Mother is more important than the Teacher.”

While Miss Colbourne was thus debating a
nice point of morals, Mrs. Bateson was wearily
pacing up and down her nursery, trying to
hush the baby to sleep. But he was cutting
his first tooth, and quite fractious enough to
prefer his mother’s arms to the cot. When
he condescended to be laid down, another
child awoke, and it was nine o’clock before
their mother descended the stairs. Her husband’s
coat, saturated with rain, caught her
eye in the hall, and she carried it off to the
kitchen to dry. He was not in the sitting-room
where the supper table, spread with cold
meat and bread and cheese, awaited him. She
did not like to disturb him, but sat down to
an overflowing basket of socks till he should
be ready. Perhaps of all those who knew of
her illness she was the least concerned; she
was thinking then, not of her journey, but
whether Tommy ought not to give up skirts
this autumn. She wished her husband would
not work so late, she was anxious to consult
him about so many things—he ought to have
a new overcoat, and she wanted to make him
promise to order it at once.

But the curate was not at work; the rain
that had drenched him in his long walk back
from church to his home in the suburbs
seemed to have affected him mentally. He
sat, a limp, huddled-up figure, in his study
armchair; he heard his wife come downstairs,
but he was not ready to meet her gentle eyes
and join in easy talk.

Over six feet in height, his face had not
lost its boyish look, with wavy light hair and{403}
bright blue eyes. But the lids were downcast
now, and the lips under the scanty
moustache were set in a curve of pain. The
Vicar had not been to church, but Coombes
had told him of the scanty response to their
appeal. His pride revolted at their dependence
on charity, while his heart was wrung
with pity for his suffering wife.

He had entered the ministry with a single
desire for God’s service, and for a time all had
gone well with him. But now the iron had
entered into his soul, and he was tempted to
curse God and die.

His schoolfellows were prospering in the
world; he, with gifts no whit behind them,
was forced to see his wife fade by his side for
lack of the sordid pence that had fallen so
plentifully to their share. In his agony he
dared God to a trial of strength; he challenged
Him by the promises of old to show
Himself a God of might, and to deliver His
servants in their hour of need.

A gentle tapping on the wall roused him at
last; he strove for composure and in a few
moments joined his wife in the sitting-room.

“How late you are, Arthur,” she said
anxiously, “and you look so tired. I do wish
you would not study so late. A letter came
for you an hour ago, but I did not like to disturb
you,” and she held out a sealed
envelope.

He weighed it in his hand for a moment
before opening it. Within were five ten-pound
notes, and a scrap of paper bearing the
lines—

“Not very appropriate, are they?” commented
the curate smiling. “Darning is more
in your line than Italian poetry.”

He could not know that Miss Colbourne
had with the money transferred all her own
hopes and aspirations to the invalid.

Cecil Vincent.

OUR MEDICINE CHEST.

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART I.

THE SURGICAL DRAWER.

fair critic asked us the
other day why all our
articles were written for
Londoners—why we had
never addressed our remarks
to girls living in
out-of-the-way districts
at home or in the colonies?

Truly we do not know what
difference it makes if these papers
are written in London or for
Londoners. Health and sickness
are much the same all over the
world, and the chief difference between
England and the Gold Coast as regards disease
is the prevalence in the latter of maladies
which are peculiar to the land. And the discussion
of these would not afford interest to
any save such as are living there.

But we will address this article chiefly to
persons living in remote parts where medical
aid is not always easy to obtain.

We were buying some drugs yesterday, and
when we had finished our purchases, the
chemist showed us a wonderful “new toy”
which had just been sent to him. It was
called “The Patients’ Vade Mecum.”

Vade Mecum—go with me—evidently something
to be carried about with one—a pocket-case,
in fact. Oh, but this was not a pocket-case!
It was a great chest—like a family
deed-box. It was bound and studded with
brass nails, and was a very tolerable load for
a strong man to carry. Not at all what we
should call a Vade Mecum.

Let us describe this chest. Follow it carefully,
for we are describing the exact reverse to
what any sensible person would have in her
house!

There was a grand brass lock and two keys.
Unfortunately, neither of the keys fitted the
lock, so that it was at least half a minute
before we could open the thing. When at
length the lock yielded, the interior of the
box presented a sight which we shall never
forget. There was quite a forest of clean
little corks. There were in the upper compartment
one hundred and forty-four clean,
sweet, little one-ounce bottles, all neatly
labelled and fitted with the pretty little corks
which were the first things that attracted our
attention. These bottles were arranged in
rows of twelve abreast, and there was not a
stain on any one of them.

We took hold of one and tried to pull it
out from amongst its fellows, but it wouldn’t
come. However, a good hard tug displaced
it, and with it two or three others which
rolled to the ground, and we held in our hand
a one-ounce bottle of—of—well, the name of
the stuff slips us altogether—anyhow, it was
quite new to us. Underneath the name of
the preparation was written “Cure for Gout.”

This looked interesting, so we examined
the other bottles and discovered that the
hundred and forty-four bottles contained a
hundred and forty-four preparations—all
guaranteed different—which “cured” a
hundred and forty-four diseases!

But the odd thing about it was, we had
never before heard of any of the drugs, nor
did we know half the diseases which these
wonderful drugs cured. There was one
bottle to cure “humours” of the face.
What on earth are they?

We cannot rise to this. But there is a
drawer underneath. Let us open it and see
what it contains. More bottles! Bigger ones
this time. One, we see, contains tincture of
arnica—guaranteed to remove all effects of
“injuries, bruises, and inflammations.” This
is coming it too strong! We know tincture
of arnica, and we know that some people
have an idea that it does something or other
to relieve bruises—an idea which we do not
share. But to say it removes all effects of
injuries, bruises (we should have thought that
these might have been included under the
former term), and inflammations—well, we
live and learn.

There were five other bottles in this drawer.
And then there was a pair of scissors. What
can they be for? But then we found a roll
of sticking plaster, and the mystery was
cleared up at once. This is intended for the
surgical part of the box. Fancy a surgery
containing six bottles, a pair of scissors, and
a roll of plaster!

And quite enough too, if one of the bottles
contains a balm which will remove all effects
of injuries and inflammations. But then what
is the good of the other five bottles, the pair of
scissors and the plaster?

“What do you think of my box?” asked
the chemist when we had finished our exploration.
“How much do you think that
cost?”

“Dear me, man, you don’t mean to say
you bought that?”

“No,” he replied, “I didn’t. It was sent
to me as an advertisement. They are selling
them at £5 5s. a-piece, and they asked me to
take a dozen and try to dispose of them.
What would you do if you were in my place?”

“Well,” we replied, “we would empty the
bottles, clean them, and use them for better
purposes, as they may be required, and the
box you might give to your daughter as a
workbox.”

But another person standing near was not
disposed to think so lightly of the matter, and
told the chemist that he ought to telegraph
at once to the people who had had the
impertinence to send a respectable chemist
such a concern, saying, “If you do not remove
your rubbish within twenty-four hours, I’ll sue
you for warehouse room.”

These homœopathic cases are very popular,
and many persons buy them thinking that
they can do what they pretend to do. We
cannot warn you too strongly against purchasing
these things. Avoid them as you
would poison. No, we do not mean to be
taken literally. There are no poisons in these
chests. We have a law which prevents the
indiscriminate sale of poison.

Now let us describe our medicine chest.
Oh, let us see what we want it for before we
fit it up.

You do not want a medicine chest to
contain everything you may require. You want
it to contain everything that is absolutely
necessary for emergencies. There are practically
three classes of emergencies—injuries,
acute poisoning, and acute disease.

The surgical part of the box is far more
important than the medical part. Let us talk
about injuries first. Bleeding requires instantaneous
treatment. If a person wounds a big
vessel, she may bleed to death in half a
minute or less. So you must act at once if
you wish to be of any value.

You can stop bleeding of any kind instantly
by pressure. Never forget this. Never go
running about to look for a tourniquet or
what not when a great vessel has been cut.
Press on the bleeding place. Press at once.
You do not want very much force to compress
an artery; but the force must be continuous.
When you have stopped the flow of blood,
then think of sending for assistance. When
a person is bleeding from a deep wound, press
the lips of the wound together. Not the
edges only—this is no good. Press the complete
thickness of the lips of the wound
together. If you cannot do this, stuff your
handkerchief into the wound and press on
that.

A not uncommon cause of bleeding to
death is rupture of a varicose vein. Hundreds
of thousands of women have varicose veins,
but in very few do the veins rupture. Still,
if a vein does get torn and the patient does
not know what to do, her life will be lost
while seeking assistance.

If you have a varicose vein, it will almost
for certain be in the leg, and if it bursts, you
will feel the hot stream of blood and rapidly
become faint. When this occurs, lie down on
the floor and elevate the leg as high as you{404}
can. This alone may stop the bleeding. If
it does not, press your finger on the spot, and
then send or call out for assistance. The
slightest pressure will stop bleeding from a
vein.

In these cases of serious bleeding, send for
a surgeon as soon as you have applied
pressure. In all probability the vessel will
have to be tied. But if the nearest surgeon is
two or three hundred miles away, keep up
the pressure and get someone else to put on
a bandage pressing very tightly upon a pad,
which in its turn presses upon the bleeding
vessel.

In the case of a varicose vein or a small
artery, this treatment will probably prove
successful.

Whenever you cut yourself, the raw surface
bleeds more or less. You can stop this kind
of bleeding either by pressure, or by hot
water. There is never anything to be alarmed
at when blood oozes out from a wound, even
though a considerable quantity of blood be lost.
As long as there are not jets of blood, there
is little danger in bleeding. Pressure will soon
stop this form of bleeding.

That will do for the first and most important
of all emergencies. What have we to put in
our box for this purpose? Nothing at all.
All we require is a hand and presence of
mind.

Now about the treatment of wounds. First
stop the bleeding, if this is severe. Then
wash your own hands. Wash them well.
Plenty of soap and hot water. Good hard
work with the nail brush. Your hands should
be absolutely clean before you meddle with a
wound.

Now you will want some antiseptic. The
best of all is carbolic acid. Mind you, this is
poison. But if you are careful, and label the
bottle and lock it up in your box, there is
little danger in your possessing it. Your
bottle of carbolic acid should be a good big
one holding ten ounces at least. It should
contain a solution of carbolic acid in distilled
water of the strength of one part of pure
crystallised phenol to twenty parts of water.
It must be kept in a glass-stoppered bottle,
which must be labelled—

“Carbolic Acid.
1 in 20.
POISON.”

When used for washing wounds dilute this
fluid with four times its volume of warm
boiled water. Having washed your own
hands, thoroughly wash first with soap and
warm water, and then with the carbolic
solution, the skin round the wound of your
patient. Do not be content with washing
merely the immediate neighbourhood of the
wound, but wash well round it in every
direction.

Now to treat the wound itself. Take a
perfectly clean basin and rinse it out with
boiling water. Into this put your carbolic
solution diluted with warm water to the
strength of 1 in 80. Have plenty of the
solution ready. Now wash the wound in
the antiseptic. For this purpose you will
require a small glass syringe and some pellets
of perfectly clean absorbent cotton wool.

The wound must be absolutely clean—not
a minute speck of dirt may be left in it.
When you have washed the wound absolutely
clean, take a small square of clean lint, wring
it out in the solution of carbolic acid, and
cover the wound with it while you take out
the materials with which you are going to
dress the wound.

You must not touch the table or the chair,
and you must not touch your handkerchief or
anything else, while you are dressing a wound.
Microbes lurk everywhere except in the carbolic
acid, and in the dressings, if they are
clean. And if you are careful, you can prevent
any germs from getting into the wound; and
this is the most important thing in surgery.
Do not let the dressings touch the table.
Deposit them carefully on a clean towel,
which you have previously wrung out with
the carbolic solution, and laid upon the
table.

Of course the dressing you use must vary
a little with the nature of the wound you are
treating. If the wound is sharp cut or is
perfectly clean and not ragged, dust it over
thickly with powdered boracic acid. Then
cover it with a small piece of absorbent gauze—the
blue “sal alembroth” gauze is the best.
Swathe thickly in cotton wool and put on a
clean bandage.

There is no need to again dress the wound,
unless it becomes hot and painful. If you
have got the wound absolutely clean, when the
dressings have been on for a few days, it will
have completely healed without discharging
more than a few drops of fluid. If, however,
the wound smarts, it must be dressed again,
and possibly every other day. It should be
dressed in the same way as it was in the first
instance.

When the wound is very jagged, or impossible
to get thoroughly clean, it is best
to put on fomentations for the first day
or two.

Fomentations have taken the place of
poultices in modern surgery. Never put a
poultice of any kind near an open wound.
All your care and cleanliness will go for
nothing if you do.

To make fomentations take a square of lint
and fold it twice. Then wring it out in
boiling carbolic solution (1 in 80) and apply
it as hot as it can be borne. Cover it with
a square of oiled silk, put on a thick layer of
wool, and bandage. Fomentations should be
renewed three or four times a day.

When treating a wound, never use sticking-plaster
except to keep on a dressing. Sticking-plaster
must never be placed on a wound,
and above all it must not cover the wound.
If it does so, it will keep the discharge locked
up under it. The discharge will decompose,
and a very serious state of affairs may intervene.
Free drainage is essential in all wounds,
and if this is interfered with, the wounds will
go wrong.

What have we to put in our box for the
treatment of wounds? The following—

Carbolic acid solution, powdered boracic
acid, sal alembroth gauze, surgeon’s lint,
absorbent cotton wool, oiled silk, bandages,
pair of scissors, syringe (glass).

Burns are common accidents, and though
they do not call for such rapid treatment as do
wounds, nevertheless, it is always advisable to
see to them at once.

The pain of burns and scalds is often very
severe, especially when the flesh is not deeply
burnt. You can relieve the pain by the
application of sweet oil, or by an emulsion of
sweet oil and lime water, sometimes called
carron oil. The latter is better, but the
former can be obtained in any household, so
it is not worth while filling up your box with
the emulsion.

After a burn, if the skin has not been
destroyed, a blister will form. This blister
can be left alone, pricked, or removed entirely.
If you are not certain of cleanliness or you do
not possess antiseptics, never open a blister.
If you leave it, the liquid will become absorbed
and the cuticle will flake away.

You are usually told to prick blisters as
soon as they are fully formed. This treatment
we cannot countenance. If you are sure of
cleanliness, and the needle you use is absolutely
sterile (i.e., free from germs), and if, moreover,
your after-treatment is properly carried out,
then there is no danger in pricking a blister.
But no amateur ever is certain of perfect
cleanliness. And we fail to see the advantage
of pricking the blister after all.

Suppose the needle you use is dirty, just
see what a state of things may occur. Your
needle is dirty—it is swarming with germs.
You prick the blister with it—that is, you
introduce into a cavity filled with warm
solution of albumen the organisms of putrefaction.
This is just what the microbes like,
and they will rapidly render the contents of
the blister putrid. And now neither the
microbes nor the matter can escape, for the
prick has long ago become obliterated. Nor
can you apply anything to kill these germs or
promote healing.

The third way to treat a blister is to cut
away the whole of the cuticle confining it.
This is dead skin, and so removing it causes
no harm. You can now apply an antiseptic
ointment to the raw surface. The best is an
ointment of boracic acid, oil of eucalyptus and
vaseline.

Oh, but when you cut open the blister, do
you not let the germs in? Yes, you do,
unless you have been scrupulously careful that
everything you used was perfectly clean. But
even if you have introduced germs, it is not so
very serious here, for you apply the ointment
directly to the raw surface. So now the
microbes get the worst of it. There is
nothing for them to eat; there is nothing
preventing them from getting away; and
there is a (to them) poisonous ointment applied
directly to them.

We said everything you use must be clean.
We must therefore tell you how to sterilise
needles, scissors, etc. You are usually told
to sterilise instruments by passing them
through a flame. Now this has many disadvantages.
In the first place, merely passing
a knife through a flame does not even warm it.
Then, if you leave it in the flame long enough,
you spoil its temper and make it dirty with
soot.

By far the best way to sterilise instruments
is to boil them. Sterilise your needles, etc.,
by boiling them in solution of carbolic acid in
a test-tube.

To treat burns, what must we add to our
chest? Boracic acid ointment, that is all.

Now for fractures. If you are taking a
drive with a friend, and the horse bolts, and
you are both thrown out, but you escape
uninjured, while your friend breaks her arm or
leg, what are you going to do? You are
going to “set” the fracture, are you? Oh,
no, you are not! Not if your friend has her
wits about her. Have you ever set a fracture
before? Have you ever seen a fracture set?
Do you know anything about setting a fracture?
Of course you do not. You would find
that setting a fracture was not the simple
thing you think it is.

But wait a minute, we are not yet satisfied
that the leg is broken. How do you know
that her leg is fractured? If you see the
bone protruding, or an angle or lump anywhere
between the joints, or if your friend
cannot move her leg, or if she can move the
upper half but not the lower half, or if she
thinks that her leg is broken because she
heard a snap, or for other reasons, you may
be pretty certain that the leg is broken. You
cannot tell for certain, and you must not try
to make certain. If you attempt to prove
that her bone is broken, you may convert a
simple into a compound fracture—a trivial into
an extremely serious condition.

But you must do something. Here you are,
out on a road, five miles from anywhere, with
a friend lying in the road with a broken leg.
What are you to do? Splint the leg. For a
splint you may use an umbrella, a walking-stick,
a branch of a tree, a newspaper strengthened
with twigs, or anything that is handy.
Place the splint against the limb, and with
your own and your friend’s handkerchiefs tie the{405}
splint to the leg. Tie it with the handkerchiefs
a long way above and below the broken place.
Then place your friend on the floor of the
conveyance and drive slowly home or to the
nearest surgeon.

Upon this emergency-splinting a very great
surgeon—let us call him Sir William Sawyer—tells
an amusing story. He was walking
along a country road, and came across a cart
overturned, with one wheel broken, in the
middle of the road. A man was lying near
the cart. On approaching him the surgeon
saw that his thigh was broken. He immediately
turned out his pockets and found two
old newspapers. Between these two papers
he “sandwiched” a good number of twigs,
and then wrapped the whole concern about
the thigh of the injured man.

When he had done this, he became aware
of the presence of a second man, apparently
uninjured, staring at him. He therefore bade
him go to the nearest village and fetch a
surgeon.

When he got to the village, he went to the
nearest medical man and asked him to come
quickly, for “an old idiot was stuffing his
mate with newspapers.” What was the
medical man’s surprise to see that the “old
idiot” was Sir William Sawyer!

(To be continued.)

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY.

he month of
April, 1808,
saw Polly
and Molly
again in
London—not
this
time for the
enjoyment
of gay assemblies.
Old Mrs.
Fairbank,
after many
months of
gradual failure,
had passed
away in an
acute attack of
bronchitis, and
Mrs. Bryce immediately
offered a home
to the two girls
until, at least, it might be possible to
know the wishes of Colonel and Mrs.
Baron. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual,
only had to assent to his wife’s proposition,
he did so with a heartiness not
always shown towards every wish of hers.

So the Bath house with its quaint
furniture was let, and in the end of
March, after a few weeks given to
necessary arrangements, the two girls
found themselves once more under Mr.
and Mrs. Bryce’s hospitable roof, in their
luxurious town mansion.

A double bedroom, opening into a
dainty small sitting-room or boudoir,
was assigned to them, and here they
loved to pass much of their time. Mrs.
Bryce was now, of course, in a full
swing of engagements; and she would
greatly have liked to drag Polly with
her wherever she went, despite the
recent death of Polly’s grandmother, but
for Polly’s resolute resistance.

“Well, well, well, my dear—all in
good time,” Mrs. Bryce had said, after
some discussion. “To be sure, the old
lady was tolerable close related, and
there’s no doubt your feelings does you
credit; but I can assure you, ’tis time
you was settled in life with a husband
of your own, and a mènage, and a
suitable equipage, and the rest of it.
And as for Captain Ivor, I protest I’ve
no sort of patience with the man. Why,
’tis eighteen months at the least since
ever a word reached us of Captain Ivor
and his doings; and by this time there’s
no sort of question that he’s forgot all
about you, and found himself a wife,
and belike he’s been married this year
and more past. So ’tis good time you
too should forget all about him.”

Polly was thinking over these utterances,
as she sat before the drawing-room
fire, dressed in white muslin, with
black sash and ribbons. In the first
decade of the nineteenth century white
muslin was counted to be the correct
attire for a girl, morning, noon and
evening, summer and winter, no matter
what the weather might be. Polly
looked rather blue and chilly, with her
bare arms and shoulders, the latter
covered but lightly with a thin black
scarf.

She was as pretty as ever, but her
colouring was less brilliant than of old,
while the sweet eyes contained a touch
of sadness. Molly, dressed to match,
though with a good deal more of white
and less of black, was busily reading
to herself on the other side of the
fireplace.

It was a cold April afternoon, five
o’clock dinner being over. Mr. and
Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their
innumerable engagements. Mr. Bryce—poor
man!—would greatly have preferred
a quiet evening at home with the
girls to the most brilliant assemblage
of rank and fashion; but his relentless
wife dragged him in her wake—an
unwilling and helpless victim—to
dinner-parties, balls, crushes, routs,
innumerable.

“Molly, the Admiral is at home
again. ’Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs.
Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day, and
she is vexed, for it makes him roar like
a wild beast. And though ’tis doubtless
true, as the faculty say, that the gout
sets a man up again, yet the setting up
is by no means pleasant. And Mrs.
Peirce and the Admiral are sorely
troubled about Will, for since he was
taken prisoner, all that long while ago,
never a word has reached them about
him. O this weary war!”

Molly murmured one or two indistinct
responses to the early part of Polly’s
speech. The last four words made her
look up. Then she stepped across,
kissed Polly’s brow tenderly, and went
back to her seat.

“What is it that you are reading,
Molly?”

“The Edinburgh Review for this
month—an article on ‘Marmion.’ And,
Polly—would you think it?—the editor
has no appreciation for our great poet’s
genius! No, none whatever. He writes—he
writes as if Mr. Scott were but a
common man like any other scribbler,
and not the mighty world-wide genius
that he is.”

“Would that be a paper by Mr.
Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The
two are friends. Can he find it in his
heart to blame his friend? And what
may he see to find fault with?”

“What, indeed?” echoed eager
Molly. “Do but hear what rubbish
the worthy man sees fit to write! ‘A
good deal longer’ than the last poem.
‘More ambitious,’ ‘greater faults’ and
‘greater beauties,’ ‘less sweetness,’
‘more vehemence,’ and ‘redundancy.’
‘Unequal and energetic,’ ‘a general
tone of spirit and animation, unchecked
by timidity or affectation, and unchastened
by any great delicacy of taste or
elegance of fancy.’

“Oh!” gasped Molly. “And now
listen again—

“‘But though we think this last
romance of Mr. Scott’s about as good
as the former, and allow that it affords
great indications of poetical talent, we
must remind our readers that we never
entertained much partiality for this sort
of composition, and ventured on a former
occasion to regret that an author endowed
with such talents should consume
them in imitations of obsolete extravagance….
His genius, seconded by
the omnipotence of fashion, has brought
chivalry again into temporary favour.
Fine ladies and gentlemen now talk
indeed of donjons, keeps, tabards,
scutcheons, tressures, caps of maintenance,
portcullises, wimples, and we
know not what besides; just as they
did in the days of Dr. Darwin’s popularity
of gnomes, sylphs, oxygen, gossamer,
polygynia, and polyandria. That
fashion, however, passed rapidly away;
and Mr. Scott should take care that a
different sort of pedantry does not produce
the same effects.’”

“Oh!” once more cried indignant{406}
Molly, never imagining that the reviewer
might perchance see with keener
insight than the populace of the day, or
that his judgment might be in certain
respects endorsed by a later generation.
“And then all fault-finding—scarce any
sort of praise. Does Mr. Scott deserve
such treatment? To think that any
critic can be so blinded by prejudice—can
so traduce the most eminent poet
that ever has lived! There have been
other poets, ’tis true, but none, sure, to
compare with the author of ‘Marmion.’
Why, what were Homer and Milton—what
are those old plays of Mr. Shakespeare’s
which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared
with the writings of Mr.
Scott? I have a mind never to look at
the Edinburgh Review again!” Molly
flung the number to the ground.

“Dr. Darwin—who died in 1802, and
whose ‘Life’ was writ by Miss Anna
Seward,” murmured Polly, less stirred
than Molly, though she, too, ranked
among the great admirers of Scott’s
poetry.

“A young man desires to speak with
Miss Baron.”

The butler’s solemn voice came as a
surprise. They had not heard the door
open.

Polly and Molly exchanged glances.

“His name, Drake?” the former
asked.

“The young man declines to give his
name, Miss.”

“But what does he want to see me
for?”

“He says that Miss Baron will know
him. He—in fact, Miss, he will not
take a refusal. If it is your wish that he
should be turned away——”

“Make him say what he wants,”
suggested Polly.

“Is he a gentleman, Drake?” asked
Molly.

“He”—and a pause—“is extremely
shabby, Miss.”

“What are we to do, Polly?”

“If it is your wish that the young man
should be turned away, Miss——”

Drake advanced no farther. Somebody
from behind put him quietly on
one side, with a gentle shove, and
walked past him, straight into the
room.

Drake was indignant, yet not so
indignant as he ought to have been.
Some vague influence, which he afterwards
declared to have been an instinctive
knowledge of the state of the
case, withheld him from any show of
wrath. The young man came quickly
nearer to where the two girls sat. He
was of good medium height, with a
boyish look; and he wore a rough
travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting;
while his boots were cut
through, his trousers were soiled, his
hair was of an odd mottled colour, as
if it had once been dark and were
turning fair. But—

“You ask to know what I want,” he
said in a laughing voice. A pair of
large grey eyes were turned full upon
them both. “I want—Molly!”

Molly did not shriek, did not even
exclaim. It was Polly who cried out
in astonishment. Not Molly. Nor did
Molly hesitate for one quarter of a
second. As she met Roy’s glance, she
was in his arms, clinging to him in a
voiceless rapture. Neither of the two
spoke. Roy stood perfectly still, his
head bent low over the faithful little
sister, who held him fast in a vehement
clutch of joy. Drake came some steps
closer, understanding, yet scarcely able
to believe what his own sight told him.
Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes
full of tears.

“I’m not fit to be touched,” Roy
said at length, in an odd husky voice.
“Don’t, Molly! I shall spoil your nice
things. I’ve been on the tramp for
days.”

She half loosened him, then returned
to the charge, with another passionate
clasp; and Polly’s tears now were
running down her cheeks. Roy broke
into a queer hard sound, not far removed
from a sob, though he tried to
turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and
kissed again the top of Molly’s head.
Her face was out of reach, buried in
his rough coat. Then Polly pulled one
of Molly’s hands, trying to wrench
asunder that frantic hold.

“Dear Molly, you must not. Roy
must be tired and hungry. Try to
think of that. He wants food. And
he has not said one word to me yet.”
Polly dashed aside her tears, trying to
smile. “How did you get away from
Verdun, Roy?”

“Not Verdun. Didn’t you know I’d
been sent to Bitche last spring?”

“No. Were you really? O we hear
so little!”—and a sigh came from
Polly’s heart, while Molly, having pulled
Roy into a chair, knelt by his side,
gazing with eyes of rapt delight in his
face.

“It’s an awful place. I got away
from there—I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by.
It’s all right now—now I’m
back in old England. Do you know,
when first I got on shore, I just went
down on my knees, and kissed the
ground. Drake, you didn’t know me!
For shame. But I was sure Miss
Molly would.”

“I don’t know as I didn’t, sir, for all
you’re so growed and altered. I
couldn’t turn you away, and that’s a
fact—though it seemed like as if I’d
ought. And I did feel queer-like and
no mistake, when I see you a-looking
at me, sir; only, begging your pardon,
sir, you did speak so short——”

“I’m sorry; but I didn’t mean to be
found out by anybody first except by
Miss Molly. Dear little Moll!”—as
she stooped to kiss the back of his
brown hand. “No, no, you mustn’t do
that. I say, Drake, I wonder if you
can find anything respectable for me to
wear. These things were given to me
at a farmhouse in France, and they were
old to begin with. And I’ve had to get
to London on foot, because I’d no
money, though people have given me
many a lift, and food as well. But
couldn’t you make me look a bit decent,
before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come
home?”

Drake made no difficulty at all about
the matter, and he and Roy, after a few
more explanations, went off together.
Roy had seen in an old newspaper, since
landing on the east coast, the mention
of Mrs. Fairbank’s death, and he had
at once decided to find his way straight
to the house of Mr. Bryce, secure of
learning there what might have become
of Polly and Molly. He had hardly felt
surprise, on arrival, to learn that both
the girls were within. Another sadder
duty would lie before him soon—to see
Admiral and Mrs. Peirce, and to tell
them the story of little Will. But his
first aim had been to reach Molly.

As the two disappeared, Molly flung
herself on the rug, with her face on
Polly’s knee.

“O to think that I have my own own
Roy again!” she whispered.

“Dear Molly, ’tis indeed something
to be thankful for.”

A tear splashed on Molly’s cheek, and
she looked up with startled eyes.

“Ah—I have forgot! If Denham
could but have come with Roy! Then
we should both be happy; we should
want nothing. Except my papa and
my mamma to return.”

Another tear fell.

“But we will ask Roy, and he will tell
us about Denham. Perhaps he will
bring you a message from him.”

“No,” Polly answered. “Roy comes
from Bitche—not from Verdun. Did
you not hear? ’Tis long since he saw
them. And, Molly, you must not ask.”

“Not ask!”

“No, not for me. Nothing for me!
How can I tell now—so long as it is
since any letter came? And no message—none
at all—in the last that did come.
Do you not see?”

“You mean——But, Polly, you do not
think Denham has changed towards
you! O sure he cannot have done so.”

“I cannot tell. It may be. I am a
woman, dear, and I may not be sure,
without reason. In my heart, I think I
do trust him. And if Roy tells—but
you must not ask for me.”

“Not even how Denham is?”

“Yes—that, for yourself. But nothing
for me.”

A very different Roy soon appeared,
dressed in a cast-off suit of Mr.
Bryce’s, which, though by no means
a perfect fit, since Roy was very
markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison
with what he had worn before.
Roy had grown brown during his prolonged
wanderings; and the dye,
which it had been thought advisable to
keep going so long as he remained on
French soil, was still en evidence. But
the face and the grey eyes were quite
unmistakable. They had been unmistakable
to Molly from the earliest
moment.

An abundant dinner, hastily heated
and brought together, awaited him soon
in the dining-room; and Roy confessed
to a “wolfish” appetite. Molly said
nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She
knew that Polly would wish the subject
to be avoided while Drake was present;
and Drake took care to be present
throughout the meal, that he might not
lose a word of Roy’s narration of his
escape from Bitche and his journey
through France. That any Frenchman
should have acted as Jean had acted,
came as a positive shock to the insular{407}
prejudices of the old butler. Drake
arrived at a solemn conclusion, as he
listened, that some among those Mounseers
over the water were not perhaps
altogether bad, even though they
lacked the advantages of an English
“eddication.”

But when dinner was over, when Roy’s
wants were satisfied, and when the
three were together in the drawing-room,
Roy in a comfortable chair, with
Molly close to his side, Polly herself
remarked quietly,—

“Now Roy will tell us about them all
at Verdun.”

“Haven’t seen ’em lately, you know,
Polly. I wish I had. The latest news
I can give you is nearly a year old. No,
not quite the latest, but——Well, I left
my father and mother all right at Verdun,
last spring. Not much less than
a year. Denham had been away at
Valenciennes for eighteen months. You
must have heard about that.”

“There was a mention in one letter
of his being there. A letter from your
mother, which had been long on its road.
But no explanation. We thought he had
perhaps gone thither for a few weeks.”

“Eighteen months. Ordered off for
nothing, and brought back in the same
fashion. He arrived at Verdun the day
before I broke that bust of the Emperor,
and got myself into trouble. You know—I
told you in the other room. I suppose—”
and Roy laughed—“I suppose
it was the delight of having him back
which made me a trifle crazy.”

“Sounds like Roy!” whispered
Molly. “Then you have not seen anything
of Denham for an age?” This
was what she rightly judged that Polly
was longing to have said.

“Pretty near two years and a half—except
that one day.”

“And he and they didn’t know you
would be coming home. So you have
no messages for us?”

“No, of course they didn’t. The best
they could hope for was that I might be
sent back to Verdun.”

“And they were all quite well?”
Polly asked this.

Roy was looking intently at Polly.
She flushed, and put up one hand to
shield her face.

“Yes—I know—” Roy said, as if
answering a remark. “Of course you’d
like to hear of anything he had said.
I’m trying to remember. Somehow, I
don’t think——”

“He did not speak of any of us, you
mean—that one day.” There was a
strained composure in Polly’s manner.

Roy was trying still to conjure up the
past.

“Such a lot happened just then, and
I’ve gone through so much since! But
I fancy I should remember, if he had
said anything particular. You see, he
had walked the whole way from Valenciennes
to Verdun, when he was only
half over an illness, giving up his horse
to a young fellow who was worse than
himself; or at all events Den thought
him worse. And he was desperately
done up. I never saw anyone look more
ill than he did, the day he came in.”

Polly made a movement of surprise.
“Denham!” she said incredulously.
“Why—he never found anything too
much for him.”

Molly put an unfortunate question.
“Do you mean that he wasn’t able to
talk?”

“Well, no, I don’t mean that. We
did talk a good deal that evening;
much more than Den was fit for. And
there was a letter from—from her—” in
a lower voice. “There was a letter to
my father, which had come not long
before. She said in it how well Polly
was looking. I read the letter aloud to
Den, but I don’t think he said much.
He was too thoroughly dead-beat to
do more than answer questions. My
mother said something, I remember,
about there being letters from everybody—Polly
as well—most likely on the road.
I don’t think Denham said anything
even then—except that he thought the
letter I had read ought to be burnt.
I don’t believe it ever was, by-the-by.
So much happened afterwards.”

“And the very next day—was it?—you
were taken off by those horrible
gendarmes,” added Molly.

Polly had turned her face away. Roy
gave her a glance, then whispered—

“I say, Molly, one minute! I want a
word with her.”

Molly obediently fled, and she had
seldom done a harder thing in her
whole life.

Roy walked across the rug, and bent
over Polly. As he had expected, there
were tears upon her cheek.

“Polly, you’ll let me speak—will you?
I want you to understand.”

A hasty movement disposed of the
tears, and she turned a quiet face
towards him.

“I think I do understand.”

“Den is not the man to change.”

“Many men do change—so easily.”

“Not Denham. That’s not his sort.”

She smiled a little.

“My dear Roy, you have not seen him
even—except that one day—since—how
long ago?”

“Spring of 1805.”

“And you were then—how old?”

“Yes, I know all that: but boys have
eyes, as well as girls. And I tell you,
Polly, I know Denham. That year and
a half, before he went to Valenciennes,
he and I were always together. Lessons
and playtime, we were hardly ever apart.
And I got to know him, as—well, as
nobody else does. No, not you!”

She rested her chin on one hand, the
soft eyes questioning Roy.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“I know Den, and because I know
him, I can tell you that he has not
altered, and that he won’t alter. It
wouldn’t be like him; it isn’t in him;
he is not that sort. It doesn’t make a
grain of difference whether he talked or
didn’t talk of you that day. He was
too ill—and Den doesn’t ever talk
much of the things he cares most
about. You ought to know what he
feels about Sir John Moore, for instance;
and yet how few would ever guess it!
Except when he is speaking quietly
alone with you, or with Jack or me,
does he ever say a great deal about
Moore? It isn’t his way! And has
he ever changed in that direction? No,
nor ever will. If he didn’t see Sir John
for twenty years, it would make never a
grain of difference.”

“He has a warm advocate in you.”

“Because I know what he is—because
he is the best friend I ever had or ever
could have. He never did talk much
about you, Polly, that year and a half
that we were always together. And I
was only a boy, but all the same I
understood. If anybody ever spoke
your name, or anything to do with you
came up—didn’t I see his look? Didn’t
I know it? Just as I know the look in
his face when he hears anything of Sir
John Moore.”

Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.

“Sometimes I used to know that he
was thinking of you all day long. How
did I know? I can’t tell. How does
anybody know? It was just as if ‘Polly’
was writ large upon his face. I never
could tell what made him so—only for
hours he seemed to be away from us all;
and ’twas little good for me to talk, for
he heard scarce anything I might say.”

Roy’s coat-sleeve received a little
squeeze.

“But—so long ago!”

“What does that matter? I’ve told
you enough, and you ought to be able
to feel sure of him. I’m not making up.
Den is one of the truest and best fellows
that ever lived; and when he comes
home, you’ll see—you will see for yourself.”

She bent towards him.

“Thank you, Roy! At the least, I
can promise one thing—that I will wait
to see!”

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

To place a piece of oil-cloth or American
baize over the whole or part of the kitchen
table is a very tidy plan and saves constant
scrubbing of the table.

Powdered rotten stone moistened with a
little paraffin, cleans brass-work beautifully,
after it has been washed with soap and water,
and at the end rubbed with a clean leather.

Bread-pans and cheese-pans should be
carefully wiped out every other day, and any
pieces of broken bread not left in the pan, but
put on a dish or plate till it is decided what
shall be done with them.

Sofa covers and rugs should be frequently
lifted and shaken in summer to find out if there
are any moths underneath. Spare blankets
should also be inspected, and fur cloaks and
trimmings should be well shaken and lightly
beaten occasionally.

All green vegetables should be carefully
washed with a little salt and water to free
them from the insects that find a home in
them, otherwise one may have unpleasant
experiences at the dinner-table.

{408}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

One of the special colours of the coming
season is said to be yellow, but no exact shade
is quoted, and so I had better warn my
readers and tell them that there are yellows
and yellows, and some of them are calculated
to make one look—dreadful! I think a
lemon yellow is, as a rule, the safest shade
of all.

White gowns are in preparation, and, so
far as I can see, will be quite as much worn
as they were last year by everyone; and really
they seem universally becoming.

Black skirts are no longer correct when
worn with light-coloured blouses. There
should always be a repetition of the colour
of the skirt in the blouse. For instance, the
skirt being of blue cloth, the blouse should
repeat the blue, mixed with any other hue you
may select.

I do not see any sign of that disappearance
of the blouse which has been so often
threatened; but I see that the advent of the
tight-fitting small coat may render them
unnecessary, as the small coats are made in
such a dressy style, with fronts of lace, and
pretty decorations, so that they take the place
of a bodice.

FOUR SPRING GOWNS.

There is also a very decided advance in the
popularity of the Princess dress. Indeed, so
tight-fitting are the present styles, that we
might really just as well adopt it, for we are
wearing what is next akin. In evening gowns
there is a great liking for it, and a desire to
do away with the waist-band that has been
worn so long; and as we must be slim and
slight this year, if we are to be at all in the{409}
fashion, so we shall see that all styles will
tend to help this one. What a sad thing for
the extremely stout! But I think it is in
reality a good thing that women and men
should never allow themselves to become so,
for if we think the matter over seriously, we
shall soon arrive at the conclusion that it
spoils our usefulness both to ourselves and to
others, and makes our days a burden. So
if Dame Fashion steps in to decree against
it, we may hail her interposition as a blessing
indeed.

The “tunic” drapery is the new note of all
the spring skirts, and really so tight-fitting
are all of them, that we wonder how we are
going to sit down! In Paris this form of
trimming has been most popular, and there
the blouse and skirt are arranged so as to look
exactly like a polonaise.

The new toques are larger than those of last
year, and much wider. They generally should
match the colour of the gown with which they
are worn. The trimmings are put on both in
front and on the left side, and consist of ostrich
tips, chou bows, or rosettes. It is said that
gold ornaments are to take the place of paste
ones in all the hats of next season; and I
notice that steel buttons are more used than
anything else for gowns and blouses.

The edges of so many of the new gowns
are cut in scallops that this mode of decoration
seems to be quite one of the fashions of the
year, and a glance
at the drawings
for the month
shows how extremely
short the
coats have become.
That
called “Four
Spring Gowns”
shows some of the
prevailing modes
with great accuracy.
The figure
on the extreme
left wears a cloth
Princess gown
made up with a
tartan velvet
yoke, sleeves, and
panels. The
colour of the cloth
was blue, and the
tartan was one of
the blue and green
ones, with a tiny
red line. The front
is decorated with
embroidery. The
next figure wears a
velvet or cloth gown
of black, with a coat
scalloped and braided.
The collar is of white
silk embroidered with
black; hat of velvet,
with white silk and white
feathers. Third figure wears
a gown of sage-green cloth,
trimmed with a green silk
check and bands of green velvet,
front of chiffon and white silk.
The seated figure
wears a plain walking
gown of grey
cloth; the bodice is a
tight-fitting one, with a
very short basque; and the
whole is edged with rows
of machine stitching on
the bodice and skirt.

TEA-GOWN FOR A YOUNG LADY.

There is a great liking
this spring for shepherds’
plaid, and it seems likely
to be used for gowns and
blouses as well as capes.
Our sketch shows a tailor-made
gown, which is trimmed with black
braid, and has one of the shaped flounces on
the skirt. The collar is lined with white silk,
and there is a front of tucked silk-muslin, and
a tie and bow of the same. The hat is of
white straw, and is trimmed with white plush,
black velvet, and black and white feathers.
Veil of white, with black dots.

TAILOR-MADE GOWN OF SHEPHERD’S PLAID.

The second figure in this illustration wears
a charming costume of pale grey cloth which
shows the manner in which braid is put on
and mingled with embroidery. The braid
in this case is of white silk; the edges of
both coat and epaulettes are scalloped; and
the braiding is arranged in a pointed shape
on the skirt. The toque is a very pretty
one of a grey shade to match the gown;
and is of velvet, ornamented with a wreath
of green leaves and an arrangement of
white wings.

It is sometimes useful to know how to
make a tea-gown for a young lady which
will be useful and pretty, and youthful
enough in its style for the years of its
wearer. The tea-gown illustrated is of
black silk, and is cut very plainly. It opens
over a skirt of white satin, with a vest of
the same. This last is covered with white
net with jet embroidery. There is a flounce
of the silk on either side of the front, which
is lined with white satin, and the high
collar is lined with the same.

The lady in out-of-door costume who
stands beside her is dressed in a dark blue
cashmere or cloth gown, scalloped and
trimmed with white braid, a hat of fancy
straw, with pink roses and quills.

I have no doubt that many people are{410}
wondering whether capes are going to be
worn still, and how they will be made; so
I must proceed to answer that question now.
The new capes are much like the best winter
ones have been, cut very round in front, and
scant as to fulness, rather longer too than
they have been worn at the back, and with
the same very wide and full flounce surrounding
them. There are also some very short
ones, but just now it is said to be too soon
to speak of capes, or indeed is there much
known about purely summer things, though
I hear that thin materials will be worn over
silk as much as they were last year, and some
new materials which combine the thin and
the thick together have been brought out;
they are woven together making one material.
But I do not know whether they will be
popular, and most people like the silk under-gown
and its pleasant rustle. The effort to
deprive us of them resulted in failure, and
nun’s veiling and all soft linings were pronounced
a failure.

Amongst other novelties, there is a new
shape of Tam-o’-Shanter, which has a kind
of peak added to it in front, rather after the
manner of a jockey’s cap. This makes them
far more becoming, as well as more serviceable
in all weathers, and in every way they look
more close-fitting than of yore. This new
Tam has been worn during the last winter at
many of the county meets, accompanied by
a long tight-fitting coat. A bright red, a
light mauve, and a pretty stone colour have
all been seen, and very well and suitable they
looked. There has been a universal tendency
to wear light-hued cloth this season, and
nearly every shade of red and scarlet.

I suppose everyone has seen by the papers
that the latest idea at weddings has been to
have the wedding breakfast in the train which
conveyed the bride and groom, as well as the
whole wedding party, to London from the
country town which had been the scene of
the marriage. This fashion will, of course,
be reserved for millionaires only, but as
straws show how the wind blows, at several
recent marriages the newly-wedded pair have
made their escape from the door of the
church, and there has been no wedding reception
of any kind. So, perhaps, even our
very modified form of wedding entertainment
will be reduced still further, and end off at the
church.

The going-away gown at all the recent
smart weddings seems to have been invariably
made of cloth; roan-colour, petunia, light
grey, turquoise blue, dark and light mauve,
and heliotrope are all colours that have been
seen at recent marriages in good society.
The first-named was lined with a shot-blue
glacé silk, and was made with a bodice which
had a full vest of cream-coloured lace and
revers of dark blue velvet. The dress of
petunia cloth had a coat of petunia velvet,
slashed with mauve; and as a rule gowns of
pale grey are trimmed with grey velvet of a
darker shade, with a hat to match. The
turquoise blue was an embroidered gown with
chenille and silk, and was relieved by cream-coloured
lace and a collar. All of these
gowns will be useful afterwards, and were
none of them too grand for daily life. This
is a point that many girls with a limited allowance
have to think of, as the going-away
gown often has to become the walking and
visiting dress of the future days. So it must
be chosen with deliberation and care.

I hear that in Paris the popular gown for
the early spring for ordinary wear will be
black serge; this is made as a coat or Directoire
coat bodice, braided or not as is preferred, in
fact made in any way that seems suitable to
everyday use. The best gown as I have
said is of some light-hued cloth, and for best
summer wear the thin grenadines over silk are
most fashionable as well as the most useful
of dresses. So there is no doubt as to the
gowns that will be wanted. The next thing
to consider is what are the requirements of
our own wardrobes, and what can we do
without, alter, or purchase for the coming
season.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XXV.

“Convalescence,” remarked Peggy
elegantly, a week later on, “convalescence
is a period not entirely devoid
of compensation!” She was lying
on a sofa in her bedroom at the Larches,
wrapped in her white dressing-gown,
and leaning against a nest of pink silk
cushions; and what with a table drawn
up by her side laden with grapes and
jelly, a pile of Christmas numbers lying
by her side, and the presence of an
audience consisting of Rosalind, Lady
Darcy and Mrs. Asplin, ready to listen
admiringly to her conversation, and to
agree enthusiastically with every word
she uttered, it did indeed seem as if the
position was one which might be endured
with fortitude! Many were the
questions which had been showered upon
her since her return to consciousness,
and the listeners never grew tired of
listening to her account of the accident.
How Rosalind had clutched too carelessly
at the slender candlestick so that
it had fallen forward, setting the gauze
dress in flames, and how she herself had
flown out of the room, torn down the
curtains which draped the “harem”
and had flung them round the frantic,
struggling figure. There were a dozen
questions which they were longing to
ask, but the remembrance of that tragic
evening seemed to excite the little
invalid, so that for the present they
remained unspoken.

With every day that passed, however,
Peggy gained more strength, and was
petted to her heart’s content by everyone
in the house. The old lord kissed
her fondly on the cheek and murmured,
“God reward you, my brave girl, for I
never can.” Lady Darcy shed tears
every morning when the burns were
dressed, and said; “Oh, Peggy dear,
forgive me for being cross, and do, do
be sure to use the lotion for your arms
regularly every day when you get
better!” and the big Doctor chucked
her under the chin and cried,

“Well, ‘Fighting Saville,’ and how
are we to-day? You are the pluckiest
little patient I’ve had for a long time. I’ll
say that for you! Let’s have another
taste of the rack!”… It was all
most agreeable and soothing to one’s
feelings!

One of the first questions Peggy
asked after her return to consciousness
was as to how much her father and
mother had been told of her accident,
and whether the news had been sent by
letter or cable.

“By letter, dear,” Mrs. Asplin replied.
“We talked it over very carefully,
and concluded that that would be
best. You know, dearie, we were very,
very anxious about you for a few days,
but the doctor said that it would be useless
cabling to your mother, because if
all went well you would be up again
before she could arrive, and if—if it
had gone the other way, Peggy, she
could not have been in time. I sent
her a letter, and I have written every
mail since, and now we are going to
calculate the time when the first letter
will arrive, and send a cable to say that
you are quite out of danger, and sitting
up, and getting hungrier and more
mischievous with every day as it
passes!”

“Thank you,” said Peggy warmly.
“That’s very kind. I am glad you
thought of that, but will you please
promise not to be economical about the
cable? They won’t care about the
money. Spend pounds over it if it is
necessary, but do, do manage to make
them believe that I am quite perky.
Put at the end ‘Peggy says she is
perky!’ They will know that is
genuine, and it will convince them more
than anything else.” And so those
five expressive words went flashing
across the world at the end of a long
message, and brought comfort to two
hearts that had been near to breaking.

So soon as Peggy was pronounced
to be out of danger, Mrs. Asplin went
back to the vicarage, leaving her in
the charge of the kind hospital nurse,
though for that matter every member of
the household took it in turns to wait
upon her. A dozen times a day the
master and mistress of the house would
come into the sick-room to inquire how
things were going, or to bring some
little gift for the invalid, and as she
grew stronger it became the custom for
father, mother and daughter to join her
at her early tea. Peggy watched them
from her sofa, too weak to speak much,
but keenly alive to all that was going
on, among other things to the change
which had come over these three persons
since she had known them first. Lord
Darcy had always been kind and considerate,
but his manner seemed gentler
and more courteous than ever, while
Rosalind’s amiability was an hourly
surprise, and Lady Darcy’s manner had
lost much of its snappish discontent.
On one occasion when her husband
made some little request, she replied in{411}
a tone so sweet and loving that the
listener started with surprise. What
could it be that had worked this transformation?
She did not realise that
when the Angel of Death has hovered
over a household, and has at last flown
away with empty arms, leaving the home
untouched, they would be hard hearts
that were not touched, ungrateful
natures that did not take thought of
themselves, and face life with a higher
outlook! Lady Darcy’s social disappointments
seemed light compared with
the awful “might have been”; while
Rosalind’s lamentations over her disfigurement
had died away at the sight
of Peggy’s unconscious form. Perhaps
when Lord Darcy thanked Peggy for all
she had done for him and his, he had
other thoughts in his mind than the mere
physical deliverance of which she had
been the instrument!

Arthur had been kept well informed of
his sister’s recovery, and proved himself
the kindest of brothers, sending letters
by the dozen, full of such nonsensical
jokes, anecdotes, and illustrations, as
would have cheered the gloomiest invalid
in the world. But the happiest day of
all was when the great news arrived that
his name was placed first of all in the
list of successful candidates for Sandhurst.
This was indeed tidings of comfort
and joy! Peggy clapped her
bandaged hands together, and laughed
aloud with tears of pain streaming
down her face. “Arthur Saville, V.C.,
Arthur Saville, V.C.,” she cried, and
then fell to groaning because some days
must still elapse before the medical
examination was over, and her hero was
set free to hasten to her side.

“And I shall be back at the vicarage
then, and we shall all be together! Oh,
let us be joyful! How happy I am!
What a nice old world it is, after all,”
she continued hilariously, while Rosalind
gazed at her with reproachful
eyes.

“Are you so glad to go away? I
shall be vewy, vewy sowwy—I’ll miss
you awfully. I shall feel that there is
nothing to do when you have gone
away, Peggy!” Rosalind hesitated, and
looked at her companion in uncertain
bashful fashion. “I—I think you like
me a little bit now, and I’m vewwy fond
of you, but you couldn’t bear me before
we were ill. You might tell me why?”

“I was jealous of you,” said Peggy
promptly, whereat Rosalind’s eyes filled
with tears.

“You won’t be jealous now!” she
said dismally, and raised her head to
stare at her own reflection in the mirror.
The hair, which had once streamed
below her waist, was now cut short round
her head, her face had lost its delicate
bloom, and an ugly scar disfigured her
throat and the lower portion of one
cheek. Beautiful she must always be,
with her faultless features and wonderful
eyes, but the bloom and radiance of
colour which had been her chief charm
had disappeared, for the time being, as
completely as though they had never
existed.

“I’ll love you more,” said Peggy reassuringly.
“You are ever so much
nicer, and you will be as pretty as ever
when your hair grows, and the marks
fade away. I like you better when you
are not quite so pretty, for you really
were disgustingly conceited, weren’t you
now? You can’t deny it.”

“Oh, Peggy Saville, and so were you!
I saw that the first moment you came
into the woom! You flared up like a
Turkey cock if anyone dared to offend
your dignity, and you were always widing
about on your high horse tossing
your head, and using gweat long
words.”

“That’s pride, not conceit. It’s
quite a different thing.”

“It seems very much alike to other
people,” said Rosalind shrewdly. “We
both gave ourselves airs, and the wesult
was the same, whatever caused it. I was
pwoud of my face, and you were pwoud
of your—your—er—family—and your
cleverness and—the twicks you played,
so if I confess, you ought to confess
too. I’m sorry I aggwavated you,
Mawiquita, and took all the pwaise for
the decowations. It was howwibly mean,
and I don’t wonder you were angwy.
I’m sorry that I was selfish!”

“I exceedingly regret that I formed a
false estimate of your character! Let’s
be chums!” said Peggy sweetly, and
the two girls eyed one another uncertainly
for a moment, then bent forward
and exchanged a kiss of conciliation,
after which unusual display of
emotion, they were seized with instant
embarrassment.

“Hem!” said Peggy. “It’s very
cold! Fire rather low, I think. Looks
as if it were going to snow.”

“No,” said Rosalind, “I mean—yes.
I’ll put on some more—I mean
coals. In half an hour Esther and
Mellicent will be here——”

“Oh, so they will! How lovely!”
Peggy seized gladly on the new opening,
and proceeded to enlarge on the joy
which she felt at the prospect of seeing
her friends again, for on that afternoon,
Robert and the vicarage party were to
be allowed to see her for the first time,
and to have tea in her room. She had
been looking forward to their visit for
days, and now that the longed-for hour
was at hand, she was eager to have the
lamps lit, and all preparations made for
their arrival.

Robert appeared first, having ridden
over in advance of the rest. And
Rosalind, after going out to greet him,
came rushing back, all shaking with
laughter, with the information that he
had begun to walk on tip-toe the
moment that he had left the drawing-room,
and was creeping along the
passage as if the floor were made of
egg-shells.

Peggy craned her head, heard the
squeak, squeak of boots coming nearer
and nearer, the cautious opening of
the door, the heavy breaths of anxiety,
and then, crash!—bang!—crash! down
flopped the heavy screen round the doorway,
and Rob was discovered standing
among the ruins in agonies of embarrassment.
From his expression of despair,
he might have supposed that the shock
would kill Peggy outright; but she
gulped down her nervousness, and tried
her best to reassure him.

“Oh, never mind—never mind! It
doesn’t matter. Come over here and
talk to me. Oh, Rob, Rob, I am so
glad to see you!”

Robert stood looking down in silence,
while his lips twitched and his eyebrows
worked in curious fashion. If it had
not been altogether too ridiculous, Peggy
would have thought that he felt inclined
to cry. But he only grunted, and
cried—

“What a face! You had better tuck
into as much food as you can, and get
some flesh on your bones. It’s about as
big as the palm of my hand! Never
saw such a thing in my life.”

“Never mind my face,” piped Peggy
in her weak little treble. “Sit right
down and talk to me. What is the
news in the giddy world? Have you
heard anything about the prize? When
does the result come out? Remember
you promised faithfully not to open the
paper until we were together. I was so
afraid it would come while I was too ill
to look at it!”

“I should have waited,” said Robert
sturdily. “There would have been no
interest in the thing without you; but
the result won’t be given for ten days
yet, and by that time you will be with
us again. The world hasn’t been at all
giddy, I can tell you. I never put in a
flatter time. Everybody was in the
blues, and the house was like a tomb,
and a jolly uncomfortable tomb at that.
Esther was housekeeper while Mrs.
Asplin was away, and she starved us!
She was in such a mortal fright of being
extravagant, that she would scarcely
give us enough to keep body and soul
together, and the things we had were
not fit to eat. Nothing but milk puddings
and stewed fruit for a week on end.
Then we rebelled. I nipped her up in
my arms one evening in the school-room
and stuck her on the top of the little
book-case. Then we mounted guard
around, and set forth our views. It would
have killed you to see her perched up
there, trying to look prim and to keep
up her dignity.

“‘Let me down this moment, Robert!
Bring a chair and let me get down.’

“‘Will you promise to give us a pie
to-morrow then, and a decent sort of a
pudding?’

“‘It’s no business of yours what I
give you. You ought to be thankful for
good wholesome food!’

“‘Milk puddings are not wholesome.
They don’t agree with us—they are too
rich! We should like something a little
lighter for a change. Will you swear
off milk puddings for the next fortnight
if I let you down?’

“‘You are a cruel, heartless fellow,
Robert Darcy—thinking of puddings
when Peggy is ill, and we are all so
anxious about her!’

“‘Peggy would die at once if she
heard how badly you were treating us.
Now then, you have kept me waiting for
ten minutes, so the price has gone up.
You’ll have to promise a pair of ducks
and mince pies into the bargain!
I shall be ashamed of meeting a sheep
soon, if we go on eating mutton every
day of the week.’

“‘Call yourself a gentleman!’ says{412}
she, tossing her head and withering me
with a glance of scorn.

“‘I call myself a hungry man, and
that’s all we are concerned about for
the moment,’ said I. ‘A couple of
ducks and two nailing good puddings
to-morrow night, or there you sit for the
rest of the evening!’

“We went at it hammer and tongs
until she was fairly spluttering with
rage; but she had to promise before
she came down, and we had no more
starvation diet after that. Oswald went
up to town for a day and bought a pair
of blue silk socks and a tie to match—that’s
the greatest excitement we have
had. The rest has been all worry and
grind, and Mellicent on the rampage
about Christmas presents. Oh, by-the-by,
I printed those photographs you
wanted to send to your mother, and
packed them off by the mail a fortnight
ago, so that she would get them in good
time for Christmas.”

“Rob, you didn’t! How noble of
you! You really are an admirable
person!” Peggy lay back against her
pillows and gazed at her “partner” in
great contentment of spirit. After living
an invalid’s life for these past weeks it
was delightfully refreshing to look at
the big strong face. The sight of it
was like a fresh breeze coming into the
close, heated room, and she felt as if
some of his superabundant energy had
come into her own weak frame.

A little later the vicarage party
arrived, and greeted the two convalescents
with warmest affection. If they
were shocked at the sight of Rosalind’s
disfigurement and Peggy’s emaciation,
three out of the four were polite enough
to disguise their feelings; but it was
too much to expect of Mellicent that she
should disguise what she happened to
be feeling. She stared and gaped, and
stared again, stuttering with consternation—

“Why—why—Rosalind—your hair!
It’s shorter than mine! It doesn’t come
down to your shoulders! Did they cut
it all off? What did you do with the
rest? And your poor cheek! Will you
have that mark all your life?”

“I don’t know. Mother is going to
twy electwicity for it. It will fade a good
deal, I suppose, but I shall always be a
fwight. I’m twying to wesign myself
to being a hideous monster!” sighed
Rosalind, turning her head towards the
window the while in such a position that
the scar was hidden from view, and she
looked more like the celestial choir-boy
of Peggy’s delirium than ever, with the
golden locks curling round her neck,
and the big eyes raised to the ceiling in
a glance of pathetic resignation.

Rob guffawed aloud with the callousness
of a brother; but the other two
lads gazed at her with an adoring
admiration, which was balm to her vain
little heart. Vain still, for a nature
does not change in a day, and though
Rosalind was an infinitely more lovable
person now than she had been a few
weeks before, the habits of a life-time
were still strong upon her, and she
could never by any possibility be indifferent
to admiration, or pass a mirror
without stopping to examine the progress
of that disfiguring scar.

“It wouldn’t have mattered half so
much if it had been Peggy’s face that
was spoiled,” continued Mellicent with
cruel outspokenness, “and it is only her
hands that are hurt. Things always go
the wrong way in this world! I never saw
anything like it. You know that night-dress
bag I was working for mother,
Peggy? Well, I only got two skeins
of the blue silk, and then if I didn’t run
short, and they hadn’t any more in the
shop. The other shades don’t match
at all, and it looks simply vile. I am
going to give it to—ahem! I mean
that’s the sort of thing that always
happens to me—it makes me mad!
You can’t sew at all, I suppose.
What do you do with yourself all day
long now that you are able to get
up?”

Peggy’s eyes twinkled.

“I sleep,” she said slowly, “and eat,
and sleep a little more, and eat again,
and talk a little bit, roll into bed, and
fall fast asleep. Voilà tout, ma chère!
C’est ça que je fais tous les jours.”

Rosalind gave a shriek of laughter at
Peggy’s French, and Mellicent rolled
her eyes to the ceiling.

“How s—imply lovely!” she sighed.
“I wish I were you! I’d like to go to
bed in November and stay there till
May. In a room like this of course,
with everything beautiful and dainty,
and a maid to wait upon me. I’d have
a fire and an india-rubber hot-water
bottle, and I’d lie and sleep and wake
up every now and then and make the
maid read aloud, and bring me my
meals on a tray. Nice meals! Real,
nice invalidy things, you know, to tempt
my appetite.” Mellicent’s eyes rolled
instinctively to the table where the
jelly and the grapes stood together in
tempting proximity. She sighed, and
brought herself back with an effort to
the painful present. “Goodness, Peggy,
how funny your hands look! Just like
a mummy! What do they look like
when the bandages are off? Very
horrible?”

“Hideous!” Peggy shrugged her
shoulders and wrinkled her nose in
disgust. “I am going to try to grow
old as fast as I can, so that I can wear
mittens and cover them up. I’m really
rather distressed about it because I am
so—so addicted to rings, don’t you
know. They have been a weakness of
mine all my life, and I’ve looked
forward to having my fingers simply
loaded with them when I grew up.
There is one of mother’s that I especially
admire, a big square emerald surrounded
with diamonds. She promised to give
it to me on my twenty-first birthday,
but unless my hands look very different
by that time, I shall not want to call
attention to them. Alack-a-day! I fear
I shall never be able to wear a
ring——”

“Gracious goodness! Then you can
never be married!” ejaculated Mellicent
in a tone of such horrified dismay, as
evoked a shriek of merriment from the
listeners, Peggy’s merry trill sounding
clear above the rest. It was just
delicious to be well again, to sit among
her companions and have one of the old
hearty laughs over Mellicent’s quaint
speeches. At that moment she was
one of the happiest girls in all the
world!

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

How to Read.

Giving.

Grammar.—A school teacher, near Dawson,
Ga., having instructed a pupil to purchase a
grammar, the next day received a note, thus
worded, from the child’s mother:—“I do not
desire for Lula shall ingage in grammar as i
prefer her ingage in yuseful studies and can
learn her how to spoke and write properly
myself. I have went through two grammars
and can’t say as they did me no good. I
prefer her ingage in german and drawing and
vokal music on the piano.”

The Book of the Sky.

The great French writer, Victor Hugo,
wrote delightful letters to his children, as we
might expect from the fond and playful author
of L’Art d’être Grandpère. From one of
them we take the following passage. It occurs
in a letter sent from Boulogne to his favourite
daughter.

“All day,” he says, “I was looking at
churches and pictures and then at night I
gazed at the sky, and thought once more of
you as I watched that beautiful constellation,
the Chariot of God, which I have taught you
to distinguish among the stars.

“See, my child, how great God is, and how
small we are. Where we put dots of ink He
puts suns. These are the letters which He
writes. The sky is His book. I shall bless
God if you are always able to read it, and I
hope you may.”

Answer to Triple Acrostic I. (p. 299).

Iris—Lily—Rose.

A NEW GAME;

OR,

“HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?”

I went out the other night to an evening
party, a thoroughly enjoyable one of the old-fashioned
type, where we played games, did
what we liked, and were not afraid of being
thought silly because we were amused by
simple things. One of the games struck me
as peculiarly pretty and not too difficult for
anyone to join in, and as it was new to me I
write it down in case our girls have not heard
of it before.

It was started during supper by one of the
two hostesses remarking, “I have a little
garden and in it I buried a private soldier.
What flower did he come up?”

As we none of us guessed it she gave us
the answer, “A scarlet runner!” but carefully
explained that he ran towards the foe, not away
from him!

Then someone next her went on, “I, too,
have a little garden and in it I buried my
lover wounded in the wars. What flower
did he come up?”

The answer to this was, “Love lies bleeding.”

A young lady present whose father is a
well-known editor, and is called John, covered
herself with glory by burying him and
announcing that he came up a “Jon-quil!”

She also buried her youngest brother Willie,
who strongly objected to the process, but
was mollified when he found he came up as
“Sweet William!”

I personally “buried my lover in a London
fog,” so that he came up “Love in a Mist.”

The fun grew fast and furious till trees and
vegetables came into play, and one girl paid
a pretty compliment by asking, “I buried a
pretty person. What tree did she come up?”
but no one must guess it as the answer is
“Yew!”

Below I give a few questions and answers
to make it clear.

Of course these are only a few, but anyone
could easily find out as many more, and it is
surprising how readily suitable symbols come
to your mind and how interesting the game
becomes.

It can also be amplified into buried cities,
but the floral form is the prettiest of any.

HIS GREAT REWARD.

CHAPTER IV.

Magnus Duncan was in a brown study.
Rick, his terrier, had been endeavouring for
some time past to attract his master’s attention,
but so far his efforts had been fruitless.

Patients had been and gone, and the consulting-room
was empty save for Rick and
his master, but still Magnus made no move
to get his hat and go for a walk as his
custom was.

Rick could not understand it, so, finding
that poking his nose into the hand that
hung down over the arm of the chair, and
giving vent to small whines, produced no
effect, he suddenly jumped on to his master’s
knee and commenced to lick vigorously the
hand upon which Magnus had rested his
forehead.

With a start and a laugh Magnus came
back to earth, for, if the truth must be told,
he had been indulging in a habit which had
become common with him of late, viz., building
castles in the air. In these, too, a very
large part was played by a certain golden-haired,
hazel-eyed young lady known to the
reader under the name of Marielle Heritage.

For it had come to this, that Magnus
Duncan’s true heart had found its liege lady,
and his life’s happiness depended upon the
answer that Marielle would give to a certain
question which he intended to put to her
before long.

“If I could only be sure of her!” sighed
Magnus to himself. “But she is so modest
and shy, she will never let me be certain she
cares for me. I think she does though, in
spite of the reserve she wraps herself up in.
My queen!”

Humming unconsciously the air of Blumenthal’s
exquisite song, young Dr. Duncan got
up and fetched his hat and stick. Rick took
this as an invitation to a walk, and immediately
began to utter a series of sharp shrill
barks expressive of his delight at the prospect.
But he was doomed to disappointment after
all, for just as Magnus was leaving the house
a messenger came up in hot haste bearing a
note.

Opening it the young man read, “Please
come at once to 27, York Road. My mother
is seriously ill, and I do not know what is the
matter with her.—M. H.”

Magnus only waited to secure his bag, into
which he put various things of use in emergencies,
then hailing a hansom he was driven
rapidly along to York Road.

Arrived there he was shown up at once
into the room where Mrs. Heritage was lying
in bed, with Marielle standing anxiously
beside her.

One glance from the keen blue eyes at the
face upon the pillow told Magnus Duncan
what was amiss.

Marielle only whispered, “I am so glad you
have come,” then turning to Mrs. Heritage
said, “Mother darling, here is the doctor come
to see you.”

An inarticulate effort at speech accompanied
by a bewildered look was the only
response, and Marielle turned the most piteous
of faces to meet the kindly eyes of the young
man, saying, “She has been like this for
nearly two hours now, and I cannot think
what causes it.”

Magnus Duncan beckoned the girl to come
a little further away from the invalid while he
made a careful examination of the helpless
limbs. He could not trust himself to speak
at the moment. Her trouble almost unmanned
him.

The examination over, the young doctor
asked that one of the servants might be told
to remain in the sick-room while he had a
little talk with Marielle downstairs, and as
soon as they reached the little drawing-room
he asked, “Tell me just how this began?”

“It began with a cold,” replied Marielle.
“I had a slight one on Sunday and was
unable to go out, so mother said she would
not walk so far as St. Jude’s by herself, but
would go to St. Saviour’s instead for once.
When she came back she was shivering, and
she told me she had been shown into a pew
close beside a damp wall. She sneezed
violently, she said, so many times that people
turned to look at her, and she did not {414}like to
attract further attention by coming out. On
Monday and Tuesday she got up as usual,
but yesterday I persuaded her to stay in bed
as her cold was no better, and to-day she
became as you see her now. I thought at
first that she was only drowsy, then I became
very uneasy and sent for you.”

“Have you never seen paralysis before?”
asked Magnus gently.

“Oh, no! Oh! it cannot be that, surely.
Oh, say it is not that!” Yet as she asked,
she knew it must be so, from the pitiful look
in the honest eyes that met her own.

How hard it was for Magnus to stand by
and witness Marielle’s grief and be obliged to
suppress his longing to take her in his arms
and comfort her, was a secret that remained
locked in his breast.

He impressed upon her the necessity for
being brave, and after giving a few directions,
took his leave, promising to send a nurse in at
once.

It was the beginning of what proved to be
a long and trying illness for poor Mrs.
Heritage. Indeed at first it seemed a little
doubtful whether she would ever recover, but
this was during the first week only. After
that, the improvement in her condition though
very slow was sure, and though it was not
likely that she would ever again be so strong
and well as formerly, there was every reason
to hope that in time she might be able to
resume to a great extent her former active
life. Magnus Duncan continued to treat the
case himself, by common consent. Paralysis
was a subject to which he had given special
study and attention, and although the older
doctor accompanied his son once or twice at
first, it was more as a matter of form than
anything. It is superfluous to say that every
expedient that skill and devotion could bring
to bear upon the case was resorted to by the
young doctor, and his unceasing efforts were
not lost upon either Marielle or the invalid.
Both mother and daughter had been from the
beginning of the acquaintanceship, strongly
attracted towards him. He was so manly
and straightforward, so courteous and polite
to the weaker sex, yet without being in any
way effeminate.

Long since Mrs. Heritage had awakened
to the fact that her child was the object of
devoted love on the part of Magnus Duncan,
and far from feeling any displeasure at the
idea, she rejoiced exceedingly. There was no
one to whose care she would so gladly give
her beloved daughter. It would be an inexpressible
comfort to think of her darling
having a strong arm and true heart to defend
her, when she herself had been gathered to
her last long home.

Yet, like Magnus, Mrs. Heritage was not
sure of Marielle’s feelings towards the young
doctor. The girl was so maidenly and
modest, so free from conceit, that even if she
really reciprocated his love, she would not
show it until certain that she was indeed
sought by him.

Neither mother nor lover need have been
uneasy, however, for circumstances were lending
themselves to aid their dearest wish, and
Marielle’s heart had been won during these
long weeks of her mother’s illness.

Magnus as an acquaintance or friend had
always been charming, but Magnus in a sick-room
was a revelation to Marielle. His quiet,
yet withal bright and cheery, manner was the
very perfection of what a medical man’s should
be. It neither startled nor depressed his
patients by being either boisterous or melancholy;
and the gentle touch and tenderness
with which from time to time he examined
the paralysed limbs of Mrs. Heritage made
Marielle glow with gratitude, and resolve that
when a fitting opportunity presented itself she
would not fail to thank Magnus for all his
kindness.

Somehow she had an inkling that a few
words from herself would have more value in
his eyes than the biggest fee she could offer
him.

At the thought of the doctor’s and other
bills that would have to be paid, Marielle’s
heart sank. It would be rather difficult to
meet them all out of their slender income,
and for a month past she had done nothing to
earn money, owing to her mother’s illness.
Now, however, it was no longer necessary for
the nurse or anyone to sit up all night with
the invalid, and Marielle decided to sleep in
her mother’s room at night and let the nurse
take the day duty.

Accordingly she notified her pupils to the
effect that she would be able to resume her
teaching the following week, and prepared to
work hard.

Hence it came about that one day about a
fortnight later Magnus Duncan, calling in to
see Mrs. Heritage, who was promoted to a
sofa for a while in the afternoon now, found
her alone, Nurse Rigby having gone to prepare
some little invalid delicacy, and Marielle
being out.

Mrs. Heritage, who was making rapid progress
towards health, noticed the quick glance
around that the young doctor gave, and
answered it by remarking quietly:

“Marielle is out.”

Magnus reddened at having his thoughts
read so easily, but met the glance bent on
him by one as steady. Then he resolved to
take her into his confidence, and went straight
to the point.

“I see you have guessed my secret,” he
said. “Tell me, shall I have your consent if
I win her?”

Mrs. Heritage held out her hand, and
replied, as Magnus clasped it with his own:

“Yes, and my blessing too. There is no
one I know to whom I would so gladly give
my child.”

“Bless you for that!” cried Magnus. “But
do you think she cares for me?”

“Ask her, and see,” said Marielle’s mother,
smiling. “Remember she is not a girl to
wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“When can I see her?” asked Magnus.

“Well, she is teaching at Forman’s to-day,”
said Mrs. Heritage, “but she finishes about
half-past three, and I persuaded her to come
home by Roxton Road and take a walk in
the park. She is rather pale after nursing me
and being indoors so much, and I thought it
would do her good. She is so fond of the
Rose-walk that she is sure to stop some time,
so I do not think you will see her to-day,
unless”—smiling—“you come again on purpose.
You must make your own opportunity,
but whenever it may be, I shall rejoice so that
you bring me good news.”

In response to this kindly speech Magnus
Duncan just bent over the invalid and gave
her a hearty kiss, then bade her good-bye,
and was leaving the room when he turned
back to say:

“I had nearly forgotten my message. My
mother asked when she could come and see
you, and I told her any time now, as you were
doing so nicely; so she sent her love, and I
was to say she would come to-morrow afternoon
for a little while. Mr. Mellis also
waylaid me as I was coming here to-day with
a similar inquiry, so I promised to prepare you
for a visit from him too. Dear old man! he
has been so anxious about you. He would
not come to-morrow as my mother is coming,
but the day after.” And with a nod and
bright smile Magnus went on his way.

Odd, wasn’t it, that as soon as he stepped
into the road the young doctor’s feet should
turn in the direction of the High Park? The
sly fellow had been calculating the time at
which Marielle could arrive there, and had
come to the determination to seek her and
learn his fate from her own lips without further
delay.

He was in such a hurry to reach the Rose-walk,
and so absorbed in his own thoughts,
that he narrowly escaped being run over at a
street-crossing, but he never checked his pace
until he actually reached the spot where he
expected to find his love.

At first he failed to see her, and a blank
feeling of disappointment crept over him. The
next moment he descried her in the midst of
a group of merry children. One darling tot
had fallen and grazed her knee, and Marielle
was sitting with the little one in her lap,
kissing away the tears, and tenderly wiping
the place with her handkerchief.

Magnus stood and watched her there with
adoring eyes until, smiles having been restored
to the baby face of the child, she put her
down from her lap to run to her companions,
and rose herself to go home.

Turning, she met the rapt gaze of Magnus
Duncan—whom she had not hitherto perceived—which
made her heart beat fast and the
blood leap to her face. With an immense
effort at self-control she held out her hand,
with the remark:

“Dr. Duncan! I did not expect to meet
you here.”

“No? I have been to see your mother.”

“She is not worse, is she?” cried Marielle
hastily.

“Oh, no!” answered Magnus, smiling reassuringly.
“In fact, she is making a splendid
recovery, thanks to your good nursing.”

“Thanks to your kind care and attention,
you mean,” responded Marielle. Then, her
voice faltering a little: “Dr. Duncan, I cannot
tell you how I have thought about it, or what
it has been to me, but I can never, never
thank you sufficiently for all your goodness to
my darling mother. Oh! if I were rich I
would show you my gratitude in a practical
way, but I am only poor as yet, and thanks
are all I have to give you.”

They had turned into a shady alley, where
they were quite alone, and as Marielle spoke
she raised her eyes, brimming with tears, to
meet those of the man at her side.

“All you have to give me, Marielle? Why,
you have it in your power to give me the
greatest reward that was ever bestowed on
medical man!” Then, tenderly taking her
hand in his: “Won’t you give it me, my
darling? It is yourself I want.”

Trembling all over, Marielle essayed to
answer, but words would not come. Instead
she pressed the hand that held her own, and
looked up with a face like an April day, half
smiles, half tears.

Magnus Duncan read her reply aright, and
strained her to his heart.

“Ah!” said Marielle archly, a little later
on, “you say it is your greatest reward, but”—gravely—“I
had a far greater still—once.”

“I know all about it, my darling, and it
only makes me feel myself doubly blessed in
having won your love,” was Magnus Duncan’s
tender reply, as he drew Marielle’s hand
within his arm and they strolled slowly
homewards.

“It was a very pretty wedding,” was the
general remark about that which was solemnised
at St. Jude’s the following June. The
bride looked lovely in her shimmering white
robes, followed by six of her pupils as bridesmaids;
and the bridegroom looked so proud
and happy.

No tears were shed, for Marielle had begged
there might not be, since she was not going
to be separated from her mother for long; and
as everyone was pleased and happy, why should
they weep?

“If ever I marry,” had been Marielle’s
remark some years before, “I will not go
crying to my husband; it would be such a
poor compliment.”

And she kept her word.

R. S. C.

{415}

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

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MISCELLANEOUS.

OUR PUZZLE POEMS.

FOREIGN AWARDS.

A Puzzle-Solver.

Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each).

Very Highly Commended.

A. L. Baverstock (Natal), Ethel L. Glendenning
(New Zealand), Baroness Karola
Halm (Russia), Mrs. Hardy (Australia), Mrs.
Haybittel (Cape Colony), Mrs. A. E. Jones
(Hungary), Mrs. J. Mackenzie (Australia),
Mrs. H. Vogel (Bombay).

Highly Commended.

Mrs. G. Barnard (Australia), Ethel Bevan
(Ceylon), F. Fitz-Roy Dixon (Canada), Miss
Gamlen (France), Katherine J. Knop (Madras
Pres.), M. R. Laurie (Barbados), Mrs. S. F.
Moore (Australia), Peu-à-Peu (Ceylon), A.
Riedel (Germany), Elsie M. Wylie (South
Australia), John L. Young (Canada).

Prospectus Puzzle: Another Naught.

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Very Highly Commended.

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Greaves (Barbados).

Highly Commended.

Baroness Karola Halm (Russia), Elizabeth
Lang (France), Margarethe Scholtz (Berlin).

Honourable Mention.

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(New Zealand), Ethel Bevan (Ceylon), Elsie
V. Davies, Lillian Dobson (Australia), Louise
Guibert (Mauritius), Anna Hood (France),
Caroline Hunt (Tasmania), M. R. Laurie
(Barbados), Frances A. L. Macharg (Nat{416}al),
Jessie Mitchell (Canada), J. S. Summers
(Bombay), Annie G. Taylor (Australia).

OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.

OUR NEW SUPPLEMENT STORY.

Eglanton Thorne, a writer well known to
the readers of this magazine, is the author of
our new Supplement Story, entitled,

“Only a Shopgirl.”

It is a romantic story such as all will enjoy,
as much so indeed as the girl in the above
picture is evidently doing. It will indeed be
gratifying to the Editor if all his readers will
read it for themselves, and will write to tell
him the outline of the story on one side of a
sheet of foolscap paper, signing it, and adding
the full postal address, so that the three prizes
(£2 2s., £1 1s., and 10s. 6d.) may be sent to
the writers of the three best papers, and that
Certificates may be sent to those obtaining
a sufficient number of marks for Honourable
Mention. The last day for receiving the
papers is April 20th, and in no case can the
papers be returned.

RESULT OF LAST MONTH’S SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.

UP-TO-DATE MAIDENS.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

Ethel G. Goulden, Finsbury Park Road, N.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

Letitia E. May, Alton, Hants.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

Miss K. Beales, Blofield, Norwich.

Honourable Mention.

Ethel W. Cleveland, Bedford; Violet C.
Todd, Cornhill-on-Tweed; Lucy K. Chapman,
Weston-super-Mare; Alice Tanner,
Henbury, Bristol; Lottie Comley, Bristol;
Elizabeth Armstrong, Princes Park, Liverpool;
Annie Moscrop, Thorganby, York;
Jessie E. Jackson, Beverley; Bessie Hine,
S. Tottenham; Maggie Bisset, Aberdeen;
Rose E. Higgins, Gravesend; Mabel Moscrop,
Saltburn-by-Sea; Eva Mary Allport,
Barkston Gardens, S.W.; May Shawyer, Penrith;
Gertrude Borrow, Goldhurst Terrace,
N.W.; Sophie Gardner, Richmond Hill,
S.W.; Amy Entwistle, Crigglestone, Yorks.;
Mabel Gibson, Wandsworth Common; May
Maile, Provost Road, N.W.

FIRST PRIZE ESSAY.

Up-to-Date Maidens.

Mary Fraser, the heroine of this story, and her
sister Ethel are living in an unpretentious lodging
situated near the Marble Arch. Their father having
died a few years before this story opens, leaving his
affairs in a very unsatisfactory state, Mary and Ethel
found it necessary to add to the small allowance
granted them by their mother, by work in black-and-white
for a literary friend. They had joined the Far
West Club, an institution for women of all classes,
when they first installed themselves in London. This
Club they found very useful to them in many ways.
Now there had been an understanding between Mary
Fraser and a certain John Thornton for some years,
and although there was as yet no engagement, it was
almost an established fact. John Thornton was a
clever young barrister, and was fitted in every way
for Mary, but he objected strongly to the Club, having
somewhat old-fashioned ideas, and a misunderstanding
sprang up between the two. Mary felt disinclined to
give up her Club and its many benefits: and besides,
there was really nothing to object to in its members,
even if they did adopt masculine attire, or rather
some of them, for they all did not do so, they were
good at heart. And so Mary and John drifted apart.
It was at the Club that Mary met Irene Thorpe, a
girl from New Zealand, who was living with her
brother in Oxford Street. A great friendship sprang
up between Mary and Irene, and when Irene’s brother
had to return to Auckland suddenly, in response to
an urgent call from his father, it was arranged that
Mary should remain with her as companion while she
stayed in England. This plan was very agreeable to
Mary, who did not care much for the sketching in
black-and-white, and was not so clever at it as
Ethel.

One day Irene went to see Annie Simpson, one of
the poorer members of the Club, who was ill, and
when she arrived at her mean abode, she found the
poor girl starving. This completely sobered Irene,
who was inclined to be flippant at times, and she did
so much for the poor girl, paying for her rent and
food, that she soon got well again. When Irene
returned to Auckland, she took Annie with her as
maid, and Mary, who had had a little money left her
by Miss Mortimer, one of the older members of the
Club, and with whom she was a great favourite, determined
to join a Sister’s Staff in the East End, where
there was a great strike going on, and these Sisters
were able to greatly relieve the sufferings of the
starving population. It was here that John Thornton
found her again, and the misunderstanding being
cleared up, they were married after Mary had
remained about nine months longer in the Sisterhood
in the East End.

Ethel Gertrude Goulden.

[Transcriber’s Note: the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 411: you to your—when your hair grows.

Page 412: Gu. to Ga.—Dawson, Ga.]