THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

A SWEET COMPANION.
From the Painting by M. Stanley.

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

“OUR HERO.”
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES OF HOLLAND.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

{593}

“OUR HERO.”

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

“NEARER TO A CANDLE TO READ IT.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down
upon her with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began
to tremble.

“We had no expectation of seeing you, sir,” she remarked with
great decorum.

She cast one little glance up.

“Have you travelled hard? You are sorely fatigued.”

“Polly, is all between us as it once was?” he asked.

Polly dropped her eyes.

“It is long since we parted,” she said, “and very long since any{594}
letter has reached me, sir. I cannot tell
how matters may be now. But six years
work changes. And I”—then another
glance as if she could not help herself—“I
do not like to see you so pale. You
were not so in past days.”

“There are a few matters to be
explained,” Denham remarked quietly.
“But first may I beg you to read this
short note from Jack? I do not know
what he may have said. He exacted
from me a promise that I would not fail
to give it to you within one half-hour of
my first arrival. Jack is now at Verdun
with Colonel and Mrs. Baron, as you
may have heard.”

“I did not know that. We heard
only that Jack was prisoner. It has
been a sad grief to me.”

“Will you have his letter now?”
asked Denham in his most courteous
tone.

“If you choose, sir.”

She moved two or three steps nearer
to a candle to read it. Jack’s left-handed
hieroglyphics were not to be
deciphered quickly. This was what she
made out:

Polly came across to where Denham
stood.

“Jack tells me of the mistake,” she
whispered. “And now I understand.
He tells me too that I am to comfort
you.”

She held out her hands, and he took
them into his strong grasp.

“Sweet Polly,” he said, in a voice
which shook a little despite his best
efforts, “you wrote to me once a letter
which was signed, ‘Yours faithfully, and
till Death.’ That letter I have never
parted with since the day it reached me—not
even when I feared that I had
indeed cause for doubt. Can you say
those words to me once again?”

Polly lifted her head and looked
straight into his eyes.

“I am yours, Captain Ivor, always
and ever, as long as life shall last,” she
uttered very clearly.

Twelve months later Denham stood in
the passage of the little London house,
which for more than eleven months had
been his home and Polly’s. He had
wasted no time in making her his wife.
He had but a year, he urged, and surely
the waiting had lasted long enough.

So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forego
her hopes of a grand and fashionable
wedding, to which all the quality should
be invited for the display of resplendent
costumes. Denham was neither in
health nor in spirits for such a function,
and Polly’s one wish was to do what
would give him pleasure.

They had been married quietly less
than three weeks after his return, and
Polly had done her best to comfort him,
and to win him back once more to
strength.

All that year he had not left her.
But now he was free, and duty called
him to the Peninsula, where the long
struggle was being carried on between
the Army of Wellington and the Army
of Napoleon. The Spaniards with
Wellington, as with Moore, did little
at any time beyond throwing hindrances
in the way of the British. Roy Baron
had gone out many months before.

It was hard work for Denham to say
good-bye, not only to Polly, with her
sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy,
with Polly’s own eyes of brown velvet,
who had come but a very short time
before to gladden their home. Denham
bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned
again to Polly.

“It will not be for long,” she whispered.
“I may think that, may I not?
Peace must surely come some day.”

“Not yet, dear heart,” he answered;
and she knew well that, acutely though
he felt leaving her, he yet longed to
share the fight with those who strove
for England and for Freedom—that fight
from which he had been so many years
debarred.

“Molly will be always here. And she
and I will think and talk of you and Roy
every day and every hour. And, oh,
Denham, if women’s prayers may bring
victory to men’s arms, victory will surely
be yours.”

“We shall conquer in the end, please
God, and in that way you may truly help
us, sweet one,” he replied.

Then he took her in his arms, and
held her very closely. And in another
minute he too was gone to the wars, as
so many thousands had to go in those
stirring days.

It was well that neither he nor she
could guess how long a separation
might again lie before them. For this
was only 1810, and the day which should
see Wellington at the head of his
victorious Army entering France lay
four years ahead.

Four years more also had Colonel and
Mrs. Baron to possess themselves in
patience, before they could again set
eyes on their boy, before they might
once more clasp in their arms the little
Molly, whom in 1803 they had quitted
for one fortnight’s absence.

Jack remained still at Verdun, and
before him too stretched four years of
unbroken captivity. But Jack, though
often disposed to chafe, yet found
something wherewith to pass his time.
This became gradually clear to Polly
and Molly, through letters received at
long intervals. At length came one in
which Jack gave particulars as to
Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and as to the
greatly improved condition of prisoners
at Verdun, under the new French Commandant.
After which he said—

“If ever this gets to England, it is to
inform you that I am proposing shortly
to become a married man. Lucille has
promised to be my wife.”

Molly sat smiling over the notion for
a long while.

“Jack was sure to marry,” she
remarked in a philosophic tone. “He
is of the sort not to be content without.
And you and Denham are exceeding
happy married, dear Polly. But, as for
me, I have no desire that way. Never
shall I care for any man in the whole
world as I care for Roy.” Then, in
words once spoken before, and perhaps
often repeated in her own mind since,
she added, “And so that matter is for
ever settled.”

Whether the matter were finally
settled or not, there can be no question
that Molly honestly meant what she said.

[THE END.]

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART V.

Since beginning this series of articles it has
occurred to us that it may be well to prevent
a possible misconception of the scope of the
title. “Self-culture” is a very large subject,
and includes a great deal more than the
culture of the mind. For instance, there is
moral self-culture—physical self-culture—æsthetic
self-culture—which, with other kinds
of self-culture, should be zealously sought.
But these subjects are exhaustively dealt with
from time to time by writers in The Girl’s
Own Paper, so that our special work lies
in the treatment of “culture” in its more
usual acceptation—the cultivation of the
intellect. And if our title seems rather
like a vast floating garment, too voluminous
for the slight form it enfolds, it must be
remembered that culture is generally understood
in the sense we have indicated.

Indeed one can hardly separate the different
parts of self-culture after all. It is by reading
the best books that the moral nature is
strengthened and cultivated, and that the
æsthetic sense is cultivated also. The eye
is opened to perceive the beauty of life and
of art, for example, by such a writer as
Ruskin. Then pictures cannot be properly
comprehended by one who never reads.
Take, as an illustration of this, a few of the
pictures which have been from year to year,
since 1890, lent to that splendid Guildhall
exhibition, where, absolutely without payment,
one can go to delight in modern and
ancient art.

{595}

Here is “A Martyr in the reign of
Diocletian,” by Paul Delaroche. This is the
picture of world-wide fame, known probably
to our readers by photographs if they have
not seen the original. A young Roman
girl, who has refused to sacrifice to the false
gods, has been thrown into the Tiber. Two
Christians, on the further bank, look with
mingled feelings on the young martyr as her
body floats past. Your spectator, ignorant of
history, would wonder who was Diocletian,
and what it was all about. Soon afterwards
we come to “Ophelia,” by G. F. Watts, R.A.,
and if you have not read Hamlet, you cannot
appreciate the beauty of this; nor, if you
know nothing of Dante, can you understand
“Paolo and Francesca da Rimini,” by the
same artist, where the hero and heroine of
the immortal story are sweeping through the
mist of the Inferno. In another year’s
exhibition we have “The City of Dis,” by
Albert Goodwin, also requiring a knowledge
of Dante; “Orpheus and Eurydice,” by
T. Graham, which could not appeal to anyone
ignorant of Greek mythology; “Antigone,”
by Lord Leighton, fully appreciated only by
those to whom Antigone is more than a name.

Consider even the two frontispieces to The
Girl’s Own Paper for February and March
last. The first, “An Antique Fête,” takes
for granted some knowledge of ancient
history. The reproduction of Miss Margaret
Dicksee’s charming picture “A Sacrifice of
Vanities,” will be fully understood only by
those who have enjoyed The Vicar of Wakefield.
It is unnecessary to go further, and if any
reader, on her next visit to a picture exhibition,
will note the remarks heard around her, she
will have a practical commentary on the truth
that Art cannot be fully comprehended and
appreciated without some literary education.
While standing, for instance, before such a
picture as “Pandora” by Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, one may overhear remarks like the
following—

“Pandora? Who’s she?”

“What’s she got in her hand?”

“Nescitur ignescitur is written on it!
What’s the meaning of that? Why couldn’t
he put plain English?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think she’s an English
person. She doesn’t look English, anyhow.”

“Oh, a heathen goddess, I suppose, carrying
fire about like that! A goddess with red
hair in a red dress? Anyhow, I don’t think
much of her. Come along!”

The literary preparation for the enjoyment
of Art is, of course, different from the technical
preparation for it; but, for preparation of
either kind, reading is necessary.

The kind of self-culture which at first sight
seems furthest apart from the culture of
which we write, is the physical kind. Sometimes,
indeed, mental and physical self-culture
may appear incompatible, especially when
time is limited.

“Don’t sit poring over that book; come
out into the fresh air!” is a familiar type of
address.

In the newly-published Letters of Robert
Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
we read that the doctor of the poetess carried
away her inkstand one day as a remedial
measure!

Discretion is needed, and the preservation
of health is a duty that comes to the front.
Exercise and other essentials to health must
not be neglected; and if health fails, the
power of mental self-culture will probably fail
too. But it is increasingly recognised that
cultivation of the brain in reason is excellent
for physical health, and that the woman with
the best chance of enjoying life is the woman
whose mental education has gone side by
side with physical culture.

So we come back to the point from which
we started, and observe that the different
provinces of self-culture are in reality closely
connected and interdependent, though we deal
in these articles with one province only.

In our last paper we touched on some books
that are almost, if not quite, indispensable to
any scheme of culture: books of the olden
world, that treat with the dawn of history as
we know it, and go on to the period of the
most brilliant of civilisations—that of Athens.
No attempt was made to give an exhaustive
list of the books dealing with the period
before the Christian era that should be read;
it would be impossible. But a few read and
enjoyed will point the way to others. These
papers do not constitute a full map of the
country to be explored; they simply act as a
sign-post, and readers must follow on to
explore for themselves.

The “guide-post” method is the only way
to advise readers, for much will always depend
on individual taste and inclination, and to
read without pleasure is a hopeless task. Dr.
Johnson said very wisely that, for general
improvement, a man should read whatever his
immediate inclination prompted him to. He
continued—

“If we read without inclination, half the
mind is employed in fixing the attention, so
that there is but one-half to be employed on
what we read.”

At the same time, this is only a partial
truth. To throw aside everything that does
not allure at the outset is not wise. Many
books that will charm and instruct are hard
to “get into,” and a little self-control and
perseverance will reap their reward in study
as in everything else. The truth lies midway
between two extremes. Do not get out of a
library some book because you are told to
read it, and at the close of a day’s work force
yourself to pore over the pages until you fall
asleep. On the other hand, do not confine
your reading exclusively to story-books and
the lighter magazines because they attract
you and require no effort of attention. Girls
are by far too prone to do this, forgetting that
a taste for deeper books may be cultivated like
every other taste.

It is true that many of the novels of the
present day deal with the graver problems of
life, and occasionally require an education to
understand them. Still, however philosophical
and thoughtful they may be, they should not
constitute the sole intellectual food of any mind.

“Why?” you may say. “If I can learn
all about early civilisation in a book like
Georg Ebers’ Egyptian Princess, about
mediæval and Scottish history in Scott’s
novels, about the Stuart period in John
Inglesant, about music in a story like Charles
Anchester, about modern problems of every
kind in George Eliot’s, Sir Walter Besant’s,
and Mrs. Humphry Ward’s pages—not to go
further—why not confine my reading to this
interesting and attractive form?”

There is an essay by the late Professor
T. H. Green of Oxford, which should be very
widely studied.[1] He answers the question
“Why not?” in a most forcible and masterly
way, and the gist of his reply is this. The
novel must perforce reproduce the circumstantial
view of life; we are called to look
again upon the incidents which day by day
distract our attention overmuch from the
“unseen and eternal” realities, and are
apt to be enthralled afresh by the view that
“to marry and live happily ever after” is man’s
and woman’s chief end. In other words, the
aspect of things the novelist shows us is
“merely the outward and natural as applied
to the inner or ideal.” He cannot give a
complete representation of life; for instance,
reproduce its slowness, its discipline by long
years of silent waiting and patient labour.
Much must be omitted of necessity, by reason
of conditions of the craft; much also, by
reason of artistic effect, must be so arranged
and rounded off as to give the impression of
a happiness impossible in life. The lesson
of life, then, in its completeness, cannot be
taught even by the best novel.

The reading of fiction is valuable in its
place, but it is not enough for the mind and
heart to feed upon.

We have not, however, as yet to consider
the reading of fiction pure and simple.
There is much besides to occupy attention,
and perhaps this is the place to insist upon
the reading of history. To connect the
remote regions of classic lore with the present
day, history is needed; but it is rather overwhelming
to look at the best books of history
and see how long and how numerous they
are! The primers of history are, however,
within the compass of all.

We have already mentioned Sir W. Smith’s
smaller histories of Greece and Rome.
Plutarch’s Lives of Greeks and Romans—made
easier in Plutarch for Boys and Girls,
translated extracts by Professor J. S. White—will
offer an interesting biographical way of
learning history. Macmillan’s History Primers
published at one shilling each are most useful.
You might begin by C. A. Fyffe’s Greece, or
Mahaffy’s Old Greek Life in this series, and
work gradually downwards. The “Story of
the Nations” Series, published at five shillings
by T. Fisher Unwin, consists of a number of
volumes, each about a different nation. Your
wisest course, indeed, if you cannot command
time for the reading of long histories (such as
Grote’s Greece, which, in ten volumes, is
invaluable to the student), is to obtain from
any bookseller a full list of Macmillan’s
“History Primers,” or Unwin’s “Story of the
Nations” Series, and select what you like,
always remembering that to get some connected
idea of the history of the world is
essential to the enjoyment of the literature of
the world.

For advanced students a most interesting
volume is Walter Bagehot’s Physics and
Politics, treating of the causes that influence
progress. Mahaffy’s Twelve Lectures on
Primitive Civilisations, and Froude’s Short
Studies on Great Subjects, or Carlyle’s posthumous
volume of Historical Sketches will be
found valuable. With regard to English history
you should read The Making of England, by
J. R. Green, and his Short History of the
English People; also Freeman’s History of
the Norman Conquest. A series called
Epochs of English History, written by
eminent authors, can be highly recommended.
Each part costs only ninepence. In
fact, helps to the study of history are so abundant
and cheap that it is superfluous in these
days of booksellers’ catalogues to enumerate
them further. Only, if you can read nothing
else, read primers, so as to obtain some distinct
notion of where you stand in the “long result
of Time.”

Although you should not rely for your
facts on plays and novels only, it is very
desirable, if possible, to read Shakespeare’s
plays, or some good historical novel, side by
side with the history of the period of which
they treat. Thus the dry bones of fact are
clothed, as it were, with flesh and blood, and
become living.

We must not be understood as saying that
everything in the historical novels mentioned
below is suitable for girls of every age.
Children should not read them; but these
articles are not intended for children. Adults
who are in the habit of choosing what they
shall read must discriminate among them,
always remembering that they should be taken
side by side with more “solid reading.”

Lily Watson.

(To be continued.)

{596}

THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES OF HOLLAND.

The peculiar head-dress worn by the ladies of
Holland during the last thousand years, and
known as the Friesland cap, has undergone no
change whatever from the time of its adoption
until now, and yet it is not becoming, nor does
it in any way add to the grace and beauty of
the women.

Much curiosity has been expressed as to its
origin, and why its form has been so strictly
adhered to while every other article
of dress has changed its fashion with
the seasons. We might never have
been able to solve the problem but
for the discovery of a legend by a
great authority on Frisian lore. The
following is but a bare outline.

Some twelve hundred years ago a
celebrated preacher of the Gospel
appeared among the Frisians. His
influence upon the people was remarkable,
especially upon Fostedina,
the prime minister’s daughter, a
beautiful girl of eighteen. She took
a deep interest in his words and in
the hymns sung by his followers, and
but for fear of her father and the
priest would have acknowledged herself
a Christian. The priest attached
to the Court was a cruel man, and
furious with all who adopted the
Christian religion. He not only imprisoned
them, but threatened that
unless they should recant he would
cast them into the arena among the
wolves and wild boars.

The day was at hand when this
threat was to be carried out, and the
prisoners, as they lay in their gloomy
cells, heard the preparations with
sinking hearts. In the dark hours of
the night, however, Fostedina came
to their aid and arranged their escape,
bidding them fly to the land of the
Franks.

When the steward came in the
morning to conduct the band of
Christians to the arena, the prison
was empty save for the girl Fostedina.
She pointed to the open window and
the ladder, and said, “They are safe,
thank God.”

The steward thought she was mad,
and begged her to go to her room,
as he felt sure the people would tear
her to pieces if they found out what
she had done. She, however, determined
to remain and face the consequences
of her deed, lest the punishment
should fall upon the missionary
and his followers, who were still
living in their midst.

She was taken before the King and
his council, and when asked why she
had done this thing, answered—

“Because I pitied the men and abhorred
the cruelty with which they were to have
been killed, and because I believe that our gods
of wood and stone are no gods, and that Jesus
Christ is the son of the living and true God.”

The King, turning to the Prime Minister,
said—

“She is your child; what is to be done with
her?”

The father answered—

“She is my only child, and the joy of my life.
If you throw her to the wolves I go with her.”

Then Adgillus, the King’s son, who loved
this girl, came forward to plead with his father
for her forgiveness, and he would probably
have succeeded but for the sarcasms and taunts
of the priest.

At length she was taken out and placed
between the council and the howling mob,
while the King said—

“Ye men of Friesland, this is the girl who
saved the Christians. What are we to do with
her?”

[From photo: C. B. Broersand, Leuwarden.

The girl was loved by the people, and they
felt compassion for her; but the priest, in a loud
voice, cried shame on them for their cowardice,
urging them to cruelty, until with a savage cry
they shouted, “To the wolves!”

Then Adgillus came forward, saying—

“If you kill her I will be a Frisian no longer.
If you throw her to the wolves I go with her
and fight with them for her with my sword,
which I have sworn to use for the protection
of the innocent and defenceless, and God
helping me, I’ll keep my oath!”

The applause of the people was deafening,
but the priest silenced them, saying—

“This girl has insulted our gods and embraced
the new religion. Therefore our law
requires her death.”

But the people cried out, with their thousands
of voices—

“She shall not die!”

The priest, pale with spite and
anger, said—

“Well, let her live. She has been
trying for a crown; let her have her
wish. Here is one exactly like that
worn by the Christ whom she worships.”
So saying, he took from
under his cloak a crown of thorns
and held it up for inspection. Again
a shout went up, “Crown her!
Crown her!”

And so it happened that on the
following day she stood in the arena
from sunrise to sunset, wearing the
crown of thorns, and although her
forehead and temples were painfully
pierced by the sharp thorns and the
blood ran down her cheeks she did
not utter a sigh or a murmur. The
next day, having been banished, she
left the country, accompanied by the
missionary and his followers, nor was
the King’s son seen in Friesland for
many a long day after this. He
joined the army of the Franks, and
accounts of his prowess and valour
filled the land.

At the King’s death Adgillus succeeded
him notwithstanding the opposition
of the priests. The people
loved him and offered no objection
to receive Fostedina as their Queen,
and she and Adgillus were married
by the missionary, according to
Christian rites.

The marks of the crown of thorns
were still visible on her forehead and
temples when, by the side of her
royal husband, Fostedina rode into
the old city of Stavorly, where the
Frisian kings resided. At the sight
of these scars the people were greatly
troubled, for it reminded them of
the cruelty with which they had
treated her in days gone by.

On the morning of the great festival
with which the new king’s inauguration
was to be celebrated,
twelve high-born maidens entered
the Queen’s apartment and presented
her with a golden crown of such a
shape that it completely hid the
marks made by the crown of thorns.
Two golden plates covered her
temples, while a splendid golden strip passed
over the forehead. Fostedina accepted, but
did not like it. She remarked—

“It will never come up to the crown of
thorns, but my God has still a better crown in
store for me.”

From that time it became the fashion for
every noble lady to wear one like it, a custom
which has continued down to the present day,
though the reason of its adoption has been
forgotten.

{597}

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER XII.

KITCHEN COURTSHIPS.

ucy secured “a
girl” at last.
The girl
called herself
“a girl,”
the registry
office keeper
called her
“a girl,”
and Lucy
said within
herself that
she could not
very well call
her anything
else. What else
was she? She had
not the appearance
or manner of the trained servant.
She gave no sign of the habits or nature
which Lucy would have rejoiced over
in “a maid.” She was “a girl,” ready
to do work for a wage. She was but a
bundle of negations. Yet Lucy felt
bound to take her, not only because
time pressed, but because there was
really no reason why she should reject
her.

The girl gave “a reference” to a
house not very far from Pelham Street.
She had been servant there for two
years. So Lucy locked up the
little house with the verandah, took
Hugh by the hand, and went off to
inquire “the character” of “Jane
Smith.”

The house at which her journey ended
was dismally dim and genteel. It was
not dirty or neglected, but it was not
bright nor cared for. Jane Smith herself
opened the door. It was the last
day of her “notice” month.

The lady who received Mrs. Challoner
was a limp faded personage who listened
to Lucy’s errand with such unsmiling
weariness that Lucy felt quite sorry to
have disturbed her.

“Oh, Jane Smith? Well, Jane Smith
is very fair—as servants go nowadays.
I think she has been with me two years.
She gave me notice herself. I forget
why, really—some trifle it was. I
thought it may be as well—for when
they stay too long in one place they get
careless.”

“I don’t think two years is very long,
and they ought to grow more valuable
the longer they stay,” said Mrs.
Challoner.

“Oh, yes, of course they should,
but they don’t. Two years is a very
reasonable time as things are nowadays.”

“And you found her perfectly honest
and truthful and reliable?” asked Lucy,
who somehow felt shy in making these
inquiries. It seemed to her queer that
the mere fact that our servants require
to earn their bread in our houses, should
entitle one to ask searching questions
about them such as we never ask
before admitting acquaintances to our
society!

“Honest? Yes, I have no reason to
think her otherwise. I never missed
anything, and any outlays she made
always seemed correct. Truthful?
Well, I never ask my servants questions,
I make a point of that. I form
my own conclusions about anything
that happens. Reliable? Reliable?”—the
lady echoed those words with
significant notes of interrogation and
exclamation—“I scarcely know how
far you mean that word to go. I found
no fault with her. I never care to
get acquainted with my servants. If
they do their work and give me no
cause for displeasure that is enough
for me.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Do you know anything about Jane
Smith’s own people?” asked Lucy.

The lady shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “I have never
found it necessary to make any inquiries.
I allow no visitors. I give my servants
one half-day off every week, but I don’t
give it always on a regular day. I think
that is a good plan. They get out on
Sunday evening, when I expect them
to go to the pew which I occupy in the
morning. I think that is giving them
every opportunity to be steady and
respectable if they desire to be so.”
The mistress herself prepared to show
Mrs. Challoner to the door. She
checked herself, however, to ask if
her visitor would like to see Jane
then or to have a call from her that
evening, and Lucy accepted the latter
alternative.

Three hours later Jane Smith came
up to Mrs. Challoner’s house to hear the
result of the inquiries about her. Lucy
resolved to have a little conversation
with the girl, to see if she could discover
any bit of genuine human nature beneath
the professional automaton which was
all that her last mistress had required.
Indeed she felt she must learn something
more about the girl than that
mistress had ever known.

“Do you belong to London?” she
asked.

“No, ma’am,” answered Jane with
a slight hesitancy, for which it seemed
hard to account. Could some mistress
have raised an objection to country
girls?

“To what part of the country do you
belong?” Lucy went on.

“I didn’t belong to the country,
ma’am,” she said. “I’ve always lived
in a town. I come from Hull.”

“Oh, I understand,” Lucy replied.
“Have you any relatives or friends in
London?”

Again the curious hesitancy.

“No relatives here, ma’am.”

Lucy began to think she understood.

“Nor any friends?” she pressed.
“No friends at all? Are you engaged
to be married or likely to be so?”

Jane Smith’s expression changed.

“Well, yes, ma’am,” she admitted.

“And does the young man live in
London?”

“If you please, yes, ma’am.”

“Do your people know him?” Lucy
persisted.

Jane Smith looked at her timidly.

“They’ve never seen him yet, ma’am.
He hopes to go down there with a cheap
trip next Easter. It’s a long way for
poor folks.”

“If this is a real serious love affair,
Jane—no mere silly flirting, I shall give
you leave to let him come to see you
once a week,” said Lucy.

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered
Jane.

Then for the first time in the whole
interview she volunteered a remark.

“The last mistress—the one you saw—she
didn’t allow followers. That was
why I gave her notice.”

“But she might have made a concession
if you had asked her specially,”
Lucy remarked, with a laudable desire
to be loyal to her own order.
“You did not do so?” she added
interrogatively.

Jane Smith shook her head.

“’Twouldn’t have been no use,
ma’am,” she answered decidedly.
“Three weeks running my evening
out had been pouring with rain, but she
took me up sharp because she saw me
speaking to him for a minute or two at
the area gate one morning.”

“Well, naturally mistresses are particular
concerning who comes about
their houses,” Lucy answered staunchly.
“Your mistress said she had no fault
to find with you. She told me you had
dismissed yourself. Have you known
the young man long?”

“More than a year, ma’am. He’s a
carpenter working in Messrs. Muggeridge’s
shop”—she named a large
place of business about midway between
her former situation and Mrs. Challoner’s
house.

“Well, Jane, I decide to engage you,
and after a week or two, if all goes
rightly, he may come to see you once
a week. Carpenters get away from
their work rather early, so all that I
shall ask is that he never stays later
than nine o’clock, when you bring up
my supper tray. And I am sure you
will take care I shall never regret giving
you this permission.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane.
“Please, ma’am, you never shall.”
She seemed to take her new form of bliss
very sedately.

Then a sudden thought struck Lucy.
She remembered the speed of Pollie’s
wooing.

“You are not thinking of getting
married very soon, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no, ma’am,” answered
Jane. “His wage will have to rise a
bit. He’s got to do something for his
mother.”

“You can understand that I shouldn’t
like you to come into my service merely{598}
to go out of it again,” observed Lucy.
But her silent reflection was that household
regulations which prevent a comfortable
courtship must surely do much
to promote regardless, rash, improvident
marriage.

“No, ma’am, I’ve no such thought,”
said Jane soberly.

“Then can you enter on your duties
to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Challoner
rather anxiously, for to-morrow was the
last day of the old year, and New
Year’s Day falling on Sunday, St.
George’s Institute would open on
Monday, though duties there might
not be very stringent for a day or two
later.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” answered Jane,
with more vivacity than she had shown
over her love affairs. “For my time is
up to-morrow morning, and it costs
a girl a good deal if she has to pay
for board and lodging between her
places.”

So Jane Smith in a cab, with a big
brown box, duly arrived on Friday about
noon. She was soon installed in her
duties, and when Mrs. Brand arrived
to pay her sister a call on the last day
of the year, Jane “opened the door”
with the dull propriety of one who has
done it for months. Mrs. Brand was
startled.

“What! Is the prodigy gone?” she
exclaimed as Jane showed her into the
parlour, “or have you hired a girl to
help her? Lucy, that would be a
brilliant idea, for the poor old thing is
too old for running about, and yet I
suppose she is a good figure-head for
you to leave at home, when you are to
be so much away. I always said you
ought to have two. You’ve done too
much servant’s work.”

Lucy drew her sister within the
parlour.

“I have not two, certainly not,” she
answered patiently, “but I had a terrible
disappointment with Mrs. Morison, and
she had to go. She drank.” Lucy
spoke in the low impressive voice which
marked her horror of the discovery.

Mrs. Brand laughed.

“Oh, I expected that,” she said.
“It’s the commonest thing in London
cooks. Yes, I know it’s very bad, but
there are faults in everybody. She did
cook well, Luce; I noticed that when I
took a little supper with you, and I’ve
said to Jem since what a comfort it was
to me to know you were getting decent
food. I don’t think you should have
been so hard on her. What has become
of your Christian charity? You might
have told her that if it ever happened
again, you would give her straight over
to the police. That would have pulled
her up and kept her in check for a time,
and you would have got the good of her
in the meantime. It’s too bad not to
have had a little patience with a poor
sinner. I’m shocked at you.”

“My dear Florence,” cried Lucy in
dismay, “you think me uncharitable
for discharging a servant for drunkenness
and I have known you to dismiss
one for burning a pudding!”

“Oh, that’s quite a different thing,”
said Florence easily, “and I don’t
know that I should have done that if it
had not been that we had visitors, and
I was very much put out.”

“It would have been all the same to
me if I made my sad discovery in the
strictest privacy,” observed Lucy, “but
as it happened, I made it at my Christmas
dinner time.”

Florence gave a curious deprecatory
smile.

“Poor old Miss Latimer and that
crippled man!” she exclaimed. “Surely
they would not be very severe censors?
You could have trusted them not to
make much game of your mishap, and
I should have thought it was quite in
your province to have patience with a
sinner and try to reform her.”

“It might have been,” returned Lucy,
“had Charlie been at home, and had
Charlie and I been alone together. But
there is a time and a place for everything.
No drunkard should be in any house
where a child is, and I am left in charge
of my husband’s property, and must
not expose it to unnecessary risks.
We must not do wrong as a beginning
of doing good. That is the first step
on a very slippery path.”

When Lucy got upon principles,
Florence was generally silenced, not
because she was convinced, but because
she could not understand connecting
practice with principle. With
the latter, Florence never troubled herself.
The former she directed by the
expediency of the moment.

Presently she spoke again, with a
change of subject.

“You got my note this morning, I
suppose, Luce,” she said, “and you
know what I’ve come for. Mrs. Bray
is quite hurt at not having seen you
for so long, and I promised to bring
you ‘before the year was out.’ So this
is your last chance.”

“It has not been my fault,” Lucy
observed soberly. “Nor can I go with
you this afternoon, Florence, unless
Hugh can accompany us.”

Florence made a little grimace.

“Isn’t this girl respectable either?”
she said. “Have you a written character
with her too?”

“No,” Lucy answered. “But she is
a perfect stranger. I cannot leave my
child with her.”

“Very well, bring him along by all
means. I own he is a credit to take out—not
like my little monkeys—for he
behaves prettily and obeys at a word.
The dear old dame will be quite pleased
to see him. She will say he is like the
children of her youth, and that’s her
highest praise. I daren’t take my
girls; they would disgrace me in ten
minutes.”

Lucy would have made the journey in
an omnibus, but Florence called a cab.
The visit involved going across London
to a western district far beyond the
solemn gloom of the region where Lucy
had visited Dr. Ivery. The cab was not
very pleasant, the presence of Hugh
as a third having compelled them to
take a four-wheeler, while otherwise
Florence would have hired a dashing
hansom.

“Such a fusty smell!” Florence cried.
Then, in a few minutes more: “What a
noise the windows make!” Next:
“And we are crawling like snails. But
it’s always the way with a ‘growler.’”

Lucy said nothing, but innocent Hugh
administered a reproof.

“Are four-wheelers called ‘growlers,’
auntie, because they make people
grumble?” he asked.

“Oh, you are too clever for anything,
child!” said the auntie.

Hugh looked up astonished.

“It isn’t clever to want to know, is
it?” he returned. “It’s clever when
you do know.”

The cab stopped at last; but Florence
would not dismiss it.

“Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs.
Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out
of me that I shall just want to drop into
it when we come out.”

Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but
consent. Florence often complained
that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions.
Little matters of this sort were
at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances
always went on which she would
never dream of, and though Florence let
none of their expense fall upon her,
that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since
it forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences
and luxuries which seemed to
her not only unnecessary, but even
harmful for two young vigorous women.

The exterior of the house they entered
differed little from other pretty residences
of its fashionable little quarter,
nestled down beside the most aristocratic
of our London parks. But once within
the door, the house had a character all
its own. The pretty little entrance hall
was cut across by a broad flight of steps
leading to an upper hall, whence the
public rooms opened. Of the walls of
this upper hall scarcely a quarter of a
yard of the middle part remained visible,
being thickly covered with old and rare
engravings and prints, the interstices
between pictures of varied size being
filled by bits of blue china and other
curios. Even the portion approaching
the ceiling was decorated, though more
sparsely, by ancient weapons and
shields.

A ladylike maid with a pale, tired
face admitted them, and led them
straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.

Mrs. Bray was almost the last
of the friends of the mother of Florence
and Lucy. What was more, she had
been that lady’s ideal. The sisters
had heard their mother praise her
with a warmth in which she had
seldom clothed her commendations.
They had seen their mother sitting
beside Mrs. Bray actually holding her
hand! As they advanced to greet their
old friend, Lucy remembered the astonishment
with which that sight had
filled her girlish breast—astonishment,
not at Mrs. Bray’s power to charm, but
at her mother’s self-surrender to it.

For this was a wonderful old lady.
One felt at once that one was in
presence of a personality. She rose
very slightly to greet them, for she was
both aged and feeble. Yet there was
something in gesture and countenance
which gave assurance of warmest
welcome.

“My dear Florence, sit down there
where I can look at you, and peep{599}
into the world of modern fashion. And
my little Lucy, my little truant Lucy,
come and sit on this low chair at my
side—the very chair your mother always
used, my child.”

Immediately the one guest was
flattered and the other was gratified,
and each was put upon the best footing
possible with each nature.

“Ah, but there is a third visitor!”
cried the old lady, beaming down on
Hugh. “Oh, my dear Lucy, this child
is so like both your father and your
husband! Look, your father’s strong
chin to the very life, and your husband’s
kind, laughing eyes! Yes, Lucy, and
it is you that have thus moulded two
good men into one. Now where is this
young man to sit? I know he wants
to sit close beside mamma, and he
shall have this little stool; and there
he is, a knight at the feet of his queen.
And now, Florence, how are Mr. Brand
and the daughters?”

“Jem is quite well, thanks,” said
Florence. “He sends his dutiful
regards and best wishes for the New
Year. He would have come himself
but he is so busy.”

As a matter of fact, Jem had not
heard or uttered the old lady’s name for
months, did not know that his wife was
visiting her, and had himself gone that
afternoon to Wimbledon for a game of
golf.

Mrs. Bray laughed gaily.

“I expected you both this afternoon,”
she said. “I remembered your promise
to bring Lucy before the year was out.
So I put aside a bit of china for Mr.
Brand to take away with him. Oh, a
trifle, my dear, very awkward in shape
and very heavy! I’ll not think of
troubling you with it, but it’s the kind
I know he likes, and it can wait till
he comes for it. But I tell you,
Florence, I must give myself the
pleasure of showing you the dress Mr.
Bray has given me for the great dinner-party
to-morrow, when we dine with the
Lord Chief Justice. I’m sure you like
to see pretty frocks—you have such
pretty ones yourself.” She rang the
bell while she spoke, and the genteel,
tired maid came in.

“Rachel, bring down my dinner-dress
again. I’m afraid you’ve just got it put
away? But I must have it down again,
please!” and the maid went off.

“I’d just been showing it to an old
friend,” Mrs. Bray explained. “But
she made me cross by asking whether I
was not afraid of a dinner-party for my
rheumatism. A memento mori, my
dears. But,” she said, turning to Lucy,
“here’s a grave face saying to itself
that I am a foolish and naughty old
woman to care for such frivolities!”

“Oh, no!” protested Lucy. “I was
only so sorry that the maid had just put
it nicely away.”

“It is all in her duty,” said the old
lady with a dash of hauteur. “Rachel
is here to do what she is told. It need
not matter to her what that is.” Then, as
the maid entered with the magnificent
robe flung over her arm, the stately
old dame gave her instructions how
to spread it over an ottoman so
as to display its costly lace and
elaborate embroidery to the best
advantage.

Mrs. Brand exclaimed with admiration,
adjusting the folds, and fingering
the soft fabric as a connoisseur in its
perfections.

Mrs. Bray had drawn Lucy’s hand
into her lap, and was stroking it softly.

“Ah, my dear,” she said, “don’t be
hard on me for my vanity! Wait till
you’ve been married fifty years yourself,
and your husband brings you such a
dress, and tells you that he does not
think anybody but you would do it
justice! Think of that, my dear! I see
that sweet speech written between all
the flounces and furbelows. How can
you expect me to keep my eyes off such
finery as that?”

“It is very beautiful!” murmured
Lucy. But the old lady knew that her
real answer was in the quivering clasp
of the hand lying in her own.

“How would you like to see mamma
in such a dress as that, Hugh?” asked
Mrs. Brand.

Hugh gave his head a quaint little
shake, as if such an idea was very
grand; but he added—

“I shouldn’t be able to sit on her
knee.”

“Ah, but you’ll be a grown-up man
before your mamma will deserve such a
dress!” answered the old lady archly.
“Ay, my dear,” she whispered aside to
Lucy, “if my little ones had lived to
give me grandchildren and great-grandchildren
to come crowding round me,
maybe I should not have cared so much
for this dress, and maybe, too, Mr. Bray
would not have been able to afford to
give it to me.”

“I’m glad to see Rachel is still with
you!” said Mrs. Brand, as the maid
once more took away the gorgeous
garment. “I remember hearing something
about her being engaged to be
married, and, as I didn’t see her the
last time I was here—it was at a reception,
so I could not ask questions—I
thought maybe the event had come off.”

Mrs. Bray shook her head.

“No,” she said, “the event has not
come off—it will not come off. The
man is dead—died in India. He was a
non-commissioned officer, you know. I
daresay it is all for the best for Rachel.
I tell her so. He had been away more
than three years, and, as I say to her,
who knows what habits he may have
acquired. A change of service would
have been very trying to me. Now I
daresay we shall rub on together to the
end, and Rachel can trust us to provide
for her. She’s generally very sensible,
poor thing, and reasonable. I’ve never
had to put my foot down firmly but once,
which was when he went to India, and
she wanted to wear a ring he gave her.
A decent enough ring—nothing but
engraved gold—it would have done for
her keeper-ring if they had ever got
married. But, of course, I could not
allow such a thing, and she fretted a
little—it was after he had gone—and
she gave me notice, and said she should
take a place in a shop. Then she got
letters from him, and I think he advised
her to stay in the place where he had
left her.”

“She knew where she was well off,”
interpolated Mrs. Brand.

“Very likely he did not want it on his
conscience that she had given up a
snug place for his ring. If he had
ever wanted to change his mind, it
would have made things harder for him. I
think he was a decent, considerate sort
of man,” the old lady went on. “At
any rate, Rachel stayed. It is a little
depressing for me now, always seeing
her sad face. I gave her a holiday for
a while, hoping she’d come back all
right. But really her face seems set
that way, and perhaps it does not
mean that she feels so much as it
looks.”

“It is not pleasant to have grieving
people about,” assented Florence. “It
is very kind of you to be so patient and
forbearing. But, then, you have such a
big and tender heart.”

“No, I haven’t,” said the old lady
calmly. “I know better than that. At
any rate, you don’t know that I have,”
she added with a brisk change of
manner; “for, if I have, I keep it so
close shut up that I quite forget
it, and it is in danger of being
starved, like naughty children’s pet
canaries. But it gives a little chirp
sometimes. I am sorry for Rachel, and
that’s why I like to fancy the man
wouldn’t have turned out well, and that’s
why I’ve given her all my black silk
dresses. The cook says he’s had
‘noble mournings, such as the likes of
he couldn’t have expected.’ She says,
too, that Rachel wears that ring tied
round her neck. That’s rank idolatry!
But I suppose they have some feelings
like ours. When I’m gone people will
find among my treasures queer cuttings
out of newspapers and tags of old
programmes that they’ll wonder over.
And must you really be going, my
dears? So soon? A cab waiting!
Fie! Is that the way to treat an old
friend? Give my love to your husband
when you write to him,” she said,
drawing down Lucy’s face and kissing
it fondly, “and tell him we dine
with the Lord Chief Justice on New
Year’s Day—it’s in his own professional
line, you know—and that he is to come
home and follow in our footsteps,
especially in Mr. Bray’s when he
bought me that dress! And good-bye,
little man! And there’s a nice, weeny,
tiny coin to remember an old woman by.
And you’re not to show it to mamma till
you are out of this house. And good-bye,
Florence”—with a little peck of a
kiss. “And keep Jem up to the mark
in sending pretty messages. Tell him
about the china. No, no, you sha’n’t
take it! Ladies didn’t carry parcels for
gentlemen in my young days. Good-bye,
all!”

There was weary Rachel waiting in
the hall. Lucy could not pass her
without a word—it was a habit of hers
never to pass a servant without some
friendly recognition. Instinctively she
said—

“Thank you. I wish you a good New
Year!”

The worn face flashed into tenderness.
And the door closed upon it so.

(To be continued.)

{600}

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

lthough we
have no true
lily indigenous
to our island,
there is at least
one species
which has established
itself
in England, and by this
time can claim to be
called a British wild
flower. This lily is the
Martagon or Turk’s cap, a
flower long cultivated in
English gardens, and, after
the Madonna lily, the most familiar of the
whole genus.

The fifth group of lilies, the Martagons, is
the most extensive of all. It includes over
twenty species which differ widely from each
other in most particulars. The usual description
of the members of this group (“perianth
cernuous, with the segments very revolute,
stamens diverging on all sides”) is certainly
applicable to all the Martagons, but it is
equally so to the tiger-lily or L. Speciosum.

Most of the Martagons are remarkable
rather for the number of their blossoms than
for the size of the individual flowers. There
are, however, many exceptions to this; Lilium
Monadelphum bears blossoms in large numbers,
but the individual flowers are large and
showy. L. Medeoloides and L. Avenaceum
bear but one or two blossoms of small size.

The prevailing colours of the flowers of the
Martagons are yellow, orange and red. A
few are purple, and one rare variety of the
common Martagon is white.

In a former article we sub-divided this group
of lilies into several smaller sections. We do
not advance any scientific reason for so classifying
them. The divisions are adopted merely
for convenience of description.

The first of our sub-divisions is the group
of lilies which we have called True Martagons.
This group contains ten species. In all the
members except one the bulb is perennial, and
does not bear a rhizome. They are all natives
of the Old World, being for the most part
natives of Central Europe.

The leaves of the true Martagons are narrow,
but vary in width from those of L. Martagon,
which are three-quarters of an inch across, to
those of L. Tenuifolium, which are scarcely
more than the tenth of an inch wide. In
some species the leaves are arranged in
whorls, in others they are scattered.

The flowers of this group of lilies are mostly
small but numerous. In all except L. Hansoni,
L. Avenaceum, and L. Medeoloides, the segments
of the perianth are very revolute, which
fact has given to these lilies the name of
“Turk’s cap,” from the resemblance of the
fully-opened blossom to a turbaned cap.

The true Martagons are among the easiest
of the lilies to cultivate, but they have one or
two peculiarities which would seem to negative
this statement. For instance, these lilies very
much dislike being meddled with. Consequently
they rarely do well the first year they
are planted. It is very annoying after having
bought fifty bulbs of L. Pomponium not to
have a single blossom the first season. But
you have only got to wait until the bulbs have
established themselves, when they will flower
year after year and increase at a prodigious
rate.

All the true Martagons like a cool loamy
soil. On the whole they object to peat.
Many kinds, as the common Martagon, for
instance, like chalk, and are seen to perfection
when grown in heavy loam on a limestone
bottom. The heavy, black loam of London
suits the Martagons very well, and we have
seen these lilies in greater perfection in
suburban gardens than anywhere else.

First among the true Martagons stands the
lily which has given its name to the group—Lilium
Martagon, or the Turk’s-cap lily.
This lily has a very wide range, being found
wild throughout Central Europe and Siberia.
We have said that it also grows wild in
England, but our readers can hardly expect
ever to see the plant growing wild in our
island. It used to be fairly plentiful in Surrey,
Devonshire and the Isle of Wight, but the
rage for collecting specimens has pretty well
exterminated the species from our shores. It
is, however, occasionally met with, especially
in Surrey.

The Martagon lily is one of our oldest
garden flowers. When once established, it
is very loath to go and very free to increase,
so in many gardens this lily has come up and
flowered every year for centuries.

The bulb of Lilium Martagon is about the
size of a hen’s egg, and of the ordinary ovoidal
shape. It is very compact and usually stained
on the outside with bright yellow or purple.
The leaves are of a greyish-green colour and
are arranged in whorls. The flower-head is
visible when the plant is but a few inches high.
It consists of from four to forty little buds
closely packed together. The lily flowers in
July, and a well-grown specimen is a very
pretty object.

The flower spike forms a perfect cone or
pyramid. The blossoms are very small—about
one and a quarter inches across—and borne
on stalks which grow out at right angles to
the main stem. These stalks gradually
diminish in length as they get towards the
top, thus producing the characteristic cone
shape. The nodding blossoms are of a lilac-purple,
splashed and spotted with claret
colour. The pollen is red, the segments of
the perianth are fleshy and very much curled.

There are several well-marked varieties of
the Martagon lilies. The variety Dalmaticum,
as its name implies, is found in Dalmatia. It
is a finer plant than the type. The leaves are
deep glossy green, and the flowers are very
dark purple. In another variety called
Cattaneae, the flowers are still darker, appearing
in some lights to be quite black.

There is a white variety of the Martagon
lily, a lovely little gem, which, though rare, is
one of the easiest culture. It is curious that
this is the only variety in the whole group of
Martagons which bears white flowers. It is of
garden origin, and is not found in the wild
state.

Then there is the double Martagon, about
the stupidest flower which owns the name of
lily. It is extraordinary the rage people have
for double flowers. It is very rarely that a
double flower has half the beauty of the single
variety. In the rose, the chrysanthemum, the
aster and other composite flowers, the double
varieties are indeed vastly superior to the single
flowers. But to us all the double bulbous
plants are incomparably inferior to the single
ones. In the lilies, the double varieties are
scarcely worth growing.

Lilium Martagon and its varieties should be
grown in masses or as a thick border. Beyond
seeing that the plants are well watered, they
give no trouble and should never be disturbed.

Lilium Pomponium, or, as it is sometimes
called, Lilium Pomponicum, is another well-known
lily from Central Europe. It resembles
the last in many particulars, but the leaves are
linear and scattered, and the blossoms are not
nearly so numerous as are those of L. Martagon.

From three to ten flowers are produced on
each stem. The flowers are nodding with the
segments much recurved, and are about an
inch across. In the type the colour is a
dullish-red, but there are also orange and
yellow varieties.

This lily looks well in big masses, for the
blossoms are very graceful, though perhaps
rather disappointing for a lily.

Lilium Pyrenaicum, or the yellow Turk’s
cap, is by some authorities considered to be
only a variety of the last; by others to be a
distinct species. As its name tells you, it
comes from the Pyrenees, and it is not known
as a wild plant in other parts of the continent.
Yet, by the way, we see that it is sometimes
included among the British wild flowers from
some apparently wild examples having been
found in the Isle of Wight. Probably these
are simply garden escapes; still it is possible
that they are indigenous to that island.

Except in the colour of its flowers, the
Pyrenean Martagon exactly resembles the
Pompon lily. The flowers are slightly larger
than are those of L. Pomponicum, and are of
a fine yellow colour, spotted with purple.
The outside of the tube is red.

Lately this lily has become very popular,
but it is not altogether a desirable plant as
the blossoms exhale a rank and disagreeable
odour.

In the Japanese Islands is found a Martagon
lily, differing very markedly from the European
species, which we have just described. This
lily, Lilium Hansoni by name, is very rare and
not often seen in cultivation. But we believe
that in a short time it will become a well-known
and popular plant.

A well-grown specimen of Hanson’s lily
stands about five feet high and bears a
pyramidal spike of yellowish-orange blossoms.
The flowers are not nearly so much recurved
as are those of the other Martagons. The
segments are thick and fleshy, of a bright
orange slightly spotted with purple. The
flowers are about two inches across. From
three to fifty are present in each spike.

This lily is one of the first to blossom in
favourable seasons, coming into flower in the
first week of June.

It is also perfectly hardy, and shows no
tendency to degenerate if it is provided with
suitable soil. A rich but light loam with
abundance of leaf-mould and a little peat and
sand is the proper compost in which to grow
Lilium Hansoni.

Another lily from Japan, Lilium Medeoloides,
somewhat resembles Hanson’s lily, but
is much smaller, rarely exceeding twelve inches
in height, and the blossoms are far fewer and
smaller.

L. Medeoloides is very imperfectly known.
The bulb consists of a large number of small
oat-shaped scales very loosely packed together.
The leaves are in whorls. The blossoms are
frequently upright, and for this reason the
plant is often included among the Isolirions.

Except as a curiosity, this lily is certainly
not worth growing. It is very difficult to
manage, and the bulbs almost invariably rot in
the winter.

A LILY-GROWER.

Lilium Avenaceum is another Japanese
species which very closely resembles the last;{602}
but the flowers invariably bend downwards,
and are very slightly spotted. Like the
last, it is not worth growing except as a
curiosity.

Resembling L. Pomponium in many points,
but of far smaller dimensions, and with much
more brilliant blossoms is the little Lilium
Tenuifolium. This little lily inhabits Siberia
and differs from most of the species in that the
bulb is not truly perennial. Some authorities
state that the bulb is annual, but this we do
not believe to be correct. It is more likely a
triennial species.

This lily must be grown from seed. Fortunately
the plant produces seed in abundance,
and the seeds germinate freely, often producing
a flowering bulb in two years.

In this plant the leaves are extremely thin.
The blossoms are about an inch across, of the
colour of red sealing-wax. Rarely are more
than three blossoms present on each stem. It
is a pretty little flower, and makes a good pot-plant.

Lilium Callosum, the callous-bracted lily,
is something like a magnified version of the
last. The leaves are broader and less
numerous than in L. Tenuifolium. The
flowers about an inch and a quarter across, of
a vivid scarlet or orange. The bracts are thick
and horny, a characteristic which has given the
plant its name.

The callous lily likes a rich peaty soil, but
it is very accommodating and will grow in
most good soils. It is perfectly hardy, and is
of little difficulty to cultivate.

We now come to a lily which will always
be famous, not so much for its intrinsic
beauty—though, to be sure, it is a beautiful
plant—but because it is the flower which has
generally been considered to be the “lily of
the fields,” the only plant mentioned by name
by our Saviour.

The lily to which we refer is the scarlet
Martagon, lily of the fields, lily of Chalcedony,
or Lilium Chalcedonicum.

It is doubtful whether we shall ever know
for certain which flower was referred to by
Christ as “the lily of the fields.” Why the
scarlet Martagon should have borne the
honour for so long is difficult to see. As far
as we have been able to discover, this lily
does not grow in Palestine, and though of
course we cannot be certain that it did not
inhabit the Holy Land in the time of Christ,
it is very unlikely that it did, for the lily of
Chalcedony knows how to take care of itself,
and it is unlikely that it would have become
exterminated.

We have no real reason for supposing that
the lily of the fields was a true lily—that is, a
member of the genus lilium. Even in
England at the present day we call a host of
liliaceous plants “lilies,” and in the East
they are very lax in floral nomenclature.

That the plant referred to was one of
superior beauty is probable, but even the
meanest flower would answer to the description
that “Solomon in all his glory was not
arrayed like one of these.”

It is commonly held now that the plant
referred to was either the yellow star-lily
(Amaryllis Lutea) or else an anemone. But
it may well be that our Saviour meant no
special blossom, but by “the lily of the
field” He intended any flower to be taken.

Before it became the fashion to “bed out”
the gardens of the wealthy, the scarlet
Martagon graced alike the palaces of the rich
and the cottages of the poor. Throughout
England this magnificent lily was one of the
commonest of garden flowers. But when the
finest gardens were turned into puzzle pictures,
manufactured out of geraniums, blue lobelias
and yellow calceolarias, all the fine old
garden plants were rooted up and destroyed,
and many plants ceased to know England as
their home.

How thankful we all are that the formal
garden has left us! Now it is considered in
its true light, as a vulgar waste of soil.

We have returned to the old-fashioned
garden, but alas! we cannot make old gardens
at a day’s notice. We have reinstated our
old herbaceous plants, and now we are
attempting to place the lily of the fields in its
old position, as queen of the flower-bed.

Unfortunately this lily is difficult to establish,
though when once it is established it gives no
trouble and will grow for centuries. But we
do not often see it now in gardens, and it is
doubtful if it will ever again become a constant
inhabitant of every garden, as it was of old.

The bulb of Lilium Chalcedonicum is about
the size of a duck’s egg, and is very compact
and heavy. The outer scales are stained with
a bright yellow colour.

The growth of this lily is peculiar and unlike
any other. Good plants grow to about four
and a half feet high, and bear from four to
eight blossoms in a cluster at the top.

The lower leaves of this species are long
and lance-shaped. The upper leaves, which
are extremely numerous, are small and linear
and embrace the stem, giving the plant a
curious resemblance to a Maypole.

The flowers are borne in a cluster with very
short pedicles. They are of a brilliant sealing-wax
red, usually unspotted, quite scentless,
and about two inches across. The segments
are very revolute, and altogether this lily
resembles a much glorified edition of Lilium
Pomponium. There is a variety with yellowish-orange
flowers. This plant blossoms at the
beginning of August.

To cultivate this lily successfully is by no
means an easy matter. It delights in a rich
heavy loam of great depth and with a chalk
basis. It dislikes peat and manures. If it
can have the soil it likes, it does best when
exposed to the sun all day long. This lily
rarely does well for the first year or two, but
when established gives no trouble whatever.
It is a native of Greece and the Ionian Isles.

Closely resembling the last lily is the
nodding red lily of Carniola (Lilium Carniolicum).
Comparing this lily with the last, we
see that it is altogether smaller, the leaves
fewer and the blossoms less lividly red, but
spotted and usually solitary. It inhabits
South Europe, and flowers in June.

(To be continued.)

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

CHAPTER XI.

THE “PLYMOUTH CASTLE.”

Sheila stood with sparkling eyes and
ruffled hair on the deck of a great
steamer that was slipping slowly down
Southampton Water on a bright October
afternoon.

She felt a hand upon her shoulder,
and, turning quickly round, exclaimed
delightedly—

“Oh, Miss Adene, you are really
here! The stewardess said she knew
you were on board; but I was half
afraid you were not. I did not catch a
glimpse of you anywhere.”

“I was below with my niece setting
our cabins to rights, as travellers like to
do before getting out of smooth water.
Well, little one, you look very bright;
but you are thinner than when I saw you
last. I am afraid you have had an
anxious summer.”

“Yes, rather,” answered Sheila.
“Poor Effie was ill for a long time,
and I don’t think all the doctors and
specialists they called in did her any
good. They tried all sorts of things for
her breathing, and there was a sort of
operation once, and I’m sure that did
her harm. The last man who saw her
said, ‘Take her out of England for the
winter. Let her live out of doors and
take no physic, and not see a doctor at
all unless there is real cause.’ That’s
what I call being sensible; and I
remembered what you had said about
Madeira and how delightful it was there,
and Effie set her heart upon going. So
here we are. Uncle and Aunt Cossart,
and Effie and I and her maid. Oh, I
think it will be delightful! I have
never been abroad. It will be charming
to cross the Atlantic and see beautiful
new places!”

There was a laugh from behind, and
Sheila turned to meet the sunny glance
from a pair of bright dark eyes, and Miss
Adene said—

“Ah, here is my nephew (as he likes
to be called) Ronald Dumaresq! Let
me introduce him, Sheila, my dear.”

The girl held out her hand with her
pretty manner, half shy, half frank, and
Ronald shook it heartily, saying—

“I have heard a lot about you, Miss
Cholmondeley, from my aunt. I know
all about that fire in which you played
the part of heroine.”

“I!” cried Sheila, half indignant at
the imputation. “I did nothing at all
but shiver and shake, and feel in a
most fearful fright. I don’t know if
that’s what you call being heroic. I
don’t.”

“Well, but you must have a spirit of
your own, I am sure! Did I not just
hear you saying that crossing the
Atlantic would be delightful? Not
many people share that opinion, I can
tell you.”

“I mean it to be delightful. I don’t
care if I am ill. It will be a new
experience. I like to try new things.”

“If you like sea-sickness you will be{603}
a remarkable being,” laughed Ronald;
“but perhaps you are a good sailor.”

“I think I shall be. I went yachting
once all about the Hebrides, and it was
often pretty rough and choppy; but I
did not mind. I don’t see how one
could be ill in a huge boat like this.”

Ronald laughed.

“Wait till you see what the Atlantic
rollers are like. You will soon learn what
a cork even a big vessel like this can
be. Wait till we get to the Bay of
Biscay O!”

Laughing and talking, with the
quickly established good fellowship of
young folks, Sheila and Ronald paced
up and down the deck. Sheila was
keenly interested in the big vessel and
in the other ships they met or passed as
they glided along; and Ronald could
answer most of her questions, and was
altogether a delightful companion. He
had travelled a good deal, though he
had never before been to Madeira; and
he told her anecdotes of shipboard life
and of his hunting adventures, time
slipping away so fast that the clatter of
teacups and the movement of some of
the passengers towards the saloon quite
surprised them.

It was not a full ship, being one of
the “intermediate” boats popular with
Madeira passengers, who often find
trouble in getting booked for the regular
Cape mails. Most of the passengers had
cabins to themselves—no small boon to
bad sailors, and appreciated by all.

“We shall take about half a day,
perhaps a whole one, longer than the
mail,” Ronald explained; “but it’s
much jollier to have plenty of room and
a cabin of one’s own. But come along
and have some tea! Where are your
people? You’ve got a delicate cousin,
I know, and an aunt and uncle. Anybody
else?”

“No, I did want my brother to come;
but it couldn’t be arranged. It would
have been quite perfect with him. Is
this the way? How funny everything is
on shipboard! Oh, we are beginning
to roll a little! I suppose we are getting
into the Channel?”

“Yes, just about. Do you mind?”

“Not a bit. I like it. There is Miss
Adene! Who is the lovely lady she is
talking to? And, oh, what a darling
little boy! Who is he?”

“Oh, that’s our young Rascal! The
lady is my sister-in-law, you know.
Here, Rascal, come and see this lady!
Here’s somebody new to make a fuss of
you!”

Sheila was devoted to babies and little
children. She was on her knees in a
moment, and little Guy had his arms
about her, making up his mind in a
moment that this was a friend, and
laughing and chattering in the most
confidential way.

“Oh, isn’t he too perfectly sweet!”
cried Sheila in an ecstasy, kissing her
hand as the nurse bore him off for his
tea; and then she found herself led up
and presented to Lady Dumaresq, who
was so gentle, and beautiful, and sweet
that Sheila fell in love with her at
once.

Effie was not present, having been
much tired by the railway journey, so
that the maid had got her to bed at
once. Mr. and Mrs. Cossart came into
the saloon for some tea; but sat apart
and looked rather forlorn. Miss Adene
went and spoke to them, but they did
not seem happy, and very soon went
away again, so that Sheila was thankful
to be able to consort with the Dumaresq
party, since all the other passengers were
strangers.

The vessel certainly pitched a good
deal as they got farther out into the
Channel. Sheila did not mind it in the
least; but she observed that the saloon
thinned considerably, and Ronald remarked
with a laugh—

“I don’t think there will be many at
dinner to-night.”

Sheila presently slipped away to take
a peep at Effie, who was dozing in her
berth. She did not feel ill, she said,
only tired and sleepy. She was interested
to hear about Miss Adene and the
Dumaresqs. Miss Adene had paid her
more than one visit during her illness,
and she had grown fond of her, though
she had not seen her now for a good
while, and she did not correspond with
her as Sheila did.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart had gone to
bed too, the maid said with a smile.
They were both rather sea-sick, but were
comfortable now. The maid was an
experienced traveller and an excellent
sailor. She and Sheila and the
stewardess had a little laugh together
over the unfortunates who were so
speedily bowled over.

“Poor things! It’s a dreadful sort
of feeling; but they’ll be better when
we’re once through the Bay. We get
into smooth water then very often,
especially this time of year, and they
soon forget their troubles.”

Ronald was right about the dinner.
There were very few at table, and the
Captain was still on the bridge. He
did not generally leave his post there
till the perils of the Channel were
passed.

Sir Guy came up from his cabin
looking thin and frail, but with a sunburnt
tint upon his face from the
open-air life he had led all the summer.
Sheila thought him very handsome and
very interesting. He and Lady Dumaresq
seemed surrounded by a halo of
romance; they were so much attached
to each other, and were both so very
handsome and attractive. Indeed,
Sheila thought that the voyage and the
long stay in Madeira with such nice
people would be enchanting, and her
bright spirits bubbled over in little peals
of happy laughter and merry repartee in
answer to Ronald’s chaff.

After dinner he took her for a prowl
upon the deck. She would have liked to
wander up and down a long time; but
the air blew chilly, so he took her in
to Miss Adene, who was now almost
the sole occupant of the drawing-room
saloon, weariness or the motion of the
boat having driven others below.

“Have you seen May lately?” asked
Miss Adene. “And what is the news
from Isingford?”

“May has been visiting a good deal
this summer, so I only saw her now and
then,” answered Sheila; “and as for
news, there is not so very much. Perhaps
you have heard that Lionel Benson
is engaged to my cousin Raby?”

“No; I had not heard that.”

“Yes. I rather think it was the fire
that did it, though it wasn’t given out
till three months afterwards. I think
they are all very pleased, and she will
be married soon, for he has plenty of
money. He is in the business, you
know. It isn’t a very interesting engagement,
but Raby seems quite happy.
I suppose it’s all right.”

“They are two handsome young
people, and know each other well. It
ought to turn out happily, I think.
And how about Cyril?” asked Miss
Adene, with a little quick glance, which
Sheila met and answered by a flashing
smile.

“Oh, Cyril! Well, he is still idling
about at home, talking of the wonders
he means to do some day, and they all
believe in him as much as ever, I
think.”

A little smile curved Miss Adene’s
lips.

“Don’t be merciless, little girl. Perhaps
he may astonish the world yet!”

“He astonished some of us the day
of the fire. Miss Adene, I can speak
to you, because you’re not a relation
whose feelings have to be spared. But
do you believe that when he dashed off
like that, fighting his way out and
knocking everybody down, he had
the least intention of going for help?
You know he says he was going for the
fire-escape, and people believe it now.
Lionel Benson won’t say it’s a lie
because of Raby, and though North
always looks as grim as grim when the
thing is mentioned, he does not contradict.
After all, Cyril is his brother.
But Oscar and I know that he rushed
straight home. Of course, he may have
seen somebody and sent a message, but
somehow I can’t believe that he was
thinking of anything but saving his own
precious skin. It makes me so wild
with Cyril. What do you think about
it? You saw it all.”

“Well, Sheila, perhaps the best way
is not to think too much about it. We
all have our faults and failings, and we
must beware of judging those of other
people too harshly. The thing is over
and done with now, and we are not set
as judges over each other. If Cyril is
trying to atone for an error in the past,
it would be better to try and excuse it,
and not think too harshly of him.”

“I think he’s just as conceited as
ever. I don’t think he’s a bit ashamed.
Miss Adene, do you know, I rather think
he would like to marry May. He is
always going over there when she is at
home. But he will get a good snubbing
if he tries. May would not touch him
with a pair of tongs!”

“My dear child!” said Miss Adene,
laughing, and then she added, “I had
an idea that Cyril was attached to
Effie.”

Sheila shrugged up her shoulders.

“I can’t quite make out about that.
Sometimes I fancy it is so, and then I
don’t know what to think. But Effie
has been ill all the summer, and though
Cyril used to go and see her pretty{604}
often, I could never make out if they
cared for one another. Effie’s never
been allowed to talk about the fire, so I
don’t know if she saw or remembered
what Cyril did then. I don’t much
believe that Cyril cares for anybody but
himself; only May is well born, and
Effie is an heiress. It’s those things he
thinks about.”

“Sheila, Sheila, don’t be cynical!”

“Well, I’ve heard people say so.
Even Ray said something very like
that. Ray is sensible; she doesn’t go
down flat before the family idol. She is
fond of Cyril, but she sees his faults.
She and North have really much more
in them than Raby and Cyril.”

Sheila enjoyed her little gossip with
Miss Adene, and was almost reluctant
to go to bed. However, when once
there she slept soundly, and only awoke
when the stewardess brought her a cup
of morning tea.

“It’s pretty rough, miss, but fine and
sunny. Not weather as sailors call it,
but a capful of wind right in our faces.
If you feel like getting up, I’ll bring you
hot water; but most of the ladies are
lying still, even those that aren’t ill.”

But Sheila was all for getting up,
though she staggered about her narrow
little cabin, and was glad to sit down as
much as she could, for the vessel pitched
and lurched a good deal, and her hairpins
went flying over the floor, and her
clothes swayed and flapped in a comic
manner.

But once up and out in the breezy
sunshine, all the little dizziness of
getting up vanished. Ronald was on
deck before her, and welcomed her with
a most friendly smile, and little Guy
was trotting about, the pet and plaything
of the captain, who had found
him a ship’s cap, vastly too large for
him, which was tied on his head by a
broad ribbon.

Sheila was the only lady up at breakfast,
and was made much of by the
captain and the other passengers. She
was full of sparkle and fun, was delighted
to be taken to various mysterious
portions of the boat where passengers
seldom ventured, and spent a perfectly
delightful morning, learning a vast deal
of nautical lore, and winning the good-will
of everybody on board.

She flitted into the cabins where Effie
and Miss Adene lay. Effie was quite
comfortable, but indisposed for the exertion
of getting up in such a rough-and-tumble
sea. Miss Adene rose for
lunch, but was a little disinclined for
talk, and Lady Dumaresq did not
appear at all that day.

But soon they passed through the
troubled Bay; the water became calm
and smiling; one after another the
passengers appeared; and Effie would
lie on her deck-chair all day, watching
the indigo blue of the great Atlantic
rollers, which lifted them gently up and
let them down, and shone with rainbow
tints when the sunlight caught their
foam-flecked crests.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart appeared in
due course to sit beside their darling
and watch how the fresh breeze brought
some colour to her face. But Sheila
flitted about like a sprite, never still,
always intent upon some fresh fancy.
Her merry laugh was one of the familiar
sounds about the deck, and she seemed
always the centre of a group of
admirers.

People were kind to Effie, and would
come and chat to her; but the mother
began to look with rather jealous eyes
upon the little court that Sheila always
had round her.

“I hope she is not going to be a little
flirt,” she said once to her husband.
“She is certainly pretty, but I don’t
know if I like that way of hers. She
attracts more notice than I think quite
seemly.” And in her heart she added,
“I can’t have my Effie cut out and
overshadowed by that little chit!”

(To be continued.)

THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

By F. W. L. SLADEN.

PART II.

A little care will have to be exercised in
purchasing the swarm. It should be got from
a reliable local bee-keeper—a man on whom
you can depend to give you what you
want, namely, a healthy, natural, “first”[2]
swarm, weighing not less than about three
pounds. You should receive the swarm in
May, but the middle of June will not be too
late in many parts of England, especially if
the season is at all backward.

STANDARD FRAME FITTED WITH FOUNDATION.

Everything should be in readiness for the
swarm. The hive should be given three or
four coats of good light stone-colour paint,
and a site must be chosen for it. This should
be in a quiet corner of the garden, sheltered
from the prevailing winds, and, by preference,
shaded from the midday sun; but a dark,
damp place under the constant drip of trees
should be avoided. Most bee-keepers prefer
to have their hives facing south or south-east to
catch the early morning sun, but this is not a
matter of great importance.

The location having been decided upon and
the hive set level in it, the next care
will be to furnish the hive.

Each frame must have a sheet of
beeswax, called brood foundation,
fixed into it, to act as a foundation
on which the bees may build their
comb. Bees naturally start building
their combs from some support above
them, continuing the work in a downward
direction. The foundation must,
therefore, be fixed into the top bar of
the frame, which has a saw-cut down
the middle on purpose to receive it.
Prize the saw-cut wide open, and
then insert the edge of the foundation
into it. Two or three fine shoemaker’s
brads driven through the
side of the top bar will make the
work secure.

Strips of foundation about two
inches wide are generally considered sufficient
for fitting into frames, but larger sheets answer
better. The illustration shows a full-sized
sheet of foundation which is held in the centre
of the frame by means of tinned wire embedded
in the wax. The sides and bottom of full
sheets must be kept clear of the frame.

One or two quilts should be cut out of some
warm material just the size to cover the tops
of the frames; a three-inch round hole should
be made in the centre for the feeder. A
small square piece of cloth should also be cut
for covering the hole when the feeder is not on.
Felt or baize is best for quilts, but pieces of
old carpet answer the purpose very well. A
quilt of ticking or unbleached calico, similarly
cut, should be placed under the other quilts,
next the bees, to prevent them from nibbling
holes in the soft material.

In preparing the hive for the reception of
the swarm, see that the frames are equally
spaced by means of the metal ends, so that
they hang one and a half inches apart from
centre to centre. Do not attempt to hive the
swarm until late in the afternoon, say about
4 P.M. and 5 P.M. If the swarm arrives in
the middle of the day, place it in a cool place,
and see that it has plenty of ventilation.

Do not follow the old-fashioned plan of
smearing the inside of the hive with beer and
sugar. It is a mistake to suppose that the
bees require such mixtures when swarming, or,
indeed, at any other time. The only thing
they want now is a clean dry hive.

For hiving the swarm, the alighting board
will have to be extended by means of a large
board, one or two feet wide, called a hiving-board,
which may be propped up with bricks
so as to be on a slight slant. The whole should
be covered with a sheet. Also raise the stock-box
up a little in front, so as to enlarge the
entrance. The stock-box may be kept in this
position by means of two little pebbles.

Though the chances of getting badly stung
while hiving a swarm of bees are more or less
remote, it will be advisable to wear the bee-veil,
if it be only for the purpose of inspiring
confidence during the first attempt at bee-work.
The smoker also, though seldom necessary on
this occasion, may come in useful, and should
be at hand, charged with a roll of smouldering
brown paper.

{605}

BEE-VEIL AND SMOKER.

Now shake a few bees on to the sheet.
They will immediately commence running up
into the hive. Scarcely any will take to the
wing. When this first lot of bees has made
a good start, some more may be shaken down
on top of them, and this will have the effect of
making them all much more eager to press into
the hive. A few light puffs of smoke from the
smoker may now be useful to dislodge an inert
cluster, or to correct the course of a group of
bees that may have a mistaken notion as to the
direction in which the entrance to the hive
lies.

Unless the queen has been caged, she should
now be carefully looked for amongst the living
moving mass on the sheet. It will be very
satisfactory if we can succeed in spotting her,
and can see her enter the hive safely amongst
her subjects, for should she by any chance be
missing, the swarm will be useless. She is
considerably longer, though very little stouter,
than an ordinary worker-bee, her tail being
particularly long and tapering; her wings also
are shorter than those of the workers, and
there is a reddish appearance about her legs.
We must not mistake a drone for the queen.
There is only one queen in the swarm, but
there may be several thousands of drones.
The drone-bee may be known by his broad
body, long wings and large eyes, which almost
meet on the top of his head. The drone is
stingless. The queen, on the contrary, possesses
a sting, but she cannot pierce the skin
with it, so we may handle her, when necessary,
without fear.

If the queen is in a cage it will be necessary
to liberate her and to let her run into the hive
with the workers when the latter have almost
all entered the hive.

Next morning the front of the stock-box
may be lowered, and we may take a peep into
the hive by lifting up a corner of the quilts.
All frames not filled with bees may be removed
and placed behind the dummy, to be given
again to the bees when they require more
room, which they will do in a few days.

If the weather keeps fine and warm we
shall now see a number of workers flying
around the entrance of the hive, and carefully
noting the position of their new home. Then
off they will go to the fields in search of food
in the shape of honey and pollen, to return
again before long with their bodies distended
with the sweet juice, and their “thighs” laden
with the yellow paste.

Meanwhile their comrades at home have
not been idle. Clustering inside the hive,
they have been busy secreting wax, and have
already drawn out some of the foundation into
a comb of cells to hold the supplies brought
in by the field-workers.

And so the work of construction and storage
goes on day after day, harmoniously and
rapidly. There are no hitches or quarrelling
amongst the twenty thousand or so little
workers which constitute the swarm. Each
one knows and does her share of the work,
with results that are astonishing, as we shall
see if we examine the hive at the end of even
one short week.

Donning the veil,[3] and armed with the
smoker charged, as before, with smouldering
brown paper, we send one or two light puffs
of smoke into the entrance, which quiets the
bees and prepares them for the intended
examination. We then remove the roof,
taking care not to jar the hive, and, lifting up
a corner of the quilts, we send another gentle
puff or two of smoke between the frames.
We do the same at another corner. After
this we make bold to lift out a frame covered
with bees, and to our surprise we find that it
is filled from top to bottom with a delicate
white comb. It is already quite heavy with
the honey which glitters in thousands of cells.
Here and there a cell contains, instead of honey,
a dark mass of pollen-paste called bee-bread.

A more careful inspection of the comb will
show that the queen-bee too has done her
share of work, not by helping to gather honey
or to build combs, but by laying eggs which
will hatch into grubs
(larvæ), and these, by
careful feeding and
nursing, will eventually
become worker-bees,
to take the place of
the present workers
when they die. Near
the centre of the comb
is a broad circle of
cells, each of which
contains a tiny white egg, almost invisible
to the eye, which the queen has deposited
there. Within this circle, in the very centre
of the comb, we shall probably find that
these eggs have given place to plump little
larvæ, each one coiled up in the bottom of
its cell, and floating in a tiny drop of liquid
food which the workers have supplied and
keep replenishing. When the larvæ are full
grown the mouths of their cells will be covered
over by a thin capping of wax, and, hidden
away underneath this capping, they will
change to the third or pupal stage. The
perfect bee gradually develops from this
stage, and in three weeks from the time that
it was deposited in its cell by the queen-bee
as an almost microscopic egg it emerges from
it as a full-fledged worker-bee, exactly like the
other worker-bees in the hive, and fit in a few
days’ time for two months of daily incessant
toil. No sooner has the young worker quitted
its cell than the cell is cleaned out by one of
the other workers, and a fresh egg is deposited
in it by the queen. Thus thousands of willing
workers are raised from mere specks in the space
of three short weeks, and as soon as these
shall have completed their marvellous transformations,
thousands more will be similarly
reared in their place. What wonders the
beehive contains! But we are only on the
threshold of them.

SECTION THROUGH COMB CONTAINING
BROOD (ENLARGED).

This paper will close with a few hints that
may now come in useful to the beginner.

In the first place don’t meddle with your
bees more than is absolutely necessary. It
tends to make them bad-tempered, and if they
are once thoroughly roused they may be
difficult to manage for months, and become
the terrors, not the pets, of their owner.
When you have decided that an operation is
necessary, have everything ready at hand
before you begin, such as frames ready fitted
with foundation, the smoker well charged and
burning, an extra roll or two of brown paper,
matches, etc. If possible, have an assistant
to help you, and so avoid trouble and delay at
a critical moment.

Though swarms, especially “first” ones,
usually come off only in settled fine weather,
it sometimes happens that they are unfortunate
enough to commence life as a separate colony
during a spell of bad weather when they
cannot obtain food. In such a case, having no
stores to fall back upon, they would starve and
die if not fed by the bee-keeper, and syrup must
be given to them through the feeder. Syrup
suitable for feeding bees at this time of the year
may be made by the following recipe:—

Ten pounds of pure cane sugar, seven pints
of water, a teaspoonful of vinegar, and a pinch
of salt. Keep stirring over a brisk fire, and
allow to boil for a few minutes.

(To be continued.)

{606}

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART IX.

AN ALL-IMPORTANT SUBJECT.

f I were, this evening,
to ask each of
you, my dear girl
friends, what subject
occupies your
thoughts most in
regard to your
future life, I wonder
how many of
you would even
whisper the truth
in my ear—if, indeed,
you cared to
trust me so far.
You have trusted
me in many things,
and your confidences
have been very precious to me; but
they have caused me sorrow as well as joy:
sorrow, since no human being can do more
than lay bare the workings of one heart, the
spiritual experience of one soul, the sensations,
painful or otherwise, of one body, in order to
help or advise others. We may all make
guesses about our neighbours, but we can be
sure of nothing outside ourselves.

Our object to-night is of almost universal
interest amongst those who are girls to-day,
but who will be the women, wives and mothers
of future years. I know that there has been a
great revolution in girl life and habits during
the last few years. Girls have taken up new
occupations, and are the rivals of, and
competitors with, the other sex, in nearly every
field of study and of work. Many girls live independent
of home ties, and some, I hope not
a very large number, scout the mention of that
sweetest bond of all, which has subsisted ever
since God created the first human pair.

Do not for a moment imagine that I, a
woman who has lived long enough to note
from its very beginning the wonderful educational
improvement made by my sex, think
lightly of it, or undervalue it. Far from this,
I am proud of what girls are doing to-day, and
every feminine triumph chronicled gives me a
throb of pleasure and a sense of sympathy
with the patient, self-denying worker, who has
not only deserved success, but won it. I do
not, however, sympathise with the minority
amongst these intellectually gifted girls and
women, who ignore home ties, because they
work outside the home circle, and speak of the
sacred names of wife and mother as if the
duties pertaining to those who hear them
were not to be contemplated from the heights
to which they have attained. What I feel
about feminine progress is this: Every bit of
knowledge gained, every step made in manual
dexterity, artistic perfection, or even professional
skill, should trend towards the
development of a nobler being, better
equipped for every womanly duty than were
the women of preceding generations. Ay,
and more ready and willing to do it with all
the added charm that refinement and culture
can give to what nature bestowed in the first
instance.

Since girls and women outnumber men,
there will doubtless be a pretty strong
contingent, amongst the most scholarly girls,
who will not marry.

Experience has already proved this to some
extent. But, after all, human nature is
stronger than reason, and will assert itself in
unexpected ways, to the confusion of every
learned argument.

Feminine independence is apt to lose its
value, and the right to stand, in every sense,
on the same level and platform with the man
is soon waived, when the true love of a true
heart is offered together with the strong arm
to learn on and to give protection in time of
need.

Tell me, dear ones, what piece of news, in
which you are not personally concerned, stirs
you most, and excites the greatest interest?
Is it not the tidings of a friend’s engagement?

What confidences are so sacred as those
that tell of happy, hopeful love? Think of
your girl friend who, with sweet shyness, hid
her blushing face on your shoulder, and
repeated in a whisper the words lately spoken
by that one who had of late become more to
her than all the world besides. Did not your
own heart thrill with sympathetic gladness as
you listened? Were you not proud of her
confidence, and did you not feel more honoured
by it than by any trust she had reposed in you
before?

She had told you of her joys and sorrows,
her hopes and fears on other subjects, many
a time, and you had listened and sympathised.
But all the rest sank into insignificance
when compared with the importance
of the future now opening before her. Her
confidence was mingled with both smiles and
tears—happy tears you were sure—and you too
were ready to laugh and cry by turns, as you
clasped her in your arms, and kissed her,
telling her between whiles how truly you
rejoiced in her joy.

I can picture you going homeward with the
news, so delighted to tell it that your walk
breaks into a run in your eagerness, and yet as
you go, you perhaps think to yourself, “I
wonder if such happiness will come to me also.
Shall I some day reciprocate such confidence
as my friend has placed in me?”

As you asked yourself the question, did
some known face come before your mind’s eye
and bring to your cheek a self-conscious flush?
Not a flush of shame. Far be it from me to suggest
such a thing. You have no need to shrink
from owning that you do look forward hopefully
to the possibility of being one day the
loved and trusted partner of some good man,
and, if God so wills it, the mother of his
children.

The prospect of being a wife and a mother
involves alike the most sacred, vast, and yet
delightful responsibilities. How can you be
fit to undertake such, if you have given them
no serious thought beforehand, or striven to
qualify yourself for them?

Having myself known such an ideally
happy married life that the very memory of it
makes me unspeakably rich now, in the days
of my widowhood, how I long to see my
experiences repeated in the lives of those who
are to be the wives and mothers of the future!

Death robbed me of my partner several
years ago, but even death could not take away
the riches that memory stored for me during
more than thrice that time, nearly thirty
blessed years. Having had experience of the
things which tend to the building up of such
memories, I feel free to speak of them to you,
my dear girl friends, to whom the path is yet
an untrodden way.

Oh, I do want it to be a happy path to
all of you who may enter upon it! Not
necessarily all smooth. Such paths are
seldom found on earth, and when they are,
those who tread them are apt to grow weary
even of happy monotony, and to step aside
into others, where they find or make difficulties
for themselves. Or they remain on the
smooth road, but cover it with imaginary
stumbling-blocks, which are harder to surmount
than real ones.

What I desire for each of you is a road on
which you and the dear one who is the
accepted alike of your heart, your reason, and
your conscience may walk together as “two
who are agreed.”

The privilege of choice pertains to the other
sex; but only after a limited fashion, seeing
that with yourselves rests the power to accept
or refuse any number of offers that may be
made to you.

If you accept, your answer should have a
threefold basis. Honest affection to begin
with, for, believe me, without this married life
cannot be truly happy. It is a life which calls
for much self-devotion, self-denial, patience,
and the bending of one’s own will to that of
another.

True affection sweetens all these things
and makes them easy, and that must be a
hard nature indeed which does not respond on
receiving such proofs of it.

But reason and conscience should each have
a voice in saying “Yes” or “No” to an
offer of marriage. They will speak, even
when at times the girl is unwilling to listen to
either of them.

Conscience will ask, “Is the union with
this man one on which a blessing can be asked
and expected? I have been brought up by
God-fearing parents, whose great desire has
been that I should be His child and walk
as a disciple of Jesus. On this, the most
important subject of all, shall we two be
agreed?”

I am not going to suggest all the questions
which will be likely to come into the mind of
a Christian girl under such circumstances; but
I cannot imagine one worthy of the name who
would give an answer, affecting the happiness
of at least two lives, without earnestly seeking
guidance from God by prayer and supplication.
If, after this, conscience is satisfied, only
reason’s voice has to be heard.

“What, are not affection and conscience
enough without help from reason?” you ask.

Well, perhaps I should say common sense
should have a third voice in the matter. You
and I have eyes to see and ears to hear.
However young you may be, you have seen
and known something of what are called
imprudent marriages.

There may have been true affection and
unity in aims, principles, and work. The
union, as such, may be one against which no
one can say a word, except that it will not be
a prudent marriage, and can only bring
regrettable consequences.

How a young man is to be honoured if he,
for the very love he bears a girl, refrains from
giving her the pain of saying “No” when
her heart as well as esteem for his character
would induce her to say “Yes” at all risks!

Often the girl has to show herself the
stronger under such circumstances, and then
her task is doubly hard, for she has to battle
against her own heart’s pleadings as well as
those of her lover.

I do not believe that any girl who shows
her courage and self-devotion in such a
manner will have cause to regret in the long
run. If the man is worthy of her affection, he
will love her the better for the motives which
have induced her to refuse him. He will have
realised the cost to herself, and will determine
that it shall not be in vain. Knowing that
he cannot give her such a home as would{607}
deserve the name, and that marriage on such
a slender or uncertain income would mean
privation, constant struggling to make ends
meet, probably debt as an additional burden,
he will resolve to work the harder and possess
his soul in patience until brighter days dawn
for both of them.

He will say, “What is worth having is
worth both working and waiting for,” and he
will redouble his efforts to shorten the time of
probation. Each will be cheered by the
thought, “It was for her sake I kept silent,”
or “It was for his sake I said ‘No,’ not my
own.”

I have often been consulted by girls who,
having seen my own happy married life, have
decided that I must be an authority on things
pertaining thereto. But, alas, it has also
often happened that the applicant for advice
only wished me to confirm her own foolish
decision.

One case recurs to my mind after the lapse
of many years. The fiancée, orphaned as an
infant, had been brought up, educated, and
cared for by relatives. She was a good
pianist, and had early found a groove in which
to earn a livelihood, always having in addition
the certainty of a home with those who had
brought her up, should she need it.

Past her first girlhood, at twenty-nine she
engaged herself to a young man eight years
her junior, inferior to herself in social position,
education, speech, and manner, and with a
weekly income of twenty-five shillings, no
other money, and relatives who rather needed
help than were likely to give it.

She came to ask if I would smooth matters
with the relatives, who were grieved and
indignant at her folly in thinking of such a
union. A little questioning elicited the facts
that her savings were to furnish the cottage,
pay the wedding expenses, including the
bridegroom’s new suit, and that rent alone
would absorb six out of the weekly twenty-five
shillings. She could not retain her position
after marriage, but she hoped to earn something
by giving music lessons.

Need I tell you what eloquence I wasted on
this wilful young woman, who was old enough
to know better, but too old and obstinate to
be convinced against her will. I brought
figures to bear, put the cost of the barest
necessaries opposite to that nineteen shillings
of weekly income after payment of rent. But
it was all useless. She did not want to be
convicted of rashness and folly, but to induce
others to agree to them.

You have doubtless foreseen the result
whilst listening to the prelude. The marriage
took place. The wife’s money was all
absorbed at the start, and debts began to be
incurred almost immediately. The man was
not of the sort likely to win a better position,
and the woman, gently nurtured, found in him
a hard, selfish domestic tyrant, who made her
life of toil doubly bitter by his coarseness and
the harshness of his conduct towards the
children. Friends had said they would not
help; but pity and the old affection for the
woman whose childhood they had watched
over conquered indignation, and much was
done for her, often by stealth, or she and her
little ones would have been no better for it.
I will not tell the rest of a sad story; but
what I have said gives a picture of results
where neither conscience nor reason had a
voice in deciding the future of two lives.

Every rank of life furnishes samples of ill-advised
marriages. A girl may be attracted
by a handsome person, and not pause to find
out whether the moral and religious character
of the man corresponds with it. She may
note his pleasant social qualities and admire
them; but it would be well for her to find out
whether these are equally notable under the
home roof. It is good to know what sort of
a son and brother a man is.

If a mother’s face lights with pleasure at
the mention of her son, and the thought of
what he is to her brings moisture to her eyes,
if the girls of the family make a friend of him
and regard him as a great factor in the sum
that makes up the happiness of home, there
will be good reason for believing that, in the
dearest of all relationships, he will not be
found wanting.

There is an old saying that “A man is
known by the company he keeps.” Is it not,
then, well for you, who look forward to
spending a lifetime in his society, to know
something of the associates he chooses for
himself now?

I think I hear some of you asking, “Is it
not the business of parents and guardians to
satisfy themselves about the position, means,
character, associates, and so on, of the man
who seeks a daughter in marriage?”

Assuredly it is. But all of you are not
blessed with parents, or kind, wise guardians
in place of them. Some have not even friends
who will interest themselves on behalf of girl
acquaintances. Some, again, are ready to
blame the young and foolish girls who think
so lightly of what is of supreme importance.
They laugh, or quote old sayings about
“Eating rue pie,” “Marry in haste and
repent at leisure,” and so on. One has even
noted a look of almost pleasurable anticipation
on the face of some acquaintance whose advice
has been asked, but not followed, as the
remark has been made, “She will find out her
mistake soon enough when she gets what she
never bargained for.”

Perhaps there may be relatives who are not
wholly sorry to be rid of responsibility in
regard to girls who have not been amenable
to advice or rules. Such wash their hands of
the whole affair by the warning, “As you
make your bed, so you must lie. Do not look
to us for help in future.”

So, when a girl reaps the fruits of a hasty
or ill-advised marriage, the most she gets from
erewhile friends or kinsfolk, is, “You were
warned in time. I told you what would
happen.”

Parents, guardians, true friends may do
their utmost, but, after all, they cannot do
everything. A great part of the responsibility
must rest on the girl herself, since they may
advise and she refuse to listen. They may
picture the prospect before her, she may shut
her eyes to it. They may bring facts and
figures, she will not discuss them, or will
insist that her calculations are right and theirs
are wrong. They may point out that the
burden of care and toil which would follow
such a marriage will prove too heavy for her.
She makes light of it, because hitherto she
has never felt the reality.

Dear ones, I am dealing mainly with
warnings, and that side of the question with
which reason has mainly to do, in this our
first talk on an all-important subject. We
shall look at the love and the beautiful—poetic
I had almost said—the heavenly side of it by-and-by.
Now, I seem to be looking all the
time at the mistakes and follies which, in so
many cases, have spoiled lives, and made
marriage like anything rather than what God
meant it to be.

Is there one amongst you to-night who is
getting tired of the daily round in a poor
home where all the family are, however, rich
in affection? You may have grown weary
of the makeshifts and contrivances needful to
keep up appearances. You hate to have to
calculate how far every shilling will go before
you spend it. You long to escape from the
narrow round of daily life, almost at any cost.
Perhaps you have only to say “Yes,” in order
to exchange it for comparative ease and luxury,
but you hesitate, and why?

Because your heart tells you that affection
will have no share in the compact. Conscience
whispers that you only know that your suitor’s
worldly circumstances are favourable, but as
to his character you are almost in ignorance,
and have an uncomfortable feeling that you
had better not inquire too closely.

Will you give your life into the keeping of
one about whom you know almost nothing,
and try to silence heart, conscience and reason
by saying to yourself, “A fine home, costly
garments, money and social position will make
up for all else that is lacking.”

God forbid. All that the world has to
offer cannot make amends for the absence of
true love and the respect and confidence
that should give it stability, neither can it
stifle the voice of conscience, which says,
“I told you the truth, and you would not
listen.”

Sometimes girls are impatient of parental
control, and to escape from what is only
reasonable and right, determine to rule in a
home of their own. They use the hackneyed
saying that marriage brings affection with it,
but too often realise that the parental yoke
was light indeed when compared to what they
have voluntarily assumed.

I think I see you turning reproachful eyes
upon me, and hear you asking, “How is it
that you, who have known such wedded
happiness, speak as though you looked on
marriage as a thing to be avoided?”

Patience, dear ones. I have been drawing
word-pictures from life. You have listened
patiently; now I ask you to bear my words in
mind. Between this and our next Twilight
gathering ask yourselves if any of my warnings
have come specially home to you, or if you
are in danger of wrecking your own young
lives and bringing sorrow on those who love
you, in any of the ways against which I have
lifted up my voice.

(To be continued.)

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