THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.

By SARAH DOUDNEY.

“‘OH, YOU RICH MEN!’ SHE INTERRUPTED WITH A WEARY SIGH.”

All rights reserved.]

{66}

CHAPTER III.

The next day was Sunday. Cardigan, who
had learnt from his young hostess all that she
could tell of her dressmaker, looked eagerly
for Alice’s face in the village church. But he
could not find her there. She had gone away
over the hills to a smaller church, to which
the Monteagles never went, and was not to
be seen with the Bowers in the seat allotted to
the tenants of Swallow’s Nest.

He was restless, and longed to secure a
little time to himself in the afternoon. Somehow,
without being observed, he contrived to
slip away, out of the Hall, through the
gardens, and then up to that high ground
from whence he had first looked down upon
the old farm.

There it lay in the still sunshine, asleep in a
Sunday peace. He waited there, and watched
until he saw the slender, upright figure of a
young woman come out of the porch. She
went down the little garden-path, opened the
wicket, and then sauntered slowly across the
grass to the lane.

She was in a very thoughtful mood as she
paced deliberately under the shade of the old
oaks. The sun, now getting low, burnished
the brown hair, wound so simply around her
uncovered head. Once she paused to reach
a spray of late honeysuckle growing on the
top of the hedge, and then stood still to tuck
it into the front of her dress. When she
moved again and lifted her eyes, she saw
Cardigan standing before her under a tree.

“Miss Harper,” he said, rather awkwardly,
“it is a great pleasure to see you again.
You have been hidden away so long!”

“I wanted to be hidden,” she answered, as
she gave him her hand. “Is it not very
natural that I should hide myself, Mr.
Cardigan? My life was darkened; it was
best to live it all alone.”

“I don’t know if it was best,” said he,
reddening to the roots of his hair with the
endeavour to speak his thought. “There
were those who would have helped you to live
it, if you would have let them.”

“Ah, but I could not.” Her face softly
reflected the glow on his. “But, by the
way,” she added more lightly, “you have
come to spoil the life I am leading here. I
am told that you have bought Swallow’s
Nest, and mean to pull the old house down.
Have you, by chance, given just a passing
thought to those who are living under its
roof?”

He flushed again.

“I confess I didn’t,” he said penitently.
“But——”

“Oh, you rich men!” she interrupted, with
a weary sigh. “With you to see is to desire,
to desire is to have, to have is to leave others
lacking. Shall I tell you what you were going
to do?”

“Tell me anything you please,” he answered
eagerly.

“It is always much easier to pull down
than to build up,” she went on. “The old
home yonder has been years in making. More
than a century ago, when it was fresh and
new, a young couple began there the serious
business of life. They were poor in money,
but very rich in love and faith. Their prayers
are built into the walls; their angels have
hallowed every humble room with holy
ministry; their souls passed gently from that
earthly dwelling to the Father’s house on
high. Children and children’s children have
filled the places that they left vacant, living
just the same simple, God-fearing life. The
old house is still sound and strong; there are
no cracks anywhere; it keeps out the rough
weather. But a rich man has decided that it
is old-fashioned and ugly, therefore it must be
pulled down.”

Cardigan had grown pale. Her words had
gone down right to the deeps of his heart, and
moved him painfully.

“It shall not be pulled down!” he cried.
“Miss Harper, I have been a stupid, selfish
man. But it is not too late to begin again?”

“No, it is not too late,” she said, with a
very bright face. “And you will really let
the house stand? Well, so much the better
for us and the swallows. Dear birds, they are
just going away. I wonder what they would
have felt if they had come back to find their
old nest in ruins. Mr. Cardigan, I think it is
a good thing that I met you to-day. Now I
must go back quickly and set some troubled
hearts at rest.”

“Do not go yet,” he pleaded. “No one
has ever given me such a straight talking to
before. My money was making a selfish brute
of me very fast. Hit me as hard as you can,
Miss Harper. Every blow knocks some of
the evil out.”

She gave a soft little laugh.

“Why, it seems that I have found a new
vocation,” said she.

“I wish you had found it sooner!” he
cried. “Can you not leave the nest to the
swallows, and take me in hand? Is it too
much to ask?”

There was a silence which only lasted for a
moment, and yet seemed half a lifetime. The
bright look faded from her face; she was
perplexed and troubled.

“Mr. Cardigan,” she said gravely, “you
must take yourself in hand.”

“That means that a man should not ask a
woman to do for him what he ought to do for
himself,” said he, in a saddened tone. “Well,
you are right. I have not given any proof of
amendment.”

“You have given a very plain proof of a
kind heart,” she said, with an earnestness that
made her eyes glisten. “I thank you for it.
But I must go now and carry the good news
indoors.”

He did not try to detain her again; but,
just as she was turning away, he made a last
request.

“Miss Harper, will you let me see you once
more before I go away? Will you meet me
here again, in this spot, next Sunday afternoon?”

“I will,” she said quietly. And there was
a very sweet look on her face as she made the
promise.

Robert Cardigan went back across the fields
with a great hunger in his heart.

He knew now that he loved her. He had
begun to love her unconsciously when she was
a girl in Park Lane, looking at life with
serious eyes, and talking of the things that she
would do some day.

How strange it was that wealth had been
taken out of her hands, and put into his. Life
is full of riddles like this. Strong, tender
spirits are left to work hard for a pittance,
suffering the heart-thrill of those who have
nothing to give but prayers and love. Lazy
men and women have their hands crammed
with gold, and look round constantly for some
new pleasure to buy for themselves. And yet
there is One who is mindful of His own.

It was a very long week. Alice, busy with
her work, was conscious of a dull ache when
she called up a vision of Cardigan’s face.
The Bowers rejoiced with a great joy. They
did not ask how it was that she knew Mr.
Cardigan, and they promised not to speak of
the matter. But they wondered silently why
she, who had brought them gladness, should
be sad herself.

Quite alone, in the stillness of another
golden Sunday, Alice slowly took her way to
the quiet lane. She knew that she should find
him waiting there; and she knew, too, the
answer that she would give him. Yet, in her
innermost self, there was a deep regret that
she could not give a different answer. A
man must work out his own salvation, she
thought. He must not put the tools into
a woman’s hand, and say, “Shape and
fashion my life according to your will.”

“So you have come. It is kind of you,”
he said.

Her face was a little paler than it had been
last Sunday, and her lips slightly quivered.

“You have made us all so happy,” she
said, in a soft, hurried voice. “The Bowers
are good people, and the old place feels like a
home to me.”

“Do you want to stay there always?” he
asked with an impatient sigh.

“I have not lived there long,” she said
evasively. “You cannot realise what a rest it
is. For two years I worked hard in London,
learning my business; and I used to pine
for fresh air, and the sight of fields and trees,
as only working girls can. It was Miss de
Vigny who found this home for me.”

“She would not tell me anything about
you,” said he. “Do you know what I feel
when I hear of all your sorrows and struggles?
I feel mad to think that I have got
so much money. It seems as if Providence
were playing with us both. Don’t look
shocked. I have a bad habit of saying odd
things when I am wrought upon.”

She stood still. Her face was beautiful,
but very pale.

“But I didn’t bring you here to listen to
my ravings,” he went on. “I want to ask if
you can give me any hope? Will there ever
be a time when we shall work together?
Only tell me this!”

She turned her face away that he might
not see the tears gathering in her eyes.

“How can I answer?” asked she, sadly.
“I do not know. We have seen so little of
each other. You are under the spell of strong
feeling; but feeling only changes a man for
a little while. It alters the surface of his
nature, but leaves the inmost self untouched.”

“Ah,” he said bitterly, “you could not say
that if you, too, were under the spell!”

“That is the truth.” She looked up at him
with a face that seemed to apologise for her
words; it was so tender, as well as so true.
“I am free from the spell. Because I am free,
I would leave you so also. You think, just
now, that you could do all the things and
make all the sacrifices which I feel right.
But, if we were together always, that mood
of yours might not last.”

“Does not love last?” he asked impatiently.

She shook her head, with a sad little
smile.

“Miss Harper,” he cried, “where did you
learn this bitter wisdom? Why has God
given us these feelings which you seem to
mistrust?”

“I mistrust them only till I see what they
will lead to,” she said gently. “They are the
beginnings of love, but not love itself. That
which you call love is not lasting; it is a
blossom that the wind blows away.”

There was a silence so deep that they could
hear the rustle of a falling leaf. Cardigan
broke the pause with a voice full of pain.

“Once more,” he said, “I ask if you will
give me a hope? To-morrow I am going
away. May I come back again?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a sudden bright
look. “Come back when the swallows
build. They owe it to your kindness that
they will find the old place just the same.
Mr. Cardigan, I am not as hard-hearted as
you suppose. But a man must put himself to
the test.”

The fall of the year brought a quantity of
work to the industrious fingers at the farm.
Miss Harper’s fame was spreading far and
wide. Letty Monteagle’s tea-gown was the
forerunner of a great many orders from her
and her friends. The squire’s young wife{67}
would have been more sociable if Alice had
not persisted in keeping her at a distance.
More than once, when Letty tried to begin a
conversation she felt herself very gently, but
very firmly, checked. She had never found
out that Cardigan had seen Alice before he
went away.

All through the short, sharp winter, and
into the early spring, the busy fingers toiled
on. There was a pause when Alice paid a
flying visit to a famous drapery house in London.
She went for patterns and goods, but
found time to see Mary de Vigny.

“Have you heard that Robert Cardigan is
making himself useful?” the little lady asked.
“Really useful, I mean. He came to me for
advice, and I gave him some. It does not do
to plunge into amateur philanthropy unaided,
you see. Well, my dear, the country seems
to agree with you. I never saw you looking
so well, and yet you are as grave as a nun.”

“Oh, that is the result of constant work,”
Alice replied.

In June a son and heir was born at the Hall.
And then Miss Harper broke through her
usual reserve, and sent an exquisite cover for
the baby’s cradle. The young mother wrote
a cordial note, so full of genuine feeling and
happiness that Alice was gladdened herself,
and went out into the porch to watch the
swallows. They darted round and round the
old house, and the sunlight shone upon the
rapid wings.

“They are building,” Milly said, a little
later, when the sun was pouring down upon
the fields. “See, they are making their nest
in the old spot!”

On the evening of the same day the farmer
came indoors with a grave face. There had
been an accident, he said. The squire’s new
groom had gone to the station with the dog-cart
to meet a gentleman. It was a mistake
to trust a young fellow with that flighty
chestnut; in Bower’s opinion the groom was
as bad a whip as he had ever seen. On the
way back the mare had bolted; both the men
were flung out, but it was the gentleman who
was hurt—very badly hurt, it was feared.
They had got him to bed at the Hall, and the
doctor would stay with him far into the night.

A woman, pale and sorrowful, knelt alone
in her room, with her face uplifted to the
stars. “If it had not been for me, he would
not have come back! Oh, God, spare his
life,” she prayed. “Spare him, and let the
way be made clear for my feet!”

Days came and went—brilliant days, full of
summer sweetness and bloom, but Cardigan
lay crushed and helpless at the squire’s house.
He was a lonely man. There was neither
mother nor sister to share the nurse’s watch
in the sick room; but when the news of the
disaster came to Mary de Vigny’s ears, she
wrote to the Monteagles and said that she
was coming. She arrived, quiet and self-possessed
as ever; and with her presence
came a gleam of hope and light. The patient
began to rally. Very slowly, very feebly, he
seemed to feel his way back into life.

One evening Mary de Vigny sent a note to
Swallow’s Nest. The squire himself was the
bearer. He drove to the gate in his wife’s
pony-cart, and waited till Miss Harper was
ready to go up to the Hall.

Cardigan, propped up on his pillows,
motionless and pale, brightened wonderfully
when she entered the room.

“Ah, I knew you would come,” he said.
“I could not lie here any longer without seeing
you, and hearing your voice. Do you
believe in me yet, Alice? Is there any more
hope for me now than there was last year?”

“Hush,” she said gently. “You are not
well enough to talk about these things.”

“I shall never get well till I have talked
about them! Alice, I want to tell you that I
made my will after I saw you last. I left you
Swallow’s Nest, and everything else besides.
Perhaps I had better die, for you will know
what to do with the money. A man’s life,
after all, is a little thing, and I never was good
enough for you. If I die——”

“Hush,” she said again. “If you die, I
will never marry anyone else as long as I
live. But you mustn’t die.”

She burst into tears; and then his hand
stole along the coverlet until it found hers,
and held it fast.

[THE END.]

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: A SHORT STORY IN VERSE.

SOLUTION.

A Short Story in Verse.

Prize Winners.

Twelve Shillings and Sixpence Each.

• Rose S. Bracey, 92, Upper Tollington Park, N.
• Mrs. J. Cumming, 1, Elvan Terrace, Ibrox, Glasgow.
• Rose D. Davis, St. Georges, Roundhay, Leeds.
• Mrs. Grubbe, Mentmore Vicarage, Leighton Buzzard.
• J. Hunt, 42, Francis Road, Birmingham.
• Edith Morrison, 65, St. Peter’s Road, Handsworth, Birmingham.
• Kate Robinson, 4, Queen Street, Horncastle.

Five Shillings Each.

• Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
• Eva M. Benson, The Rectory, Ballymoney, Co. Antrim, Ireland.
• Ethel M. E. Lea, Northfield, Royston, Herts.
• Polemarchus, 24, Tay Street, Dundee.

Very Highly Commended.

Eliza Acworth, Maud L. Ansell, Ethel C.
Burlingham, M. J. Champneys, Helen M.
Coulthard, S. Dewhirst, Lily Dickin, Mabel
Dickin, Edith E. Grundy, Alice E. Johnson,
Rev. V. Odom, Ada Rickards, Mrs. G. W.
Smith, Gertrude Smith, Isabel Snell, S.
Southall, Ellen Thurtell, May Tutte.

Highly Commended.

N. Campbell, M. Christie, Mabel E. Davis,
Ethel Dobell, A. and F. Fooks, E. F. Franks,
Eva Florence Gammage, Nelly I. Hobday,
Eva Hooley, D. A. Leslie, Nellie Meikle,
E. M. Rudge, Jas. J. Slade, Constance Taylor,
C. E. Thompson.

Honourable Mention.

Maud Allen, Mrs. Astbury, Agnes Beale,
Isabel Borrow, Leonard Duncan, Annie K.
Edwards, Dorothy Fulford, Peter Kelly, E.
M. Le Mottée, Fred. Lindley, Marian E.
Messenger, J. D. Musgrave, E. Cunliffe Owen,
Alfred Scott, Miss Sharp, M. Short, Winifred
Skelton, Ellen R. Smith, C. E. Thurger, Ethel
Tomlinson, Edward Tweed, E. Watherstow.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

The title is not “A Small Conservative in
Verse.” Apart from its absurdity there is an
objection against it which appears to have
escaped the notice of many competitors. Concerning
the rest of the puzzle, there is little to
say, it is so simple. The chief value of it lies
in the instruction, afforded by the solution,
on the use of quotation marks in verse. These
should be placed at the beginning of the quotation,
at the beginning of every line of quotation,
and at the end of the whole quotation.

The solutions of the 1st prize winners were
perfect; those of the 2nd prize winners only
failed to give the form of the verse correctly.
The solutions very highly commended placed
the quotation marks wrongly but gave the form
properly; those highly commended were incorrect
in both respects, while those in the
last list contained trifling errors in other ways.

“Wisely” and “rightly” often took the
place of sagely in line 11. The picture represents
a sage, and though sages are often wise
there was no necessity to go so deeply into the
matter to obtain a good reading. “Rightly”
is altogether wrong.

To Violet and others. The “O” in the
solution of Fluctuations should have been Oh.

{68}

GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

By ELSA D’ESTERRE KEELING, Author of “Old Maids and Young.”

PART I.

THE SENTIMENTAL GIRL.

This is the girl who has “dear five hundred
friends,” to borrow a phrase from Cowper,
and whose friendship divided among so many
yields so small a part to each that Coleridge
will not call it friendship, but calls it “a
feminine friendism.”

This is the girl who kisses other girls with
an indiscriminateness which made a man say
lately, “It makes men envious.” To which—alack
and alas!—the answer made was, “It’s
meant to do that!”

This is the girl who uses words of the kind
that Oliver Wendell Holmes called “highly
oxygenated,” but which are, if the plain truth
be said of them, the weak expression of weak
feeling.

This is the girl who, even when she is least
impious, may forget that only the Divinity
should be adored; who is never without what
a witty woman writer has called “a gentle
sorrow”; whose favourite words are “so”
and “oh”; and who writes at an early age
a novel the heroine
of which—I quote
from a manuscript
beside me—has
“hair of the colour of
Aventurine glass, of
a lovely brownish-red
tint with golden
flashes in it,” which
hair turns white with
fright in a single
night.

Golden Flashes

This is the girl who
sometimes lays herself
open to the terrible charge levelled by a
writer on the emotions at Sterne and Byron
and others of the school of literature to which
they belonged. Says Professor Bain, “Some
of the sentimental writers, such as Sterne and
Byron, seem to have had their capacities of
tenderness excited only by ideal objects, and
to have been very hard-hearted towards real
persons.”

This is the girl who said dolefully the other
day, “Oh, yes, one meets heaps of men, but
they don’t propose!” Concerning which
speech one can only say that it might with
advantage have been left unmade.

This, finally, is the girl whose letters show
up the untenability of Miss Bingley’s rule,
as set forth in Jane Austen’s novel Pride and
Prejudice.

“It is a rule with me”—so said Miss
Bingley—”that a person who can write a long
letter with ease cannot write ill.”

The average sentimental girl can write a
long letter with ease, and can write ill. In
a long letter by such a girl which has been
placed at my disposal, she constitutes herself
petitioner for a poor family, of which she
writes, “They are getting into despair as to
how to meet their rent, much less food. It is
a fearful idea of people in one’s own class
wanting for food.” The sentiment of that is
rather narrow, and the wording of it is
execrable.

Tact is not always but is sometimes denied
to the young sentimental letter-writer. “I
have been reading”—so wrote some little time
ago a girl to a novelist—”your last book, and
have fallen in love with you, and now the
thought has come into my head, ‘Could not
I collect together my feeble attempts at
writing and publish them?'”

The writer who is informed that his work
has suggested the collecting together of feeble
attempts and publishing them is made the
recipient of a dubious compliment.

Very often the inducement to do a thing
as set forth by the girl-sentimentalist is of a
kind not calculated to weigh strongly with
persons less sentimental.

A lady of high accomplishments and keen
relish of social intercourse asserts that while
on the staff of a London High School she
suffered for years from the invitations of young
girls who, in imploring her to accept their
family’s hospitality, never failed to emphasise
the fact that there would be “nobody else
invited.”

There is a very general idea that the girl-sentimentalist
totally ignores the practical side
of life. That is not so.

“I have a short wait here,” so writes a
girl from the Welsh border. “This letter is
the last I shall write on English soil, and I
want it to be to you. In spite of good
resolutions, I have cried without ceasing since
I left —— Not even the evident amusement
of a small boy, my vis-a-vie” (spelling is not a
strong point with this writer) “could dry up
those tears. Dignity doesn’t help one to
forget an aching heart. I must fly now to
see to my luggage.”

The heart in a girl like that is balanced by
the head, and the same thing is true of the
girl-writer of the next letter-extract:

“I look often at his
picture upon my table,
and wonder why it is
there. I am so exquisitely
happy, and
yet so keenly aware
of my own shortcomings.
This great
new thing that has
come into my life
makes me feel my
own unworthiness.
Tell me of all my
misspellings, please.”

This
Great
New
Thing

The misspellings of
the average girl-sentimentalist
are legion; in fact, I have heard
a schoolmistress say—the speech having been
addressed by her to a younger schoolmistress—”Put
down sentimentality; it leads to
misspelling.”

From this schoolmistress I have it that the
girl who can spell “parallel,” “ridiculous,”
and “predilection,” is rarely an incurable
sentimentalist.

My own experience has been that it is the
sentimental girl
who writes—and
says—”rearly”
and
“warfted,” and
the following
curiosities in
spelling are
culled from the—unpublished—works
of girl-novelists:

“He had suffered
the yolk
of tyranny.”

“She carried
a little book,
with guilt edges,
a prayer-book.”

The
Yolk
of
Tyranny

The girl who
describes a prayer-book as a book with “guilt”
edges is almost guilty of profanation. Tell her
this, and so far is this sort of girl from being
a hardened sinner that the strong likelihood is
that she will never again commit this error.
An appeal to her heart is always better than
an appeal to her head. This fact was realised
by the Israelite who said to a young maiden
of this type who had written “sinagog” for
“synagogue,” “You must not spell the name
of our temple like that. It is not only incorrect,
but very unkind spelling.”

“I will never spell so again,” was the young
maiden’s answer.

Sometimes the defence of her spelling put
forward by the girl of sentimental rather than
logical bias is very remarkable. “‘Court-material,'”
said recently a young English
damsel who had written “court-material”
for “court-martial,” “makes quite as much
sense to me as ‘court-martial.'”

The objection to this form is, of course,
that it does not make quite as much sense to
other people.

It may be asked now, Does the non-sentimental
girl experience no difficulties in connection
with spelling? Certainly she does.
She was heard the other day saying that the
word assassination had been a standing difficulty
to her until another girl told her that it
began with “two asses” as thus, ass-ass-ination.
The non-sentimental girl has also
been known to say, looking up from a book—

UNDER A BAD SPELL

“Hullo, here’s ‘wobble’ spelt not with
an ‘o’ but with an ‘a’—’wabble.’ Now
I wonder which is the right spelling.”

This is perhaps the place in which to say
that there is nothing more difficult than to
determine what forms the line of demarcation
between the sentimental and the non-sentimental
girl. There are persons who assert
that a girl who uses the interjection Hullo!
may be safely termed non-sentimental, but
that is so far from being true that among the
girl-readers of this paper there will be one
with whom Hullo! is a favourite expletive,
and who said, this summer, as a full-blown
rose which she was presenting to a person
greatly loved by her fell in a shower of petals
to the ground, “Even the roses fall at your
feet.”

That was surely the language of sentiment.

Others assert that girls who wear men’s
collars with men’s neckties may safely be
dubbed non-sentimental, but it was a girl in
boy’s attire to the waist whom the writer of
this paper heard say in reference to a beautiful
woman to whom she gave the whole homage
of the girl’s heart that beat under the boyish
garb that she favoured, “She is ordered by
her doctor to Buxton to drink the waters.
Happy waters!”

That was surely the language of sentiment.

If there be aught in a name, it is to be
regretted that Angelina is no longer a name
much given in baptism, and that no poet of
this day follows him who sang in praise of
“the dear Amanda.” Not that Angelina or
Amanda is the best possible name for a{69}
sentimental girl. No; such a girl should be
called Delia. Mr. Henley has given the reason
why—

“Sentiment hallows the vowels in Delia.”

To return to the sentimental girl as writer.
Misspellings, it has been stated, are legion
with her. Of other marks by which you shall
know her a leading one is that she has a
tendency to write all abstract nouns, starting
with “love,” with capital initials; she writes
impassioned postcards, favours such obscure
phrasing as “farewell, but not good-bye,” has
been known to bring a letter to a close with the
words, “Ever yours always lovingly,” and to
send “much best love.”

To sum up, however, the sentimental girl
must not be too harshly condemned. To one
and other of us she has signed herself “Yours
ever” and has been ours for a day; this has
made us feel bitter. To one and other of us
she has said, using words which are used by
Shakespeare, who, one feels quite certain,
heard them from a girl-sentimentalist, “I love
thee best, oh, most best, believe it,” and,
having said that to us, has been heard by us
saying that to another; this has made us feel
jealous. In bitterness and in jealousy we
are apt to misjudge the girl-sentimentalist,
thinking hard thoughts of her, saying harsh
things of her, instead of being right happy
to be of those to whom she makes her
Shakespearian protestations. Shakespeare is
very good in print, but he is very much better
from young lips.

Some people are greatly alarmed by the
spectacle of a girl who appears to be without
sentiment. This girl’s heart is wrapped in a
cool outer shell, like the world, but, like the
world, it has, be sure, a hot nucleus. One
could not be a girl, worth the name of girl, and
this thing be different. To have a heart full
of love in one’s body is not to be sentimental.
To be sentimental is to have a heart full of
loves and likes, and to wear it on one’s sleeve.

(To be continued.)

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER V.

A MILITARY NURSE.

Colonel
Baron
might not
confess
the fact in
so many
words, but
before he had
been three days
in Paris, he was
sorely regretting
his own
action in taking
Roy across the
Channel.

Had he admitted
that it
really was his
wife’s persistency,
overbearing
his better
judgment,
which had
settled the matter,
he might have been
tempted to blame her.
But even to himself he
did not admit this.
Rather than confess
that he had been managed
by a woman, he preferred to look
upon the mistake as entirely his own.
Moreover, he was too devoted a husband
to condemn openly any fault in his wife.
She was, of course, a woman, and as such
he would have counted it infra dig. on
his part to have been controlled by her;
but she was also in his eyes the fairest
and most charming woman that ever had
lived; and the one thing on earth before
which the Colonel’s courage failed was
the sight of tears in his Harriette’s
large grey eyes.

That they should return home, as at
first proposed, by the end of a fortnight,
unless they were willing to leave the
boy behind, was impossible; and neither
of them would for a moment contemplate
that idea. No matter how well Roy
might get on, he would be a prisoner
beyond the fortnight. Small-pox is a
disease which “gangs its ain gait,” and
makes haste for no man’s convenience.
Even after actual recovery, there would
still be need for quarantine.

Had Roy remained at home, he would
probably have sickened at the same date,
if, as was supposed, he had taken the
infection from one of his schoolfellows.
But then he would have been safe in
England, and his parents could any day
have returned to him. Now he seemed
likely to keep them abroad, at a time
when war-clouds hovered unpleasantly
near.

When Roy first fell ill, the doctor who
was hastily called in at once pronounced
him to be sickening for that fell disease,
which held the world in a thraldom of
terror. Not without good reason. It was
reckoned that in those days nearly half
a million of people died in Europe every
year of small-pox; about forty-five millions
being swept away in a century; while
tens of thousands were rendered hideous
for life, and large numbers were hopelessly
blinded. We, who know small-pox mainly
in the very modified form which sometimes
occurs in vaccinated people, can
scarcely even imagine what the ravages
of the disease were in those years of its
fullest and most unchecked sway.

Mrs. Baron was a fond and tender
mother; yet when first that dread word
left the doctor’s lips, even she fled in
horror from the sick room, agonised,
not only at the thought of losing her
child, but of parting also with her own
attractive looks. From infancy she had
been used to admiration; and she knew
only too well to what a mere mockery of
the human face many a lovelier countenance
than hers was reduced. Though
a most winning woman, she was hardly
of a strong nature; and even her
mother-love failed for the moment under
that fearful test. The Colonel, kind but
helpless, was left alone by his boy’s
bedside.

Soon, ashamed of herself, Mrs. Baron
rallied and would have returned; but at
the door she was met by the Colonel,
who sternly prohibited re-entrance. She
bowed to his decision, trembling, as she
did not always bow when her wishes
were crossed.

The people of the hotel, no whit less
dismayed, insisted on Roy’s instant
removal. The question was, where
could he go?

Then it was that Denham Ivor came
to the rescue. He had had small-pox;
he had nursed a friend through it; he
was, therefore, not only safe but also
experienced. He would undertake the
boy himself, allowing no other to enter
the room. Neither Mrs. Baron nor
Colonel Baron might again approach
Roy, until all danger of infection was
over. His steady manner and cheerful
face brought comfort to everybody.

He consulted with the hotel people,
and heard of a certain Monsieur and
Madame de Bertrand, members of the
lesser noblesse of past days, who lived
in a street near, and who might be
willing to take in him and Roy. Three
years earlier they had both been inoculated,
and had had the complaint. Their
servant, too, was safe; and, since they
had lost heavily in Revolution times,
and were badly off, they might be glad
thus to make a little money.

Colonel Baron hastened to the house,
ready to offer anything, and he was
met kindly, matters being speedily
arranged. Roy was then conveyed
thither, wrapped in blankets, already
much too ill to care what might be done
with him. Colonel and Mrs. Baron
remained at the hotel, to endure a long
agony of suspense. The Colonel was,
indeed, almost overcome with terror,
not only for Roy, but also for his wife,
lest she should already have caught the
infection.

As days passed this dread was proved
to be groundless, and Roy was found to
have the complaint on the whole mildly,
though thoroughly. It was not a case
of the awful “confluent” small-pox, of
which fully half the number attacked
generally died, but of the simple “discrete”
kind. Though he had much of
the eruption on his body, few pustules
appeared on his face. There was a
good deal of fever, and at times he
wandered, calling for “Molly,” and
complaining that she was cross and{70}
would not answer him. More often he
was dull and stupefied, saying little.

No one who had seen Denham Ivor
only on parade or in society, would
have singled him out as likely to be an
especially good nurse; but Roy soon
learnt this side of the man. A modern
hospital nurse would doubtless have
found a great deal to complain of in his
methods, and not a little to arouse her
laughter. Many of his arrangements
were highly masculine. The room was
seldom in anything like order; and whatever
he used he commonly plumped
down afterwards in the most unlikely
places. But his patience and attention
never failed; he never forgot essentials;
he never seemed to think of himself, or
to require rest. Day after day he remained
in that upstairs room with the
invalid, only once in the twenty-four
hours going out of the house for half-an-hour’s
turn, that he might report Roy’s
condition to Colonel Baron, meeting him
and standing a few yards distant.

The usual nine days of full eruption,
following upon forty-eight hours of fever,
were gone through, with, of course,
abundance of discomfort and restlessness.
Despite the comparatively mild
nature of his illness, Roy fell away fast
in flesh and strength, while Ivor managed
with a minimum of repose. If Roy were
able to get a short sleep, Denham used
that opportunity to do the same himself,
but in some mysterious way he always
contrived to be awake before Roy woke
up. His handsome bronzed face grew
less bronzed with the confinement and
lack of exercise.

So far as he knew how to guard
against the spread of infection, he did
his best. No one beside himself and
the doctor entered the sick room, except
a wizened old Frenchwoman, herself
frightful from the effects of the same
dire disease, who was hired to come in
each morning for half-an-hour, while
Ivor went out, that she might put the
room into something like order. For
the rest, the gallant young Guardsman,
sweet Polly’s lover, undertook the whole.

Then tokens of improvement began;
and Colonel Baron sent a letter home
which cheered Molly’s sore heart; and,
just when all promised well for a quick
recovery, violent inflammation of one
ear set in. For days and nights the
boy suffered tortures, and sleep was
impossible for him, therefore for his
nurse. Roy, in his weakened state,
sometimes broke down and cried bitterly
with the pain, imploring Ivor never to
let Molly know that he had cried.

“She’d think me so girlish,” he
said, while tears rolled down his thin
cheeks, marked by half-a-dozen red pits.
“Please don’t ever tell her!”

In the midst of this trouble a most
unexpected blow fell upon Ivor, in the
shape of a stern official notice, desiring
him to consider himself a prisoner of
war, and at once to render his parole.
Ivor was a calm-mannered man generally,
with the composure which means
only the determined holding-down of a
far from placid nature, but some fierce
and angry words broke from him that
day. He was compelled to go out to
give his parole, infection or no infection,
leaving the old woman in charge for as
brief a space as might be; and indignant
utterances were exchanged between himself
and Colonel Baron, whom he chanced
to meet, bent on the same errand. Then
he had to hasten back to the boy, with a
heavy weight at his heart. It meant to
Ivor, not only indefinite separation from
Polly, but also a complete deadlock in
his military career. He was passionately
in love with her; he was hardly less
passionately in love with his profession.
Had imprisonment come in the ordinary
way, through reverse or capture in actual
warfare, he would have borne it more
easily; but the sense of injustice rankled
here. Also at once he foresaw the complications
likely to arise, and the probability
that an exchange of prisoners
would be impossible. As he patiently
tended the boy, doing all that he could
to bring relief, his brain went round at
the thought of his position, and that of
Colonel Baron.

(To be continued.)

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER IV.

For four long days
had Mariquita Saville
dwelt beneath
Mr. Asplin’s roof,
and her companions
still gazed
upon her with fear
and trembling, as
a mysterious and
extraordinary
creature, whom
they altogether
failed to understand.
She talked
like a book, she
behaved like a
well-conducted old
lady of seventy,
and she sat with
folded hands gazing
around, with
a curious, dancing
light in her hazel eyes, which seemed to
imply that there was some tremendous
joke on hand, the secret of which was
known only to herself. Esther and Mellicent
had confided their impressions to
their mother, but in Mrs. Asplin’s presence,
Peggy was just a quiet, modest
girl, a trifle shy and retiring, as was
natural under the circumstances, but with
no marked peculiarity of any kind. She
answered to the name of “Peggy,” to
which address she was persistently deaf
at other times, and sat with eyelids
lowered, and neat little feet crossed
before her, the picture of a demure,
well-behaved, young schoolgirl. The
sisters assured their mother that Mariquita
was a very different person in the
schoolroom, but when she inquired as
to the nature of the difference, it was
not so easy to explain.

“She talked so grandly, and used
such great, big words.”

A good thing, too, Mrs. Asplin
averred. She wished the rest would
follow her example, and not use so
much foolish, meaningless slang.——Her
eyes looked so bright and mocking, as
if she were laughing at something all
the time. Poor, dear child! could
she not talk as she liked? It was a
great blessing she could be bright,
poor lamb, with such a parting before
her!——She was so—so—grown-up, and
patronising, and superior! Tut! tut!
Nonsense! Peggy had come from a
large boarding-school, and her ways
were different from theirs—that was all.
They must not take stupid notions, but
be kind and friendly and make the poor
girl feel at home.

Fraulein on her side reported that her
new pupil was docile and obedient, and
anxious to get on with her studies,
though not so far advanced as might
have been expected. Esther was far
ahead of her in most subjects, and
Mellicent learned with pained surprise
that she knew nothing whatever about
decimal fractions.

“Circumstances, dear,” she explained,
“circumstances over which I
had no control, prevented an acquaintance,
but no doubt I shall soon know
all about them, and then I shall be
pleased to give you the promised help,”
and Mellicent found herself saying,
“Thank you,” in a meek and submissive
manner, instead of indulging in a
well-merited rebuke.

No amount of ignorance seemed to
daunt Mariquita, or to shake her belief
in herself. When Maxwell came to
grief in a Latin essay, she looked up,
and said, “Can I assist you?” And
when Robert read out a passage from
Carlyle, she laid her head on one side
and said, “Now, do you know, I am
not altogether sure that I am with him
on that point!” with an assurance
which paralysed the hearers.

Esther and Mellicent discussed
seriously together as to whether they
liked, or disliked, this extraordinary
creature, and had great difficulty in
coming to a conclusion. She teased,
puzzled, aggravated, and provoked
them; therefore, if they had any claim
to be logical, they should dislike her
cordially, yet somehow or other they
could not bring themselves to say that
they disliked Mariquita. There were
moments when they came perilously
near loving the aggravating creature.{71}
Already it gave them quite a shock to
look back upon the time when there
was no Peggy Saville to occupy their
thoughts, and life without the interest
of her presence would have seemed unspeakably
flat and uninteresting. She
was a bundle of mystery. Even her
looks seemed to exercise an uncanny
fascination. On the evening of her
arrival the unanimous opinion had been
that she was decidedly plain, but there
was something about the pale little face
which always seemed to invite a second
glance, and the more closely you
gazed, the more complete was the feeling
of satisfaction.

“Her face is so neat,” Mellicent
said to herself, and the adjective was
not inappropriate, for Peggy’s small
features looked as though they had been
modelled by the hand of a fastidious
artist, and the air of dainty finish extended
to her hands and feet, and slight
graceful figure.

The subject came up for discussion on
the third evening after Peggy’s arrival,
when she had been called out of the
room to speak to Mrs. Asplin for a few
minutes. Esther gazed after her as she
walked across the floor with her slow,
dignified tread, and when the door was
safely closed, she said slowly—

“I don’t think Mariquita is as plain
now, as I did at first, do you,
Oswald?”

“N—no! I don’t think I do. I
should not call her exactly plain. She
is a funny, little thing, but there’s
something nice about her face.”

“Very nice.”

“Last night in the pink dress she
looked almost pretty.”

“Y—es!”

“Quite pretty!”

“Y—es! really quite pretty.”

“We shall think her lovely in
another week,” said Mellicent tragically.
“Those awful Savilles! They
are all alike—there is something Indian
about them. Indian people have a lot
of secrets that we know nothing about,
they use spells, and poisons, and incantations
that no English person can
understand, and they can charm snakes.
I’ve read about it in books. Arthur and
Peggy were born in India, and it’s my
opinion that they are bewitched. Perhaps
the ayahs did it when they were
in their cradles. I don’t say it is their
own fault, but they are not like other
people, and they use their charms on us,
as there are no snakes in England.
Look at Arthur! He was the naughtiest
boy, always hurting himself, and spilling
things, and getting into trouble,
and yet everyone in the house bowed
down before him and did what he
wanted. Now mark my word, Peggy
will be the same!”

Mellicent’s companions were not in
the habit of “marking her words,” but
on this occasion they looked thoughtful,
for there was no denying that they were
always more or less under the spell of
the remorseless stranger.

On the afternoon of the fourth day
Miss Peggy came down to tea with her
pig-tail smoother and more glossy than
ever, and the light of war shining in
her eyes. She drew her chair to the
table and looked blandly at each of her
companions in turn.

“I have been thinking,” she said
sweetly, and the listeners quaked at the
thought of what was coming. “The
thought has been weighing on my
mind that we neglect many valuable
and precious opportunities. This hour,
which is given to us for our own use,
might be turned to profit and advantage,
instead of being idly frittered
away. ‘In work, in work, in work
alway, let my young days be spent.’
It was the estimable Dr. Watts, I think,
who wrote those immortal lines! I
think it would be a desirable thing to
carry on all conversation at this table
in the French language for the future.
Passez-moi le beurre, s’il vous plait,
Mellicent, ma très chère. J’aime beaucoup
le beurre, quand il est frais. Est-ce
que vous aimez le beurre plus de la—I
forget at the moment how you translate
jam. Il fait très beau, ce après-midi,
n’est pas?”

She was so absolutely, imperturbably,
grave that no one dared to laugh.
Mellicent, who took everything in
deadly earnest, summoned up courage
to give a mild little squeak of a reply.
“Wee—mais hier soir, il pleut;” and
in the silence that followed, Robert was
visited with a mischievous inspiration.
He had had French nursery governesses
in his childhood, and had, moreover,
spent two years abroad, so that French
came as naturally to him as his own
mother tongue. The temptation to discompose
Miss Peggy was too strong to
be resisted. He raised his dark, square-chinned
face, looked straight into her
eyes, and rattled out a long, breathless
sentence, to the effect that there was
nothing so necessary as conversation if
one wished to master a foreign language;
that he had talked French in the nursery;
and that the same Marie who had
nursed him as a baby, was still in his
father’s service, and acted as maid to
his only sister. She was getting old
now, but was a most faithful creature,
devoted to the family, though she had
never overcome her prejudices against
England, and English ways. He
rattled on until he was fairly out of
breath, and Peggy leant her little chin
on her hand, and stared at him with an
expression of absorbing attention.
Esther felt convinced that she did not
understand a word of what was being
said, but the moment that Robert
stopped, she threw back her head,
clasped her hands together, and exclaimed—

“Mais certainement, avec pleasure!”
with such vivacity and Frenchiness of
manner, that she was forced into unwilling
admiration.

“Has no one else a remark to
make?” continued this terrible girl,
collapsing suddenly into English, and
looking inquiringly round the table.
“Perhaps there is some other language
which you would prefer to French. It is
all the same to me. I think we ought
to strive to become proficient in foreign
tongues. At the school where I was at
Brighton there was a little girl in the
fourth form who could speak and even
write Greek quite admirably. It impressed
me very much, for I myself
knew so little of the language. And
she was only six——”

“Six!” The boys straightened themselves
at that, roused into eager protest.
“Six years old! And spoke Greek!
And wrote Greek! Impossible!”

“I have heard her talking for half-an-hour
at a time. I have known the girls
in the first form ask her to help them
with their exercises. She knew more
than anyone in the school.”

“Then she is a human prodigy. She
ought to be exhibited. Six years old!
Oh, I say—that child ought to turn out
something great when she grows up.
What did you say her name was, by the
by?”

Peggy lowered her eyelids, and pursed
up her lips. “Andromeda Michaelides,”
she said slowly. “She was six
last Christmas. Her father is Greek
consul in Manchester.”

There was a pause of stunned surprise;
and then, suddenly, an extraordinary
thing happened. Mariquita
bounded from her seat, and began flying
wildly round and round the table. Her
pigtail flew out behind her; her arms
waved like the sails of a windmill, and
as she raced along, she seized upon
every loose article which she could
reach, and tossed it upon the floor.
Cushions from chairs and sofa went
flying into the window; books were
knocked off the table with one rapid
sweep of the hand; magazines went
tossing up in the air, and were kicked
about like so many footballs. Round
and round she went, faster and faster,
while the five beholders gasped and
stared, with visions of madhouses,
strait-jackets, and padded rooms,
rushing through their bewildered brains.
Her pale cheeks glowed with colour;
her eyes shone; she gave a wild shriek
of laughter, and threw herself, panting
and gasping, into a chair by the fireside.

“Three cheers for Mariquita! Ho!
Ho! Ho! Didn’t I do it well? If you
could have seen your faces!”

“P—P—P—eggy! Do you mean to
say you have been pretending all this
time? What do you mean? Have you
been putting on all those airs and
graces for a joke?” asked Esther,
severely, and Peggy gave a feeble
splutter of laughter.

“W—wanted to see what you were
like! Oh, my heart! Ho! Ho! Ho!
wasn’t it lovely? Can’t keep it up any
longer! Good-bye, Mariquita! I’m
Peggy now, my dears. Some more
tea!”

(To be continued.)

{72}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

If the French craze for plaids and tartans be
followed in England, it will be as well to
remind everyone that there are certain people
to whom they are quite forbidden. I refer to
the very stout and the very thin. And it is
to be hoped that these two classes may be
wise in season and avoid them. For the rest,
the new plaids are, some of them, pretty and
in quiet hues, though I noticed, when in Paris,
that people liked them more vivid as to
colouring, and one consequently saw some
very lively-looking ones in scarlet and bright
red. These plaids are more used as skirts
than as entire dresses; in fact, the newest
departure in coats and skirts is to have the
skirt of plaid and the coat of a plain cloth
which suits it in colour. For this purpose a
sacque coat is always used, and this is a
fortunate thing, for they suit all figures, thin
and stout, equally well; but they, more than
any other description of jacket, require a good
cut, as they are so easily made to hitch up or
to droop at the back by an inexperienced
cutter. And the oddest part of it is that no
alteration seems to do any good, for the
trouble appears to lie deeper than that, in the
very foundation of the jacket.

JACKET WITH ROUNDED FRONTS. GOWN WITH TUNIC.

The few notes that I have collected together
on the subject of furs I will use at the beginning
of my article. Fur trimmings of all{73}
kinds are very much worn, and so many of
the winter gowns are decorated with fur
bands, that the fashion seems like a uniform.
The peculiarity of this form of trimming is
that this season it must be accompanied by
bands of brightly-coloured velvet and generally
with braid. Seal and sable are constant
favourites, and they will be used in combination
for the fitted-back jackets or sacque-backed
ones, which are the two shapes for
fur jackets at present. Skunk and bear,
which were last year so popular, have fallen
out of favour; but caracul is much used, and
has not been freshly named this year. So far
as I can see, white satin seems to be the
popular lining for all fur jackets and capes,
though I have seen one or two lined with
gold colour and pale blue. The capes
of fur follow the fashion of those in
cloth and are flounced just as they were
last year, many of them; but this year
the flounces are wider and more visible
to the eye. The collars of all fur garments
are very high. And, lastly, I
must mention that long fur boas are
expected to take the place of the
feather ones to which we have been so
faithful.

As I look round trying to satisfy myself
as to the fashionable colours for
the autumn, I find myself in a decided
difficulty. There is a new shade of
lavender or hyacinth-blue, which is very
pretty, but needs to be toned down with
white or black, and I am sure others
will have noticed that there is a perfect
run on lavender-blue hats, which
are prepared for the winter in every
shade of this hue. Then there is a
deep-hued tomato-red, which is very
handsome in velvet, and a new blue
known as “old Japanese.” Dark brown
cloth, with reliefs of orange velvet and
satin; grey face cloth, with reliefs of
turquoise blue; and red with black
cordings, are all fashionable winter
mixtures. Pink, ranging from a pale
coral to a very deep du Barry rose hue,
is quite as much worn as ever, and from
what I see, orange-colour is the same.

Both for day and night the hair is
now dressed quite low on the nape of
the neck, in a coil of twists, and on
the head and over the ears it is waved
in wide undulations, the front hair being
cut short and curled over the forehead.
For the evening a rose fastened in by a
diamond pin behind the left ear is said to be
the latest idea.

The reason of this change in the style of
dressing the hair appears to lie in the change
in the style of the hats and bonnets of the season.
There is no doubt that, to the majority of
Englishwomen, the hair dressed in this manner
is more becoming than in any other style.

In the way of new skirts we find several in
which there are neither pleats nor gathers at
the back; but the most popular have two
box-pleats, on which there are placed (in
some skirts at least) a row or two of rather
large buttons, from the waist to the hem.
Dresses are, I am sorry to say, being made
very much longer in the skirt. They touch
the ground at the front and sides, and lie on
it completely at the back, while for evening
use the long train is universally adopted.
I think the Princess-gown will be the
favourite one for evening use, and here sleeves
seem to be banished entirely, a velvet ribbon
or a flower being considered a sufficient
substitute for them. For walking-skirts in
thick materials, however, the sensible ones are
to be left a choice, so we shall probably see
as many short skirts worn as long ones.
After all, the bicycle-skirt has to be considered,
and many of us wear that in the country
nearly all day long.

Our first illustration shows two of the
reigning winter and autumn styles, namely,
the three-quarter jacket, and the strapped
cape, with bands of cloth piped with scarlet
silk. The figure on the left wears a tailor-made
and beautifully-fitting jacket of grey cloth,
which is braided with a darker grey braid over
bands of paler grey cloth, the lines running
longitudinally from the top of the collar to the
edge of the jacket. The skirt is of plain cloth
of the same tone of grey as the jacket. The
latter is lined with orange silk. The toque is
of orange velvet, with cream-coloured lace,
and feathers and wings of orange and black.

GOWN OF GREY CLOTH.CAPE WITH CLOTH BANDS.

The second figure in the illustration wears a
black cloth cape, lined with scarlet silk, and
piped with the same at each side of the wide
cloth bands, which make the decoration of the
cape. These bands are tapered gradually
round the fronts and up the sides, where they
are crossed with ornamental straps which
fasten the cape in front. The collar is high,
and is piped and lined with scarlet. The hat
is of straw, with scarlet and black velvet, and
black feathers at one side, and scarlet and
black rosettes below the brim at the back and
sides.

The next illustration consists of a single
figure only, who wears one of the new jackets
of the winter, the material of which is dark
green cloth, braided in black, and edged with
caracul fur. The new feature in this jacket is
the flounce of cloth of about eight inches in
depth, which is placed round the edge, and
which is also trimmed with fur. The hat is of
white felt, with trimmings of green velvet, and
green feathers; and the dress worn is of green
cashmere, with green velvet trimmings.

The group of three figures fully displays one
of the most stylish of the season’s confections,{74}
two views being given of it,
a front and a back one, on
the figures which stand on
the right and left. This
jacket is of cloth, tight-fitting,
and of three-quarter
length, with the fronts
rounded to the bands at the
waist. It is trimmed with
bands of fur, and with cloth
bands of a lighter colour,
which taper towards the
waist in front, and on the
bodice are arranged so as to
simulate an Eton jacket.
The seated figure shows one
of the new tunics. The material
is of dark blue cloth,
and the tunic is cut to reach
a little below the knee.
The bodice is open in front
to show a vest of apricot-coloured
velvet which has
white lace motifs on it.
The tunic and the revers of
the bodice are edged with
bands of astrachan, which
is laid on apricot velvet,
edged and overlaid with
fancy braiding in black.
There is a large collar high
at the back, which is bordered
in the same manner,
and lined with black velvet.
The edge of the skirt is
trimmed with bands of
astrachan, which are put on
to match the battlements of
the tunic.

NEW WINTER JACKET.

The very smart coats of
the autumn are all made of
a thick satin merveilleux,
which was used for the same
purpose some years ago,
and seems to have returned
to favour. Other coats are
of black velvet, on one
of which a great deal of
Irish crochet lace has been
lavished as decoration; but
all of them are of the same
three-quarter length, and
aspire to great perfection of
cut and fit. One sees by
these coats how desirable it
is to be slight in figure, for
most of these fashions are only suitable for the
thin. Pipings are the predominant ornament;
and, indeed, this form of decoration is more
popular than anything else.

Mittens are coming into use, and, for the
evening, will perhaps supersede gloves; the
late tropical heat has rendered the most
careful people quite careless of their gloves,
and it has been nothing remarkable to meet
well-dressed women in the street carrying
their gloves in their hands. The ribbon
bands round the neck, which have been so
much used this year, are now being replaced
by velvet ones, tied in the same manner—in a
bow at the back. It is rumoured that wide
strings of ribbon for bonnets are coming in
again, but I do not think it likely, as they add
much to the look of age on the face.

Hats turned up in front were an introduction
of the later summer season; but they have
taken immensely, and will be worn during the
winter, and it is well to remember, nevertheless,
that they require a plump face, for thin
cheeks stand no chance at all, in their very
uncompromising lack of shadow.

The following is sent by an anonymous
reader in response to the address on our
Prospectus.—Ed.

TO OUR EDITOR.

From his “Garden of Girls.”

THE RULES OF SOCIETY.

By LADY WILLIAM LENNOX.

PART I.

The following remarks upon the “Rules of
Society” are made for the benefit of those
who from one cause or another feel a little
uncertain with respect to the small observances
which, although not to be counted among
the weightier matters in life, yet hold no
unimportant place therein, if our daily comfort
and well-being are to be considered; but are,
indeed, like oil on the wheels, not absolutely
essential to movement, but making all the
difference as regards smoothness or the reverse.

Life would go on certainly though we were
all as rude and uncultivated as could be—sitting
on the ground and tearing our food
with our hands preparatory to gnawing the
bones, and speaking the most terrible home
truths to each other without any veil whatever—but
it would not be so pleasant. And as
civilisation has progressed, so by degrees a
sort of code of rules—unwritten in some
particulars, but none the less binding—has
been evolved very much to the advantage of
us all in the way of preventing roughness in
manner and making the great machine called
Society—which is but another name for an
assemblage of human beings—run easily and
without friction.

More especially perhaps is an acquaintance
with the “code” necessary to women for
their own happiness, sensitive and keen by
nature as they are and painfully aware of
the slightest awkwardness; for, akin to the
feeling of discomfort—I may almost say
general disorganisation—produced by the consciousness
of having on a badly-fitting gown,
a hideous hat, or a shoe whose beauties are
things of the past, just when there is urgent
reason for wishing to look well, is the sensation
of nervous depression brought on by
suddenly awakening to the fact that one does
not know quite “how to behave” or “what
to do” in the circumstances of the moment.

I ought, I think, to begin by offering an
apology to the many readers of The Girl’s
Own Paper who have no need of any
instruction or hints on the matter for choosing
a subject which always provokes a smile—either
good-natured or cynical—when mentioned,
on account doubtless of its being
among those things which everybody is supposed
to know. But there is no occasion for
the already enlightened to wade through this
paper. The heading will warn them off, and
they can simply skip it all.

Leaving the majority therefore out of the
question as in no way concerned, I address
myself to the comparatively few; and, on
the principle of taking the first step before{75}
attempting the second, I begin at the beginning
and will try to answer queries which
present themselves to my imagination as likely
to be asked if people had the opportunity of
asking them.

We will consider at starting the very
ordinary occurrence of a dinner party about
to be given; the invitations being sent out.
These may be formal cards—”Mr. and Mrs.
A. request the honour”—or the pleasure—”of
Mr. and Mrs. B’s company at dinner on
Tuesday, the 8th of June, at 8 o’clock”—or
merely notes—”Dear Mrs. A., will you and
Mr. A. give us the pleasure of your company
at dinner on,” etc.

In either case the answer must be couched
in the same terms as the invitation, except
when, as sometimes happens, the inviter is a
near relative or very intimate friend of the
invited, in which event the formality may be
disregarded in favour of a note. “Dear Mrs.
B.”—or the Christian name only—”we have
great pleasure in accepting your kind invitation,”
or “We shall have great pleasure in
dining with you,” etc.

And here please be careful to notice the
difference in the wording, and avoid a mistake
constantly made in letters of this sort. People
write, “I shall have much pleasure in accepting,”
not considering that the acceptance
refers to the present, and consequently there
is no “shall” about it. But if the phrase
runs, “I shall have much pleasure in dining
with you,” it is correct because it refers to the
dinner which is in the future.

The date fixed for the party arrives, and you
make your appearance in your host’s drawing-room,
followed by your daughter—if she was
asked—and then your husband. Never, on
any account, go in arm-in-arm. It is a mistake
very seldom made; but, as I have seen it
happen occasionally, it must be mentioned.
The old-fashioned arm-in-arm is, indeed,
pretty nearly obsolete, except when actually
going down to dinner or supper, or just
through the hall to a carriage. At no other
time, unless in some frightful crowd as a protection,
is such a thing ever witnessed now.

Dinner is announced and you take your
seats. With regard to the mode of eating, it
may be roughly laid down that a knife is not
to be used when spoon and fork will do, and
a spoon should not be employed if a fork alone
is sufficient. In the case of fish, silver knives
are usually provided, and when they are not it
is advisable to use two forks if one will not
quite answer the purpose. Curry, properly
cooked, requires no knife, only spoon and fork.
Quails and cutlets, of course, must have a
knife, but many entrées can be perfectly well
managed with a fork alone.

It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to say that
under no circumstances whatever, whether
when eating vegetables, cheese, or any other
thing, must a knife approach the mouth.
Such an unbecoming as well as dangerous
habit would at once mark the person
indulging in it as standing in need of some
little teaching.

On the other hand, we know that “fingers
were made before knives and forks,” and
custom ordains the exemplification of this
adage on certain occasions. Asparagus is
eaten in the primitive manner, and requires
some dexterity in conveying the end of a
rather limp stalk to the mouth. Green artichokes
are pulled to pieces leaf by leaf until
the “choke” is reached, when fork and spoon
come into requisition, and uncooked celery,
after the thick end has been cut off, is taken
up by the fingers. The fragile pencil-like
things called “cheese-straws” must be eaten
in the same manner, for they break if touched by
any implement, and I well remember watching
the dire confusion of a woman who vainly tried
to catch some of the straws by pursuing
them round and round her plate with a fork,
the only result being a collection of unattainable
splinters.

Some dishes are easy enough to help oneself
to, but there are others which demand cool
determination to attack, and care lest a portion
land upon the tablecloth instead of in the
plate. We are not all gifted with the self-possession
of Theodore Hook, who, when
carving a tough goose one day let it by
chance slip bodily into the lap of his neighbour,
and, turning to the unlucky victim, said
severely, “Madam, I will trouble you for that
goose!”

Fortunately for us, the days of carving at
table are over, and we have only to avoid
catastrophes with extra hard vol-au-vents,
infirm jellies, and pyramids of strawberries.

A story is told of a man who, hopelessly in
difficulties as to what he ought to do, pulled
some grapes off their stalks and tried to cut
each berry with a knife. It puts one’s teeth
on edge to think of the pips on that occasion,
and indeed the idea of steel blades and fruit
in juxtaposition is terrible, except in the case
of oranges, when silver knives create a feeling
not far short of desperation.

As regards wine, persons who have come to
years of discretion can observe that discretion
as seems good to them; but to those girls
who allow themselves wine, I would advise
a small quantity of one kind. It does not
look well to have odds and ends of wine
standing in the various glasses by the side of
a girl, neither is it attractive to see her finish
up with liqueur at the end of dinner.

In the matter of introductions there is but
little of that now, though, of course, unless
previously acquainted, the man who takes you
down to dinner is first presented to you, and
you may be introduced to some one or other
of the guests during the evening; but,
especially if the party be large, it is by no
means certain that you will be. In the act of
introduction the name of the person highest in
rank—or, if there is no difference in that respect,
then the elder of the two—should be
mentioned first, as “Lady A.—Mrs. B.,” not
vice versâ; and when a man is presented to
a woman there is generally the proviso,
“Mrs. B., may I introduce Mr. C.?” A
woman is not taken up to be introduced to
a man; always he to her, except in the case
of royalty, and then the royal personage has
intimated his wish that she should be presented
to him.

A fault very common is not being sufficiently
careful to pronounce clearly the names
of individuals when introducing them, and it
is a great oversight, as it prevents the landmarks—if
I may so style them—being visible,
which are so necessary in this land, where
relationships run closely through every stratum
of society, and it is almost impossible to go
anywhere without finding people either nearly
or distantly connected with each other. We
cannot be a sort of Bradshaw’s Guide through
the network of lines of kinship, but the more
we understand about it the better, and to
know exactly whom one is speaking to is an
undoubted help in that direction, enabling us
to avoid mistakes in conversation which may
plant a sting unremovable by any after-excuse
or apology. The only safe course to follow
in the absence of such information is to say
nothing but what is favourable about people
or even nations, lest you should wound the
feelings of your neighbour, and oblige him to
say hurriedly, “she is my sister” or “perhaps
I had better mention my name,” to show that
he belongs to the country about which you have
been holding forth in not over-pleasant terms.

One of the best indeed among the “rules
of society” is that which makes it incumbent
on everybody not only to furnish his or her
quantum of wit, humour, general agreeability,
or what not, for the amusement and gratification
of the company, but also, by a skilful
word or two, to try and turn the conversation
away from any topic likely to cause violent
discussion or uncomfortable feeling; and
nothing marks ignorance of what ought to
be done more distinctly than the tactless
introduction or continuation of a subject
which, like a hedgehog, is covered with prickles
and sure to hurt somebody.

A word before concluding this paper to
those who now and then give dinners. Not
the great banquets in big houses, which are
part of the routine of life, and being perfect
in every detail go like clockwork; but the
modest entertainments in small abodes where
the infrequency of “parties” causes some
excitement and extra work in the household.
The first thing to be remembered when such
an event occurs is not to attempt more than
can be done properly as regards the number
of guests or dishes, and secondly, having
settled the quantity and quality of both, and
arranged all things to the best of your ability,
to leave it alone. That is to say, do not let
your mind worry and bother about it, for of
all fatal obstacles to the success of a dinner-party,
the irrelevant answers and wandering
eye of the hostess, due to her thoughts being
fixed upon the delay in handing the vegetables,
or the non-appearance of a sauce, are the
greatest, and moreover call attention to shortcomings
which otherwise might pass unobserved.
Therefore “assume the virtue” of
coolness “if you have it not,” and never
allow your neighbour to see that while he is
trying to interest you and make himself agreeable
your mind is elsewhere, and that you
have not heard a word of what was said.
Remember also that your business at the time
is to be hostess, not cook, footman, or parlour-maid,
and that the more you attend to your
own duties, and do not, to use an expressive
word, “fluster” the servants, the more likely
are they to get through their part creditably;
and finally do not forget that an important
rule of society forbids the exhibition of personal
annoyances and domestic grievances to
our acquaintances or friends.

(To be continued.)

{76}

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

WATER SELLERS, PORT SAID.

I suppose most girl-readers will understand
the thrill of surprise and delight with which I
read the following sentences from a friend’s
letter one February morning.

“My uncle thinks I need a change, and
suggests my going abroad. Will you go with
me to Palestine for two or three months?
We ought to get off before the warm season
begins there. Do you think we could leave
England at the end of this month?” Two or
three times I read the words in a dazed sort of
way, and then astonished my hostess (a well-known
contributor to the G.O.P.) by quietly
remarking—

“Would you be greatly surprised if I started
for the Holy Land in a few days? Elizabeth
N. has asked me to go with her.”

“The Holy Land!” echoed Mrs. B. “Do
you really mean it?”

For answer, I handed her my letter, and
greatly enjoyed the sensation it created at the
breakfast-table.

“How lovely,” said kind Mrs. B., “to visit
the sacred spots where our Lord began and
ended his ministry. How I wish I was strong
enough to go with you!”

“Shall we order the camels to come round
to the front door?” exclaimed a lively and
irreverent member of the family. “I can
already picture you, dear E., riding over the
trackless desert (composing poetry under an
umbrella), living in Bedouin tents, and finally
being carried off by a wild Arab chief, on a
wild Arab steed, while we at home mourn and
frantically petition the Home Secretary or somebody
to institute a search for the missing
English lady.”

We all laughed at this ridiculous, unpunctuated
speech, and then fell to discussing
the possibilities of eastern travel.

The next post carried my answer to Elizabeth’s
letter, and in a few days we were in
London making our final arrangements. We
decided from motives of economy to go by
long sea, and selected the North German
Lloyd line of steamers because of their excellent
second-class accommodation. We
booked our passage to Port Said in the
Prinz Heinrich, sailing from Southampton on
February 28th.

Our remaining days were fully occupied with
business, in the intervals of which we packed
our small portmanteaux (not omitting warm
wraps), got our passports viséd at the Turkish
Consulate, and attended to the hundred and
one trifles which seemed to crop up at the
last moment. It was not till we were safely on
board the steamer and waving our good-byes
to the friends who had come to see us off, and
who were now returning to shore, that we felt
our eastern travels were to become a reality.

Fair indeed looked the green slopes of the
Isle of Wight on that glorious morning, and
as we passed the Needles, many eyes filled
with tears, for the ship was bound for distant
China and Japan, and few of her passengers
could hope to look upon Old England again for
many long years. As for us, our hearts were
light, and we were eager to go forward. Not
even the unknown terrors of the Bay of Biscay
appalled us. Fortunately it proved most
kind. We passed Gibraltar at midnight, on
March 3rd, the wonderful old rock looking
awful and mysterious in the moonlight.
Genoa was reached on the 6th, but, alas!
heavy rain and cold winds set in, and the
“superb” city did not look tempting enough
to draw us from our comfortable ship for the
forty-eight hours we were tied up in her
harbour. There was a general murmur of
satisfaction when the last cargo had been
shipped and we were on the move again. As
we entered the bewitching Bay of Naples the
weather cleared, and the sun shone warm and
bright. Here we had to wait until the evening
for the mails, and everybody seized this opportunity
of going on shore. How well I remember
my sensations of delight as we wandered
about the old streets, admiring the queer,
tall, gaily-painted houses and the quaint bits of
picturesque Neapolitan life which we came upon
in our long climb to the top of the old ramparts
which overlooked the busy city. From this
height we gazed our fill on the pretty picture.
The lemon trees with the golden fruit shining
through the glistening leaves threw a shade
on the irregularly-built houses. Beyond
glittered the glorious bay, dotted with stately
vessels and other smaller craft, while above
loomed the giant Vesuvius, his sullen frowns
adding a touch of melancholy to the scene.
All too swiftly that dream-like day passed,
and once again we were sailing Eastward Ho!

Wickedly did the fair Mediterranean behave
for the next four days, and wildly did our
good ship pitch and toss on those treacherous
blue waves! Those days were days of intense
bitterness of spirit, when to most of us past
sorrows and future hopes were forgotten in
the agonising longing for immediate annihilation.
But even sea-sickness yields to time
and smooth water, and we had begun to take
a more cheerful view of life when we dropped
anchor in Port Said on Sunday the 13th. Our
curiosity was strongly excited, and though
we were truly sorry to say good-bye to our
travelling-companions, whose lives had touched
ours for a brief space in pleasant intercourse,
we were eager to get our first glimpse of
eastern life. We smiled in quite a superior
manner when an old gentleman, noticing our
impatience, remarked cynically—

“Well, young ladies, if you can find anything
pleasing in that hole”—indicating the
town—”I should say your capacity for enjoyment
must be abnormal.”

{77}

Summoning a boat, whose boatmen bore on
their scarlet jerseys the legend “New Continental
Hotel,” Elizabeth and I stepped into it and
waved adieu to the good ship Prinz Heinrich.
We were quickly rowed ashore, where the
hotel guide took our passports, showed them,
and us, to the Turkish official, who courteously
handed us over to the customs-house officers.
These gentlemen proved to be equally civil,
evidently seeing nothing suspicious either in us
or our modest luggage. Our formal introduction
to Egypt being thus agreeably made, we
walked to the hotel, and were soon seated
under the cool verandah, discussing delicious
tea and bread and butter. We ascertained
that the steamer going to Jaffa did not leave
before Tuesday evening, so that we had ample
time to become acquainted with Port Said.
What an un-Sabbath-like appearance our novel
surroundings presented! Noisy donkey-boys,
with bold inventiveness, were loudly urging
the new arrivals to mount Queen Victoria,
Lord Salisbury, Prince Bismarck, Mrs. Langtry,
Mrs. Cornwallis West, etc., for these high-sounding
names were tacked on to the
wretched little donkeys. Bare-legged shoe-blacks,
with most engaging smiles, seized
your feet and began operations without even a
“By your leave.” Importunate blind beggars,
whose picturesque garments were indescribably
dirty, demanded backsheesh, and according to
the response, poured out a choice selection of
blessings or curses in Arabic, which would
have astonished the most accomplished Irish
professor of the same craft. Shrewd, hook-nosed
Jewish money-changers sat in the highway,
each before his glass box, which contained
a wire tray covered with a tempting store of
bank-notes and coins. These had doubtless
been exchanged at an exorbitant rate of
interest for Turkish money. Black men,
white men, brown men, yellow men in their
native dress, sat drinking coffee and playing
backgammon and dominoes in the open street,
or walked leisurely along the road. It was a
strange, fascinating scene, unlike anything we
had witnessed before, and the ubiquitous bicycle
as it flashed by with its British rider failed to
break the charm.

Towards evening we strolled into the town,
where we discovered an English “Sailors’
Rest.” We opened the door, and following
the sound of voices, boldly walked upstairs.
In an upper room knelt twenty Jack Tars, who
had come in from one of her Majesty’s ships
lying in the harbour. Very hearty and refreshing
were the simple prayers uttered by
the men. Only too well they knew the
dangers and temptations of a shore life. We
heard afterwards from the gentle lady who
presided at this gathering how that bright
little room, with its books and pictures, and,
above all, the presence of kindly friends, had
proved a haven of peace to many of our
British sailors, for whom the perils of the ports
are more terrible than the perils of the deep.
On our return we found letters from our friends
in Jaffa, telling of unprecedented storms
visiting the coast, and reminding us, that
unless the present wind went down, we should
find it impossible to land. In the event of
this happening, the only other alternative was
to go on to Beyrout, and from thence to
Damascus by rail. This plan did not commend
itself to us in the least, for we particularly
wished to begin our Palestine wanderings
from Jaffa, and also we desired to consult our
friends there as to the best routes, and other
important items relating to our tour. It was
no use grumbling, however, and as we could
not arrange the weather to our liking, we wisely
agreed to let it alone, hoped that all would be
well, and that we should yet enter Jaffa with
a fair breeze and in smooth water.

Two days served to satisfy our curiosity and
exhaust for us the delights of Port Said; therefore
we were not sorry when Tuesday night
arrived, and we were once more on board a
ship, which we trusted would bring us in a few
hours to our desired haven.

Before the sun rose next morning we were
straining our eyes towards the dim coast-line.
Presently the compact little town of Jaffa
came in sight, and before long our last fear
about landing was set at rest, for we saw the
boats putting off from the surf-beaten shore
and racing one another towards our ship. In
one of them sat our missionary friends coming
out to meet us, delightedly waving their pocket-handkerchiefs.
On board the steamer wild excitement
prevailed. Travellers were hunting for
lost luggage, or rushing distractedly hither and
thither, while everybody seemed to be talking
at once in unknown tongues, making confusion
worse confounded. In the midst of it all our
friends managed to find us, and gave us a
warm welcome to Palestine. They kindly
undertook all the difficulties connected with
the customs and passports. A porter was
secured, who seized our boxes and wraps, and
promptly disappeared. We wondered whether
we should ever see them again, but our friends
said they would turn up all right. We then
joined the group of nervous passengers who were
being encouraged to jump into the boat below.
I don’t remember how we managed it, but I
think we blindly took the “leap” at the right
moment. Anyway, we discovered ourselves
unhurt on the top of a big trunk, which
swayed perilously with our weight. Passengers
and luggage were hopelessly mixed up,
but we were delighted to find all our party
together. At last we were off, and in a short
time the dangerous reefs were passed safely,
but we were on the Jaffa beach, the dreaded
landing having been accomplished without
any accident.

We were now marched through the Customs
House into a narrow lane, muddy from recent
rains; here we had to wait until our baggage
was examined. An hour or more elapsed before
we and our belongings came together again.
Occasionally we would see a portmanteau,
which we knew to be ours, rapidly vanishing
in an opposite direction; then ensued a
lively dialogue in Arabic between the porter
and one of our missionaries, which ended by
the disputed article being brought and placed
near at hand, to await the arrival of the
remainder. I may mention that the Jaffa
porters are veritable Samsons. They carry
with the greatest ease a couple of boxes, one
of which would break the back of an ordinary
London porter. We were told of one who
carried a grand piano bodily on his back from
one house to another, a distance of several
hundred yards.

LANDING AT JAFFA.

We were greatly interested in our muddy
lane. The scene was so truly oriental that it
is worth describing, though the vivid colouring
and the intensely blue sky must be left to the
imagination. Turbaned merchants, indifferent
alike to puddles and slush, sat on little straw-covered
stools smoking the hookah, or hubble-bubble,
in the dignified leisurely manner of{78}
the East. Hawkers carrying huge brass trays,
filled with curious cakes and sweetmeats, cried
their wares. Water-sellers, with their uninviting-looking
goat skins slung across their
shoulders, went to and from the well. Moslem
ladies thickly veiled, and covered from
head to foot with a white sheet, stopped to
look at the new arrivals. Fellaheen women,
their faces uncovered, did their marketing,
grave Syrian gentlemen, tall powerful
Abyssinians, Jews with lovelocks on each side
of their faces, graceful Levantines, stately
Persians, fair-complexioned Armenians, long-haired,
black-bearded Greek priests, shaven
Latin priests, pilgrims from many lands on their
way to the Holy City, stopped to exchange
greetings, or passed on with a brief salaam.

Strings of camels, laden with oranges,
ambled by, their long necks bobbing from
side to side, their “melting” eyes looking
such unutterable things—we felt quite drawn
to the creatures. Afterwards, when we knew
the camel better, we liked him less, and
ended by accepting Mr. Kipling’s unflattering
estimate of him, who—

Swift little donkeys, and gaily caparisoned
Arab horses, ridden by resplendent-looking
Arabs, pushed their way unceremoniously
through the crowds. We noticed that nearly
all the animals were decorated with blue bead
necklaces, or else one or two beads were tied
to their tails or forelocks. These are believed
to act as a charm against the “evil eye.”
Mothers fasten these charms to their children’s
hair, and it is neither safe nor wise for a
“Frangi”—as the European is called—to
look admiringly on either child or beast, for
fair-haired, blue-eyed people are credited with
possessing special power of casting the evil
eye.

During our week’s stay in Jaffa, as guests of
our missionary friends, we had exceptional opportunities
of seeing the country and the inner
life of its people. Most travellers leave the
same day they arrive, going up to Jerusalem
by the afternoon train, and carrying away the
impression that Jaffa is a dirty, uninteresting
town. We found our days all too short,
there was so much to see and hear. Several
afternoons were spent in the famous orange
gardens, or bayaras, and very grateful was the
shade of the trees even in March. The scent
of the flowers and fruit fills the air; indeed,
in certain winds, it is wafted miles away out
to sea. We often had boughs of this delicious
fruit presented to us. To eat it seemed
almost a crime; the oranges looked so beautiful
hanging amid their shining leaves and
silver blossom. We were constantly reminded
of the appropriateness of Solomon’s simile,
as we listened to the courteous speech of our
Arab friends, accompanied by pleasant smiles.
“A word fitly spoken is like oranges[A] of gold
in pictures of silver.”

Within the last few years Jaffa has shown a
desire for progress. The thrift and prosperity
of the German and Jewish colonies are teaching
the Arabs the value of commercial intercourse
with other nations, as well as the best methods
of cultivating their land. The missionaries are
also doing much towards civilising the people,
by teaching the gospel, and opening schools
for the children, where they learn invaluable
lessons to carry back to their homes.

The English hospital is also another proof
of missionary zeal, and brings the fellaheen
from distant villages into touch with skilful
hands and loving service, unknown and undreamt
of by these poor men and women; for
the Moslem is a fatalist; his religion makes
him one. If his favourite wife or child dies,
he accepts it without emotion, as being “God’s
will.” If he is ill himself he takes little or no
pains to seek remedies; his illness is “from
God.” I heard of a man who went on
pilgrimage to Mecca last year. He was sincerely
attached to his wife, and allowed her to
accompany him as a very special mark of
his favour. After five months’ absence he
returned, having exchanged his ordinary
turban for the sacred green one, and resumed
his interrupted work. One day he called at
the house of a friend of ours. She inquired
after his wife’s welfare, and received the
unexpected answer, “The Prophet had need
of her, and I left her in the desert.” It seems
that the poor woman fell ill on the long
journey, but with an unusual display of affection
her husband cared for her until she recovered.
She again became sick, and this second
attack convinced him “that the Prophet
wanted her,” and allowing fatalism and superstition
to stifle the feelings of humanity, he left
her in the desert to die, where, in a few hours, the
vultures were feeding on the poor dead body.

We visited the prison one morning, and
saw the wretched prisoners huddled together,
in cells like cages, ranged round an open
courtyard. Eager hands were thrust through
the bars, and cries of “backsheesh” filled the
air. One of the “cages” was called the
blood prison, in which several murderers were
imprisoned; they clamoured with the rest for
money. We looked with pity upon the miserable
creatures, for we were told that it was
quite possible most of them had not committed
the crimes of which they were accused, but that
private spite and intrigue had brought them
there, where they would probably remain, unless
large bribes were paid for their release.

Another day, as we were riding across the
plain of Sharon, we were much amused at seeing
a camel ploughing. He strode along, ostrich
fashion, with his most supercilious air, pulling
behind him a ridiculous little plough of
primitive make. He looked so irresistibly
funny that we burst out laughing. In other
parts of the country we saw camels and oxen
yoked together, but more generally the latter
animals only. Ploughing would seem to be
but a pastime in Syria. The soil is so rich
and fertile that it only needs turning over
slightly, when the seed dropped into the
furrows springs up in a marvellously short
time and yields a rich harvest.

We had many discussions with our friends
about plans for further travel. Eventually we
decided to go to Jerusalem, and while there
engage an experienced dragoman to accompany
us through Judea, Samaria and Galilee.
We made up our minds to go alone, and
avoid tourist routes and tourist parties.
Though this decision was thought somewhat
rash, we had no occasion to regret it.

S. E. B.

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.

Readers will find full particulars of this
Competition—in which everyone has a chance
of winning either a prize or a certificate, and
the certainty of largely adding to her stock of
information—by turning back to page 14.

Questions 25-36.

25. Who was the monarch who once attended
a rehearsal of his own funeral?

*     *     *     *

26. What is the largest palace in the world
used as a residence?

*     *     *     *

27. What is the exercise most conducive
to physical beauty?

*     *     *     *

28. What was the first street ever lit by
gas?

*     *     *     *

29. How fast can one read, when reading
silently?

*     *     *     *

30. What famous philanthropist was known
as the “Nightingale of the House of Commons”?

*     *     *     *

31. How many hours a day should we give
to sleep?

*     *     *     *

32. What is the most famous signal ever
made to the British navy?

*     *     *     *

33. What useful discovery was made by
lighting a fire on the sand and using pieces of
natron (sub-carbonate of soda) to support the
cooking-pot?

*     *     *     *

34. What are the “Borrowed Days” and
how do they come by their name?

*     *     *     *

35. What is the simplest and least troublesome
of all cookery processes?

*     *     *     *

36. Are there any extinct volcanoes in Great
Britain?

The answers to the above questions, Nos.
25-36, together with the answers to questions
37-48, which are yet to appear, must be
sent in on or before January 27, 1899.

Address to The Editor, The Girl’s Own
Paper Office, 56, Paternoster Row, London,
E.C., and at the left-hand top corner of the
envelope or wrapper write the words “Questions
Competition.”

{79}

OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.

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

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

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

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

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

5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be December 17, 1898;
from Abroad, February 16, 1899.

The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age. No competitor will be awarded
more than one First Prize during the year (November 1898 to October 1899), but the winner of a Second
Prize may still compete for a first. Not more than one First and one Second Prize will be sent to any one
address during the year.

A Consolation Prize of one guinea will be awarded to the competitor, not a prize-winner, who shall
receive the highest number of marks during the year for Mention. Very Highly Commended to count 10
marks; Highly Commended to count 7 marks; Honourable Mention to count 5 marks.

This will be an encouragement to all who take an interest in the puzzles and who cannot quite find their
way into the front rank of solvers.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

{80}

OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.

STORIES IN MINIATURE.

A SAILOR’S BRIDE.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

Florence Makin, Sheffield.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

Una, Worlingworth, Wickham Market.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

Margaret Moscrop, Saltburn-by-the-Sea.

Honourable Mention.

Conor, Bonchurch, Isle of Wight; Esperance,
Bridge of Allan; E. C. Harding, Dorking;
Eleanor L. Harding, Dorking; Mary
Lilla Harriss, Hackney, N.E.; Edythe Hoare,
Leamington, Spa; Janet B. Imrie, Castle
Douglas; Letitia E. May, Alton, Hants.;
Mayfield, Llandaff; Annie S. Murphy, Tullow;
Cecile Rahier, Brest, France; Ruby
Smiley, Ballyclare, co. Antrim; Eva M. Waldren,
Basingstoke; Wild-Thyme, Edinburgh;
May Adèle Venn, W. Kensington Park.

To the Competitors.

My dear Girls,—Let me thank you all very
much for the many pleasant pages I have read.

In reading your essays, I have fancied that
there are some future story-tellers among you,
who will be ready to take up our pens when
we lay them aside.

In every phase of life we see that all cannot
be successful at the same time; but such competitions
as these bring eventual success to the
strong ones, who have faith and courage to try
again. I feel sure that “miniature” handwriting
was not a feature of the competition!
and hope that in other efforts no young eyes will
be so cruelly taxed as some have been in this.

My warmest wishes for the future success of
those not successful to-day; and congratulations
to the winners.

Your cordial friend,
Minnie Douglas.

THE BACK OF BEYOND.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

Annie E. Mellor, Hereford.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

Annie Ascough, Scarborough.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

Helen Rickards, Dixton Vicarage, Monmouth.

Honourable Mention.

“Hermia,” Colchester; Janet M. Pugh,
Towyn; Louisa A. M. Mathew, Beckenham;
Mary F. Howard, Oxford; Amy Miller,
Brixton Hill; J. Ebdell, Wakefield; Nellie
Cobham, Folkestone; Kate Kelsey, Bristol;
Minnie Highton, Norwood; “Greta,” Manchester;
Lottie L. Creighton, Gorey; L.
Harper, Belfast; Ada Browning, Limehouse,
E.; Effie Mackintosh, Instow; Abigail
Binns, Rochdale; Jessie Hickling, Sydenham;
Mrs. Evelyn Upton, West Brighton;
C. Winifred Dyer, Wandsworth; “Shamrock,”
Hyde Park; Annie F. Hepple, North
Shields; Alice J. E. Mosley, Wentworth;
Sophie Gardner, Richmond Hill; J. B. C.,
Fauldhouse; Lilian A. G. Slade, Crewkerne;
H. Marjory Ingle, Ely; Eleanor Mary Ralls,
Bridport; Maud Wilson, Belfast; C. Winifred
James, Crown Hill; Margaret Christina
Haynes, Bristol.

To the Competitors.

My dear Girls,—As summaries, your
stories could hardly have been better. It is
clear that, in organising the Competition, the
Editor has been doing real educational work.
You are acquiring a selective faculty: you are
learning to distinguish between the detail and
the design. Practice—this sounds arithmetical—is
teaching you proportion. This critical
power will stand you in good stead—in life as
well as in letters.

But on some other points I cannot be quite
so congratulatory. There is a good deal of
adventurous spelling, and there is much distracted
punctuation. Many of the miniatures
are nearly large enough for family portraits.

And, while the stories are admirable
skeletons, they seem—as skeletons are apt to
prove in society—a little deficient in ease and
grace, jerky and unpersuasive. Some, I am
almost afraid, are rather dry, and even a little
dull.

Girls, don’t you think that, in dealing with
a tale that was meant as a concession to the
holiday spirit—a little interlude between more
serious efforts—you might have accepted with
less reserve the Editor’s invitation to be
bright?

And I should like to see you aiming at
some distinction of style. Some of the stories
reminded me of telegrams, some of strings of
beads. Still, a good many are crisp and neat,
and a few have quite a pretty touch.

The winner of the first prize, I must add,
came very near to being disqualified on
account of her sugared and beguiling words.
On full reflection, however, her paper being
much the best in point of sprightliness and
verve, I decided, after making a conscientiously
wry face, to absorb the saccharine
matter. But, another time, she must not put
bouquets on the judge’s table.

With congratulations to many, and hearty
thanks to all,

Ever most truly yours,
Frederick Langbridge.

⁂ Unfortunately we have no space for
printing the first prize essays this month.—Ed.

SPECIAL NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

RUTH LAMB.

We earnestly desire all our subscribers to read our new Supplement Story

“Friend or Self“

issued simultaneously with this monthly part. As a guarantee of its interest and value it is
enough to state that the writer of it is the girls’ special favourite—Ruth Lamb, author of “In
the Twilight Side by Side.” In order that the beautiful story shall be well read and enjoyed,
and the high teaching of it have its effect, we offer three prizes of Two Guineas, One
Guinea, and Half-a-Guinea for the three best papers on it. The essays are to give a brief
account of the plot and action of the story in the Competitor’s own words; in fact, each paper
should be a carefully-constructed Story in Miniature, telling the reader in a few bright words
what The Girl’s Own Story Supplement for the month is all about.

One page of foolscap only is to be written upon, and is to be signed by the writer, followed
by her full address, and posted to The Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, in an unsealed envelope,
with the words “Stories in Miniature” written on the left-hand top corner. Writers are
cautioned against too small handwriting.

The last day for receiving the papers is November 19th; and no papers can in any case be
returned.

Examiners:—The Author of the Story (Ruth Lamb), and the Editor of The Girl’s Own
Paper, who will send certificates signed by themselves to all those obtaining Prizes and
Honourable Mention.