THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.

AT CLARE, SUFFOLK.

All rights reserved.]

PART III.

We have already pointed out the simplicity
of outline observable in old English cottages,
and the absence of exaggeration and that disagreeable
fussiness brought about by too
much striving after the picturesque. It must
not, however, from this be concluded that
ancient village buildings are always plain and
do not at times possess elegant ornamentation
and graceful details.

The general outline, however, is always
simple and quiet, for, as will be seen by the
examples we give (two of the most elaborate
cottages in England), the roof lines are very
little broken up or varied.

The first of these buildings is at Clare in
Suffolk, and the second is at Newport in
Essex, the latter being one of the richest
counties in England for cottage architecture,
many of its villages retaining quite a mediæval
aspect down to the present time.

We will now say a few words upon the
methods of applying ornamental detail to
cottages adopted in mediæval times, and we
shall commence with those structures erected
in “Post-and-pan” construction. We trust
that our readers have not forgotten what
is meant by the ugly-sounding expression
“Post-and-pan,” and regret that we are quite
unable to discover or invent some more
elegant name for this description of building.
Some years back a number of architects and{210}
archæologists were examined before a parliamentary
commission. The commission objected
to the words “Post-and-pan” being
used in their report, and suggested to the
witnesses that they should find some more
scientific expression for this kind of work!
It was found, however, impossible to invent
any one which conveyed the idea so concisely
and satisfactorily, so the old-fashioned name
“Post-and-pan” received parliamentary sanction!
This being the case, our girls need not
scruple to use it, and may it not, after all, be
as valuable for the formation of the lips as
the “prunes” and “prism” of Little Dorritt?

There are several ways of applying ornamentation
to “Post-and-pan” buildings. The
first is to add mouldings, tracery or carving,
to the doorways, windows, cornices, corbels
and other constructive parts of the building.

The second is to arrange the “posts” in
patterns by introducing curved beams amongst
them, or other woodwork, forming a kind of
tracery pattern.

The third is to adorn the “pans” (panels)
either with stamped plaster-work called “pargeting,”
or with coloured plaster-work, or
wood-carving.

The first of these methods is seen in the
beautiful example which we have sketched at
Newport in Essex: here it will be noticed
that the bow window of the upper storey is
adorned with wood tracery, and its corbel
richly carved with figure subjects, all executed
in oak. The “spurs,” as they are called,
which carry the projection of the upper storey,
are richly moulded and rest upon elegant little
colonnettes. The pans are filled in with
brickwork laid in herring-bone patterns. The
centre of the building is recessed back, but
in order to preserve the severe and simple
lines of the roof, the latter does not follow
the line of the recess, but is supported upon
an arched beam, from the centre of which
projects a lifting-crane, a treatment quite
peculiar to the home counties and the south
of England.

Of course this building is far more elaborate
than most cottages, and the tradition of the
place accounts for this by the supposition
that it was formerly the dwelling of a farm
bailiff to the Abbot of Westminster.

The beautiful little village of Newport has
several examples of interesting domestic work
and a very noble church.

The building which we illustrate dates from
the 15th century, and is still in excellent repair
though not in any way restored.

The very elaborate cottage represented
in our first sketch is an excellent example
of pargeting, the surface of the pans being
covered by a rich kind of shawl-pattern
executed in hard plaster, like the Newport
example. The constructive portions of the
building are elaborately treated. We are
unable to account for the amount of
elaboration bestowed on this cottage, but as
it is close to the church, which is a very handsome
building and liberally endowed with
chantries, it is very probable that this may
have been the dwelling of one of the chantry
priests.

Clare was an important place in the Middle
Ages and possessed a castle, remains of which
are still to be seen. Richard Strongbow, the
Conqueror of Ireland, is said to have lived
in it.

The Manor of Clare in later times belonged
to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March. There
was also a priory here, built in 1248 by
Richard, Earl of Gloucester.

A very curious poem exists in the form of
a dialogue, “betwixt a secular askyng and a
frere answering at the grave of Dame Johan
of Acris” (of Clare). It is a quaint example
of Old English and begins in rather a curious
manner.

Q. “What man lyeth here, sey me, Sir
Frere?”

A. “No man.”

Q. “What ellis?”

A. “It is a woman.”

Then follows her pedigree all in rhyme,
from which it appears that she was a daughter
of King Edward I., and the remarkable circumstance
is stated, that she was borne of her
“moder”!

As the poem is about three pages long and
all pretty much like the sample we have given,
we will not inflict it upon our readers.

H. W. Brewer.

AT NEWPORT, ESSEX.

{211}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XIII.

Peggy felt weak and
shaken for some
days after her
fright, and was
thankful to stay
quietly indoors and
busy herself with
her new task. The
gas fire could be
turned on in her
room whenever she
desired, and at
every spare moment
she ran upstairs,
locked her
door behind her,
and began to write.
Robert insisted
that the work
should be kept
secret, and that
not a word should
be said about the competition downstairs,
for he was sensitive about the remarks
of his companions, and anxious to keep
a possible failure to himself. All the
work had to be done upstairs therefore,
and the frequent absence of the partners
from the schoolroom, though much
regretted, did not seem at all inexplicable
to the others. It was understood
that Peggy and Robert had some
interest in common, but as winter advanced
this was no unusual occurrence
in a house where Christmas was a
carnival, and surprises of an elaborate
nature were planned by every member of
the household. It was taken for granted
that the work had some connection with
Christmas, and inquiries were discreetly
avoided.

With an old calendar before her as a
model for the lettering, Peggy did her
work neatly and well, and the gilt
“arabesques” had an artistic flourish
which was quite professional. When
Robert was shown the first half-dozen
sheets he whistled with surprise, and exclaimed,
“Good old Mariquita!” a burst
of approval before which Peggy glowed
with delight. It had been agreed that,
after printing the first ten days of
January, Peggy should go on to the
first ten of February, and so on throughout
the year, so that Rob should be able
to use what quotations had already been
found under each heading, and should
not be detained until the whole thirty
or thirty-one had been chosen.

The partners were most fastidious in
their selection at the beginning of their
work, but when half the time had passed
and not one-third of the necessary
number of quotations had been found,
alarm seized upon the camp, and it was
realised that a little more latitude must
be shown.

“We shall have to use up all the old
ones which we struck off the list,” said
Rob disconsolately. “I’m sorry; but I
never realised before that three hundred
and sixty-five was such an outrageously
large number. And we shall have to
get books of extracts and read them
through from beginning to end. Nearly
two hundred more to find; a hundred
and fifty, say, when we have used up
those old ones! It will take us all our
time!”

“I’ll get up at six every morning and
read by my fire,” said Peggy firmly.
“If it’s necessary I’ll get up at five, and
if I can’t find bits to suit all the stupid
old things, I’ll—I’ll write some myself!
There! Why shouldn’t I? I often
make up things in my head, and you
wouldn’t believe how fine they are. I
think of them days afterwards, and
ask myself,’Now where did I read
that?’ and then it comes back to me.
‘Dear me; I made it up myself!’ If
we get very short, Rob, there wouldn’t
be any harm in writing a few sentences
and signing them ‘Saville,’ would
there?”

“Not if they were good enough,” said
Rob, trying to suppress the laugh which
would have hurt Peggy’s feelings, and
looking with twinkling eyes at the little
figure by his side, so comically unprofessional,
with her lace collar, dainty
little feet, and pigtail of dark brown hair.
“You mustn’t get up too early in the
morning and overtire yourself. I can’t
allow that!” he added firmly. “You
have looked like a little white ghost the
last few days, and your face is about
the size of my hand. You must get
some colour into your cheeks before the
holidays, or that beloved Arthur will
think we have been ill-treating you when
he comes down.”

Peggy gave a sharp little sigh and
relapsed into silence. It was the rarest
thing in the world to hear her allude to
any of her own people. When a letter
arrived, and Mrs. Asplin asked questions
concerning father, mother, or brother,
she answered readily enough, but she
never offered information, or voluntarily
carried on the conversation. Friends
less sympathetic might have imagined
that she was so happy in her new home
that she had no care beyond it, but no
one in the Vicarage made that mistake.
When the square Indian letter was
handed to her across the breakfast table,
the flush of delight on the pale cheeks
brought a reflected smile to every face,
and more than one pair of eyes watched
her tenderly as she sat hugging the
precious letter, waiting until the moment
should come when she could rush
upstairs and devour its contents in her
own room. Once it had happened that
mail day had arrived and brought no
letter, and that had been a melancholy
occasion. Mrs. Asplin had looked at
one envelope after another, had read
the addresses twice, thrice, even four
times over before she summoned courage
to tell of its absence.

“There is no letter for you to-day,
Peggy!” Her voice was full of commiseration
as she spoke, but Peggy sat
in silence, her face stiffened, her head
thrown back with an assumption of calm
indifference. “There must have been
some delay in the mail. You will have
two letters next week, dearie, instead
of one.”

“Probably,” said Peggy. Mellicent
was staring at her with big, round eyes;
the Vicar peered over the rim of his
spectacles; Esther passed the marmalade
with eager solicitude; her friends
were all full of sympathy, but there
was a “Touch-me-if-you-dare!” atmosphere
about Peggy that day which
silenced the words on their lip. It was
evident that she preferred to be left
alone, and though her eyes were red
when she came down to lunch, she held
her chin so high, and joined in the
conversation with such an elegant flow
of language, that no one dare comment
on the fact. Two days later the letter
arrived and all was sunshine again; but
in spite of her cheery spirits, her friends
realised that Peggy’s heart was not in
the vicarage, and that there were moments
when the loneliness of her position
pressed on her, and when she longed
intensely for someone of her very own,
whose place could not be taken by even
the kindest of friends.

Like most undemonstrative people,
Peggy dearly loved to be appreciated,
and to receive marks of favour from
those around. Half the zest with which
she entered into her new labour was
owing to the fact that Robert had
chosen her from all the rest to be his
partner. She was aglow with satisfaction
in this fact, and with pleasure in
the work itself, and the only cloud which
darkened her horizon at the present
moment was caused by those incidental
references to the fair Rosalind, which
fell so often from her companion’s lips.

“Everything,” said Peggy impatiently
to herself, “everything ends in Rosalind!
Whatever we are talking about,
that stupid girl’s name is bound to be
introduced! I asked Mellicent if she
would have a scone at tea this afternoon,
and she said something about Rosalind
in reply—Rosalind liked scones, or she
didn’t like scones, or some ridiculous
nonsense of the sort! Who wants to
know what Rosalind likes? I don’t!
I’m sick of the name! And Mrs. Asplin
is as silly as the rest! The girls must
have new dresses because Rosalind is
coming, and they will be asked to tea at
the Larches! If their green dresses are
good enough for us, why won’t they do
for Rosalind, I should like to know?
Rob is the only sensible one. I asked
him if she were really such a marvellous
creature, and he said she was an affected
goose! He ought to know better than
anyone else! Curls indeed! One would
think it was something extraordinary to
have curls! My hair would curl too, if
I chose to make it, but I don’t; I prefer
to have it straight! If she is the
‘Honourable Rosalind,’ I am Mariquita
Saville, and I’m not going to be
patronised by anybody, so there!” and{212}
Peggy tossed her head, and glared at
the reflection in the glass in a lofty and
scornful manner, as though it were the
offending party who had had the
audacity to assume superiority.

Robert was one with Peggy in hoping
that his people would not leave town
until such time as the calendar should
be despatched on its travels, for when
they were installed at the Larches he
was expected to be at home each week
from Saturday until Monday, and the
loss of that long holiday afternoon
would interfere seriously with the work
on hand. He had seen so little of his
people for the last few years, that he
would be expected to be sociable during
the short time that he was with them,
and could hardly shut himself up in his
room for hours at a time. Despair then
settled down upon both partners when a
letter arrived to say that the Darcy
family were coming down even earlier
than had been expected, and summoning
Robert to join them at the earliest
possible moment.

“This is awful!” cried the lad,
ruffling his hair with a big, restless
hand. “I know what it means—not
only Saturdays off, but two or three
nights during the week into the bargain!
Between you and me, Mariquita, the
governor is coming down here to economise
and intends to stay much longer
than usual. Hector has been getting
into debt again; he’s the eldest, you
know—the one in the Life Guards. It’s
a lot too bad, for he has had it all his
own way so far, and when he runs up bills
like this, everyone has to suffer for it.
Mother hates the country for more than
a few weeks at a time, and will be
wretched if she is kept here all through
the winter. I know how it will be, she
will keep asking people down, and
getting up all sorts of entertainments to
relieve the dulness. It’s all very well in
its way, but just now when I need every
minute——”

“Shall you give up trying for the
prize?” asked Peggy faintly, and Rob
threw back his head with emphatic
disclaimer.

“I never give up a thing when I have
made up my mind to do it! There are
ten days still, and a great deal can be
done in ten days. I’ll take a couple of
books upstairs with me every night and
see if I can find something fresh. There
is one good thing about it, I shall have
a fresh stock of books to choose from
at the Larches. It is the last step that
costs in this case. It was easy enough
to fix off the first hundred, but the last
is a teaser!”

On Saturday morning a dog-cart came
over to convey Robert to the Larches,
and the atmosphere of the vicarage
seemed charged with expectation and
excitement. The Darcys had arrived;
to-morrow they would appear at church;
on Monday they would probably drive
over with Rob and pay a call. These
were all important facts in a quiet
country life, and seemed to afford
unlimited satisfaction to every member
of the household. Peggy grew so tired
of the name of Darcy that she retired
to her room at eight o’clock, and was
busy at work over the September batch
of cards, when a knock came to the
door, and she had to cover them over
with the blotting paper to admit Mellicent
in her dressing-gown, with her hair
arranged for the night in an extraordinary
number of little plaited pig-tails.

“Will you fasten the ends for me,
Peggy, please?” she requested. “When
I do it, the threads fall off, and the ends
come loose. I want it to be specially
nice for to-morrow!”

“But it will look simply awful, Mellicent,
if you leave it like this. It will be
frizzed out almost on a level with your
head. Let me do it up in just two tight
plaits, it will be far, far nicer,” urged
Peggy, lifting one little tail after another,
and counting their number in dismay.
But no, Mellicent would not be persuaded.
The extra plaits were a tribute
to Rosalind, a mark of attention to her
on her arrival with which she would
suffer no interference, and as a consequence
of her stubbornness, she marched
to church next morning disfigured by
a mop of untidy, tangled hair instead of
the usual glossy locks.

Peggy preserved a demeanour of
stately calm, as she waited for the
arrival of the Darcy family, but even
she felt a tremor of excitement when the
verger hobbled up to the square pew
and stood holding the door open in his
hand. The heads of the villagers turned
with one consent to the doorway; only
one person in the church disdained to
move her position, but she heard the
clatter of horses’ hoofs from without, and
presently the little procession passed
the vicarage pew, and she could indulge
her curiosity without sacrifice to pride.
First of all came Lord Darcy, a thin, oldish
man, with a face that looked tired and
kind, and faintly amused by the amount
of attention which his entrance had
attracted. Then his wife, a tall, fair
woman, with a beautiful profile, and an
air of languid discontent who floated
past with rustling silken skirts, leaving
an impression of elegance and luxury,
which made Mrs. Asplin sigh and
Mellicent draw in her breath with a
gasp of rapture. Then followed Robert
with his shaggy head, scowling more
fiercely than ever in his disgust at
finding himself an object of attention,
and last of all a girlish figure in a grey
dress, with a collar of soft, fluffy chinchilla,
and a velvet hat with drooping
brim, beneath which could be seen a
glimpse of a face pink and white as
the blossoms of spring, and a mass of
shining, golden hair. Peggy shut her
lips with a snap, and the iron entered
into her soul. It was no use pretending
any longer! This was Rosalind, and she
was fairer, sweeter, a hundred times
more beautiful than she had ever
imagined!

(To be continued.)

GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

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

PART III.

THE VULGAR GIRL.

As translated by Cowley,
Horace is made to say—

The
small
vulgar

There will be no attempt
made in this paper to deal with
the great vulgar, but some
attempt will be made in it to
deal with the small, being the
category to which, it may be
assumed, belongs the average
vulgar girl.

It is of course impossible within the limits
of a short essay to indicate more than a few of
the leading characteristics of this girl. She it
is who not only wants to monopolise the
conversation, but who wants to confine it to
one subject. She should remember the quaint
counsel, “The honourablest part of talk is to
give the occasion, and again to moderate, and
pass to something else.” Moreover in
conversation she too often follows the rule laid
down by a French author for those about to
write love-letters:

“Begin without knowing what you are
going to say, and end without knowing what
you have said.”

If at the end of a conversation she sometimes
knew what she had said, the vulgar girl,
who is not necessarily a callous girl, would feel
very unhappy.

Her tendency to talk indiscreetly has
doubtless its origin in the precipitancy which
causes her to break in upon the speech of
others. There is a lesson which she might
learn from a certain polite echo. This echo
may be heard opposite to Mugdock Castle in
Scotland. It will repeat any sentence of six
syllables in the exact tone in which it is uttered—waiting
till the sentence is finished.

Another result of the lack of deliberation
which characterises the vulgar girl is seen in
the fact that the latest book, the latest play,
the latest picture, is to her Thingimy by
Thingimbob. That nomenclature is somewhat
vague, and is moreover out of date, but it still
commends itself to the vulgar
girl, as does the soubriquet The
Bard for Shakespeare.

Her singular phraseology,
which she conceives to set her
at an advantage, in reality sometimes
sets the vulgar girl at a
disadvantage. Of Tennyson
she said the other day—

“I don’t pretend to understand
him any more than
Browning, but then he tootles
on prettily, and that’s what I
like in poetry.”

{213}

A main difference between Browning and
Tennyson was here correctly set forth, but the
phrasing was in questionable taste. “Tootles”
is a good word, but to say that Tennyson
“tootles on prettily,” is to understate his
merits. It shall here be pointed out in passing
that “I don’t pretend” is a favourite form of
asseveration with the vulgar girl, and is one
which she should try to vary, if only because
it inferentially asserts that other people do
pretend.

The vulgar girl is “by way of being” (her
own phrase) witty. One part of her wit is to
say “muchly” for much, and another part of
it is to say “free gratis” for free of charge.

Flippancy as a substitute for wit so often
evokes mirth that the vulgar girl as would-be
wit not incomprehensibly
largely indulges in it. I
sat beside her once during
a performance of Beethoven’s
Septett, one of the
loveliest things in music,
with here and there a
heart-delighting gaiety in
it. During the fifth movement
of it she whispered
to me—

“Isn’t it like ‘The Bogie Man’?”

The levity in what follows was even more
remarkable. The speaker was a young bride.

“I didn’t feel a
bit nervous at my
wedding,” she
said. “You see,
I have been used
to private theatricals.”

A girl like that
mistakes gaiety of
head for gaiety of
heart.

Her
first
appearance in a
new
role

As a sample of
vulgar girl-wit at
its crudest, I give the following, in which a
girl spoke of a lady—

“She couldn’t turn white,
but she went the colour of an
unripe tomato.”

Upset
by
Tomato
sauce

The vulgar girl who is “by
way of being” witty is not “by
way of being” sentimental, and
is rather addicted to signing her
letters “Your’s,” which word she believes to be
rightly written as above, with an apostrophe.
This girl, for the rest, is generally good-natured,
and her vein of censure is more often
odd than terrible. Thus she said the other
day of a dentist—

“He is a horrible little snob, but that
doesn’t matter when
he gets into your
mouth.”

An
old
Fairy Tale

As often as not
the vulgar girl has
both sense and sensibility.
Of the latter
fact she is profoundly
ashamed, and has
been known to say of a book that has deeply
agitated her—

“I got to feel quite eye-in-water over it.”

She affects to care, only for the gaieties of
life, but knows something of its gravities, and
has often a bit of heroine in her. The worst
thing about her is her speech. “Jolly” is
her favourite adverb. She is jolly glad when
she is not jolly mad, and she will soon describe
herself as jolly sad. She uses the verb
“mashed” hideously; where her prototype
of twenty years ago said “swell” she says
“swagger;” and she does not stick at saying
“beastly.” For the rest, she has always
some pet word of the hour. Thus “dotty”
is an adjective now much in favour with her.
Thereby hangs a tale. The vulgar girl sometimes
knows Italian, and it was she who
translated a line from a famous lady’s epitaph—

On the other hand there are vulgar girls
who do not know Latin, and one of them has
been known to say “effluvia” for “smell,”
the Latin for “smell” being “effluvium.”

The pronunciation of her own language is
by some thought to offer insuperable difficulties
to the English vulgar girl, who pronounces the
“t” in “often” but does not pronounce it in
“Westminster,” whose favourite colour, she
has been heard to aver, is “terrar cottar,”
who plays an instrument which she calls “the
varlin,” who says “towards” and “interesting,”
who pronounces “ate” “et,” and
whose vocabulary has been known to include
the words “pantomine,” “Feb’uary” and
“sec’etary.” So far is this list from exhausting
the faults of pronunciation of the said
vulgar girl, that it must be added that she
gives to no one vowel its proper sound, while
among the consonants “h” initial and “g”
final stumble her. She is particularly careless
regarding the latter consonant when the
form which her vulgarity takes is that of
would-be “smartness.”

Very abominable to this
girl is grammar, which is
all but invariably set at
defiance by her. Thus,
even when she does not
say “it were,” as did Mrs.
Cluppins, she favours such
phrasing as “those sort of,”
“very pleased,” “different
to” and “between you
and I.”

A
model

Her predilection for abbreviations
is another
marked feature of the vulgar
girl. To “‘bus” she has lately added “biz,”
and “spec” has found her approval.

The pity of it!

Just as she has always a favourite word, she
has mostly a favourite phrase. In one instance
known to me it is “You know what I mean,”
and everyone knows what she means, as well
everyone may.

Take this assertion—

“It’s one of those schools where they sleep
in carbuncles—you know what I mean.”

Of course everyone knows what she means.

not
omnivorous

Or take this—

“I can’t be in six or seven places at one;
I’m not omnivorous—you know what I mean.”

An
extreme
view

Of course everyone knows what she means.

They call her Mrs. Malaprop; but, in point
of fact, her case is a notable improvement
upon that of Sheridan’s heroine, the ignorance
of that lady having been of a shade by just so
much deeper that it left her unwitting of the
fact that she was wrong. The girl here in
view has a shrewd suspicion that she is wrong,
but pays her hearers the compliment of
assuming that they will understand her. In
only one instance, so far as has come to my
knowledge, has she ever overtaxed her listener’s
powers of comprehension. She spoke of a
living novelist.

“I can’t bear his books,” she said.
“They’re so very femme de chambre—you
know what I mean.”

Not only did the person addressed not
know what she meant, but he will not now
be induced to believe that she meant “fin de
siècle,” and unconsciously used what, it seems
to some of us, was a very happy substitute
for this rather hackneyed phrase.

I have in the foregoing dwelt more particularly
on what is to me the most striking fact
in connection with the vulgar girl, the base
uses to which she puts her native speech; that
my account of her may not, however, be
wholly inadequate, I have also conferred with
persons whose views on manners and deportment,
as frequently expressed by them, have
led me to believe that they may be better able
than I am to point out what, from the social
standpoint, constitutes a vulgar girl. Of the
many data supplied me, I give below a few.

The vulgar girl is “arch.”

The vulgar girl is “coy.”

The vulgar girl loves “chaff.”

The vulgar girl has sidelong
looks.

The vulgar girl calls milk
“cream” and bacon “ham.”

The vulgar girl shouts or
whispers.

The vulgar girl thinks all
other girls vulgar.

The vulgar girl has never
been told, or has been told in vain, to sit up
and put her knees together.

The vulgar girl is the girl of whom the
vulgar boy says that she is “not half a bad
sort.”

(To be continued.)

{214}

“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 XIV.

IN A FORTIFIED
TOWN.

It was growing
dark when at
length they
drove through
the gates into
Verdun.

No one then
said a needless
word, not
even Roy. The
sense of banishment
and of captivity pressed
upon them all with a new
force, at the sight of this
fortified town, with its
massive encircling walls,
its iron gates, its pervading
gendarmerie. If any lack of
realisation of their true position had
helped them hitherto, it had small
chance of surviving this hour.

At the gate they had to pause, a
gendarme coming to the coach door.
He said something to Denham, which
made Colonel Baron ask sharply—

“Eh, what’s that?”

“We are to go first to the citadel.
Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and Roy.
You and I might walk it, sir, and send
them on.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Baron interposed;
“I cannot go on alone. We will keep
together.”

“A pity,” murmured Ivor; and Colonel
Baron looked doubtfully from him to his
wife.

“I am not going to do it,” she
repeated, with her manner of graceful
determination; and then, earnestly,
“Do not ask it of me—pray do not!”
No more could be said, and the man was
ordered to drive on.

Verdun at that date lay in the then
French province of Lorraine, the then
French department of the Meuse, upon
which river it was built. Distant from
Paris somewhere about one hundred and
fifty miles, it was also within about fifty
miles, in different directions, of two
towns which have since become vividly
historic, Sédan and Metz. The river
thereabouts follows a tortuous course,
and the lower part of Verdun stood
mainly on little islands in the Meuse,
while the upper part led to the French
citadel, which crowned a rocky summit.

The valley, containing the town, ran
north-west and south-east, being surrounded
by hills.

On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron
and Roy were desired by the Colonel to
remain in the coach, while he and
Denham disappeared within, there to be
carefully examined and closely questioned,
and having again to give their
parole. After which they came out, the
Colonel saying shortly—

“That business is done! Tell them
where to go, Den. They seem determined
to know us again.”

“Were they civil?” his wife asked.

“No end of a fuss, my dear. As if
the word of an English gentleman were
not sufficient. Close description of us
both written in the register.”

Once more they drove on, Roy gazing
from side to side, noting the small
insignificant shops, and exclaiming at
occasional peeps of the river with an
interest which never quite failed him.
The others were for the most part silent.
Mrs. Baron’s eyes were dim, the Colonel
was pre-occupied, and Ivor, usually the
most observant of men, seemed to see
nothing.

Presently they stopped before the gateway
of a large old house or small private
“hôtel,” with an untidy little courtyard.
An old Frenchman, in quaint dress,
grey-haired, with an imposing pig-tail,
came to meet them, bowing profoundly
to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly
to Mrs. Baron.

“C’est, sans doute, Monsieur le
Colonel—et Madame——”

Colonel Baron’s particular gift did not
lie in the direction of foreign languages.
He never could talk French, and probably
he never would, no matter how
many years he might be compelled to
live in France.

“Oui, monsieur. Bon jour. C’est
nous qui sont viendrai,” he responded,
feeling it incumbent on him to say something,
as he descended from the old
coach. “J’espère que vous êtes bien.
Je suis bien aise que nous sommes haut—pas
bas—pas près de le rivière. Bother
their grammar, Denham; you can do
it better than I. Just say what’s
suitable.”

Denham obeyed, and the next object
which dawned upon Roy’s perceptions
was the sad and gentle face of Lucille
de St. Roques. He seized her hand
vehemently.

“I say, mademoiselle, it’s nice to
find you here. Isn’t it, Den? Mamma,
this is Mademoiselle de St. Roques.
Papa, you know she helped to nurse
me after I’d had small-pox. Are we
going to live upstairs, mademoiselle?
Is that what it’s to be? The whole
upstairs, all to ourselves? What fun!
Which way is it? Oh, I see! This
way, mamma. Those poor horses do
look tired, just half-starved, and so
skinny. Is there a stable for them?
Are we to have tea? Dinner! that’s
right. We didn’t get half a dinner to-day,
and I’m famished. What a droll
old staircase? Do look out of this
window, mamma.”

Roy’s flow of spirits helped them all.
The Colonel and his wife gratefully
expressed their thanks to the French
girl for her past kindness to their boy,
both being much attracted by her
face and her pretty manner as she led
the way upstairs to the first floor. There
stood Madame Courant, a fat and
smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to
bestow unlimited welcomes upon the
unfortunate foreigners.

Lucille had exchanged bows with
Ivor at first, and then had a few words
with him, scanning his face as she
talked, with rather troubled glances.
There was, however, small leisure at
first for any quiet conversation. The
rooms had to be inspected, and they
were found to be not at all bad as to
size, though meagrely furnished. Lucille
had set her heart on making everything
wear as far as possible an English look,
using her childish recollections of a home
across the Channel; and if she was less
successful than she had hoped, nobody
betrayed the fact. It was clear to them
all how hard she had worked to render
the place comfortable.

“But it has been no trouble—non,
vraiment—not at all,” she assured them,
with her pensive smile, when they
apologised.

While sincerely anxious to help, full
of sympathy for their position, and most
desirous to cheer them up, she plainly
feared to be guilty of intrusion, and very
soon she took herself off with Madame
Courant to the ground floor. A somewhat
clumsy but well-intentioned maiden
had been deputed to wait upon the
upstairs party—probably had been hired
for the purpose, since Madame Courant
did most of her own house-work—and
dinner was laid in the smaller salon in
readiness for their arrival.

On the whole that first meal might be
reckoned a success. Madame Courant
was no mean cook; and though not
much could be said as to the actual
waiting, from an English point of view,
that was a minor matter, compared with
the comfort of finding clean and cosy
quarters, not to speak of a kind reception.
Roy did his best to supply all
deficiencies in the conversational line,
and his efforts were seconded, though
not vigorously, by Denham.

When, however, dinner was at an end,
and they had moved into the larger
salon, which was to be their drawing-room—when
a long evening lay before
them, and there was nothing that had
to be done, beyond a certain amount of
unpacking and arranging, which no one
felt disposed to begin upon at once—then
a change came. Then the shadow
of their captivity descended heavily
upon them all, even upon the valiant
Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness
and of keeping up seemed to
vanish.

For a quarter of an hour they all
remained together, no one speaking.
No one was able to speak. They had
nothing whatever to say. And presently,
when this had gone on a little
while, Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating
into her own bedroom, avowedly
to “see to a few things,” but in reality,{215}
as they all knew, to indulge in a breakdown—her
husband, after a brief hesitation,
going thither also. Denham had
flagged completely, retreating to a shady
corner near the big fireplace, where he
could scarcely be seen; and for Ivor to
flag meant the flagging of everybody.
As for Roy—but that he would have
been ashamed, counting himself already
almost a man, he could at this stage have
flung himself on the ground and cried
like a little child for very home-sickness.

He wanted Molly—oh, most awfully!
He wanted her this evening more than
he had ever wanted anything or anybody
in his whole life. The craving that
took possession of him for Molly’s face,
Molly’s voice, Molly’s companionship—the
passionate desire to have dear little
Molly once more by his side—was a pain
never to be forgotten.

Roy did not know how to bear himself
under it. He had nothing to do, nothing
with which to pass the time. He stood
at the window, looking out upon the
darkness, trying desperately to be cool
and stoical, as one five minutes crawled
by after another. Denham never moved,
never spoke a word. Roy could just make
out his dark outline, as motionless as a
carved image, a few yards distant. If
only Denham would have talked, if
something would have happened, if
somebody would have come in, it would
have been easier to keep going. But
nobody came, nothing happened, and
Denham did not stir.

Roy drummed with his fingers on the
window-sill. He could hear shrill voices
out in the street, not far off, and the
sound of some tuneless instrument. One
of the two candles was gone with Mrs.
Baron, leaving the room dim. He tried
to listen, tried not to think. And just
when he counted himself victorious, there
was a queer little catch of his breath
which sounded suspicious. Roy drummed
again angrily, hoping that Denham had
not heard. He might be asleep, he was so
still. But, after a slight break, he said—

“Come here.”

Roy unwillingly obeyed. He would
have liked to refuse, but he looked upon
Ivor as in some sort his commanding
officer, so of course he had no choice.

“They’re making no end of a row out
there,” he remarked in a tone of profound
indifference, as he lounged nearer.
“Can’t think what it’s all for. Just
listen.”

“Yes; I wish they would stop.”

“Don’t know what’s it’s all about.
Something or other—going on. I
shouldn’t wonder—if they’re quarrelling.”

That odd little catch again.

“Feel very bad this evening, Roy?”

The question took Roy by surprise,
and a lump in his throat prevented an
immediate reply.

Denham understood.

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s the
same with all of us, you know. And
there’s one comfort for you—that Molly
wants you at least as much as you want
her. Some people would give a good
deal for that certainty.”

Roy tried to explain matters away.

“I didn’t say——”

“My dear boy, there’s no need for you
to say anything; I know well enough.
Don’t you see?”

Denham’s chair shook as Roy leant
against it, but no further sound came.
He fought his battle courageously, and
Denham waited.

“We shall all feel better to-morrow,”
the latter presently remarked. “It’s a
strange place, and things look uncomfortable
to-night—can’t well do otherwise.
Suppose you and I have a game
of chess. Better than to sit brooding
over what can’t be cured. My little
travelling set is somewhere about, I
believe.”

“O yes.” Roy’s voice told of
instant relief. “You gave it to me to
take care of. Don’t you mind a game,
really? I should like that. Will you
give me your queen?”

“No; not to-day. I’m not at my
best. We’ll try on even terms. Get out
the pieces.”

Roy obeyed with alacrity, and whatever
the move meant to Denham, it
served to lift Roy out of his unwonted fit
of misery. He was soon deeply absorbed
in the mimic fight, and for once he found
himself on the way to win an easy
victory. Roy became exultant—till the
honour and glory of success were impaired
by the casual discovery that Ivor
could not tell a knight from a bishop
except by feeling. Roy stared wonderingly
into the spare bronzed face.

“Why, Den!”

“All right; this is my bishop.”

“I say, you didn’t take that for a
knight?”

“I believe I was under the delusion
for a moment.”

“But why? There, now it’s your
turn. Oh, I say!—you’re going to move
my king.”

Denham laughed slightly.

“I am rather a futile opponent, seemingly.
Never mind. Now it is your
turn.”

“What’s the matter? Can’t you
see?”

“Not well; just a headache. Go on;
you’ll soon end the game at this rate.”

Roy showed himself capable of heroism.
Though he had never yet beaten
Denham in full fight, without having
some of his adversary’s best pieces
presented to him, though the desire
of his heart was for a victory, and
though he was on the high road to
administering checkmate, one more
glance decided him. He swept his arm
over the board.

Denham half smiled, and made no
protest.

“You are a kind fellow,” he said, as
he went back to his former retreat; and
Roy dropped on the floor to pick up the
scattered pieces.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You’d no
business to play. Can’t I do anything
for you?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind”—after a
moment’s racking of his brain to think
of anything that might keep the boy
occupied. “I wish you would unpack
my valise—just the things that I shall
want to-night.”

Roy was delighted and went off at full
speed. In the passage he found himself
face to face with Lucille, and all but
rushed into her arms. Lucille drew
back.

“I say! Oh, I beg your pardon,
mademoiselle. I’m going to unpack for
Den. He’s just floored; can’t even play
chess. It’s all this horrid beastly bother,
having to come to Verdun, you know.
He never used to be like that. Den was
always up to anything. What have you
got there?” as she held up one hand.
“A letter!”

“It is medicine for Monsieur le Capitaine—from
England,” Lucille said,
with a look of heartfelt pleasure.

“It really is from England! Won’t
he be glad? Where did you get it
from? You shall give it to him yourself.
Yes; I declare you shall.”

Roy flung open the salon door, and
announced, “Here’s Mademoiselle de
St. Roques. Den, she’s got something
for you! Guess what it is. Come in,
Mademoiselle.”

Ivor stood up, not grateful to Roy at
this moment.

“Pray take a seat,” he urged.

“It’s a letter—a letter—a letter from
England,” cried the boy.

“You have brought this from the
post?” asked Denham, as he received
from her hand a folded and sealed
packet.

“Non, it is not that. The letter
arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was
send to him from England under cover,
and he waited till he should learn your
address and have opportunity to send it
with safety. When I wrote to him that
you all were ordered to Verdun, then he
sent the letter to me by one travelling
this way. It is but now arrived. I
am glad!” Lucille added, under her
breath.

Denham bent nearer to the candle,
trying with drawn brows to make out
the handwriting. As he did so, a
curious light crept over his face. Lucille
thought she could read its meaning.

“You are very good, mademoiselle.
I am much indebted to you and to M. de
Bertrand,” he said.

“Den, I do believe it’s Polly’s
writing!” exclaimed Roy.

Denham glanced towards him.

“Yes; it is from Polly.”

(To be continued.)

{216}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

EVENING DRESSES FOR CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES.

The winter is always distinguished by a
rather dowdy style of dress, especially in
town, where, for at least three months of the
year, the days are so dark and the light so
poor at best that everyone says, “It really
cannot matter what one puts on in such
sombre weather as this.” Such is the sentiment
expressed by the general public, but, of
course, does not apply to those who, having
carriages at their disposal, can blossom out
like the lilies of King Solomon, and be
carried over the mud and through the gloom
without let or hindrance. It is only on sunny
days during the winter and at Church Parade
in Hyde Park that one sees the brighter side
of winter dress. Otherwise it only blooms in
the shops, at the dressmakers’, and at the
endless afternoon teas which constitute the
main amusement during the winter. One
must have at least one nice walking-dress for
the winter, in spite of the gloom, for these
last-named festive occasions, and one generally
needs a cape or mantle as well to wear
in turn with our costume or with it as we
may require. Besides this, most women have
a certain amount of “wearing out” to do of
clothes that must put in a second winter.
Those wise people who have established a
kind of rule for themselves in the purchase of
dress get a handsome cape or mantle one
year and a handsome gown the next, the
latter becoming less visible and important the
second year when worn under the new mantle.
Both of these should come from first-rate
shops, in order to get the full value out of
them. Then there are the people who wait
for the sales to supply themselves with winter
clothes, and say they manage to finish out the
last year’s stock by this means in the still
darker and shorter days before Christmas. I
always consider the wearing out of one’s
winter things a grievous bother which falls
most heavily on the shoulders of those who
are very careful wearers of their garments. I
know people who really are never able to
wear out their clothes, and become quite
dispirited at the constant sight of them. I
know one lady who is able to clothe several
others poorer than herself because she takes
such good care of what she wears, and things
are hardly worn in appearance when she has
them repaired and brushed up.

The class which has the most difficulty in
clothing themselves so as to present a respectable
appearance is composed of these very{217}
poor ladies, who are governesses, lady-helps,
or companions, and no doubt my readers will
have noticed the moving appeals issued by
many of the societies and agencies which are
interested in procuring work for them. As
we are always anxious to find out good works
for our women and girls, we commend to
them this one, as one of the most blessed both
to giver and receiver.

The return to fashion of dresses made from
the same material entirely instead of those
which have been so long in wear, which
consisted of a blouse, more or less handsome,
and a skirt, has brought in a necessity for
mantles and capes, and so these are really the
most fashionable of the out-of-door garments
for the winter months. There is no fear,
however, of the skirt and jacket disappearing
from amongst us, for they have been found
too useful to lose their place in our esteem;
and the winter jackets are, some of them, very
pretty and tight-fitting, with large buttons,
and generally of three-quarter length, though
there are many quite short ones, but which
seem more used for cycling or golf than for
real walking or driving.

TWO WINTER GOWNS.

One of these costumes with a tight-fitting
coat is shown in our illustration of “a gown
with braid and fur,” which is a very handsome
example of the walking-gowns of the winter.
The skirt is made with the fashionable tightness,
the much-worn shaped flounce, and the
braiding is carried down the front on either
side in a graceful arabesque design, which is
wider and fuller in detail at the top near the
waist. The points are braided in the same
manner, and the tops of the sleeves. The
fronts have revers of mink fur. The dress
itself is in dark blue cloth, and the braiding
is in black. The hat is of blue velvet, with
white and green wings, and blue and green
velvet trimmings. This admixture of blue
and green seems more popular than ever this
winter, and I have frequently seen a blue hat
with a bright green velvet choux bow placed
in a conspicuous position in front.

The choux and the Louis XII. or true
lovers’ knot are the two fashionable bows of
the season, for hats and bonnets as well as for
dress. The first-named seems ubiquitous in
evening dress, where black velvet also appears
to be most popular as a trimming.

GOWN WITH BRAID AND FUR.

Both velvet and velveteen are much worn,
and are suited to the fashions of the day, and
the velveteen blouse retains its popularity,
but is more dressy and fanciful than it was.
In some cases velvet is used for the coat-shaped
bodices, with short square tails that
are much seen, and these have almost invariably
fancy vests or yokes. In most instances,
too, these are of finely tucked silk muslin,
which, in cream or white, is quite the most
popular material for them, in spite of its
perishable nature and apparent unseasonableness.

So far as materials are concerned, everything
that is clinging and soft is sought after, and
even the rustling silks that lined our skirts
and gave us such a feeling of opulence have
been relinquished in favour of something more
clinging. Cashmere and nuns’ veiling are used
for the lining of day dresses, and China silks
for evening ones. For slight people this
clinging effect is sometimes trying, but where
stout people are concerned the matter becomes
worse, and we shall hear of all kinds of cures
for obesity in order to wear the new skirts.

Of course, as is usual at this season, many
evening dresses for small Christmas festivities
are simple, and our illustration shows three of
these, which are inexpensive and pretty. The
first seated figure to the right wears a pink
silk muslin, plain for wearing over the accordion-kilted
skirt, and having a small black
leaf-like pattern on it for the pointed overskirt;
a ruching of rose-coloured silk goes
round the latter part of the bodice and sleeves,
and the back is finished with a wide band and
bow with ends of rose colour. This can, of
course, be carried out in any hue, but in white
or cream-colour it is very pretty, and there are
such numbers of fancy gauzes and nets that a
pretty choice can be made which would be
more inexpensive than the model we present.

The centre figure wears a dress of mousseline-de-soie
of a pale shade of Parma violet,
which is trimmed with narrow ribbons, drawn{218}
up to form small ruches. These are of a
slightly darker violet. The small Eton jacket
is of the same shade of violet velvet or satin,
with bands of velvet and paste buckles. The
standing-up figure wears a dress of jet-embroidered
net, with bands of passementerie on
the front of the bodice. The evening wrap is
of a soft yellow brocade, which is lined with
a pale violet, and trimmed with flounces of
lace and silk. The collar is edged with white
fur, and a bow of chiffon ornaments the neck
at the back. In giving these dresses I should
observe that, although they seem costly, they
can be copied in less expensive materials.
Nuns’ veiling, China silk, velveteen, taffetas,
Russian net, and Brussels net are all in
fashion, and all are comparatively so moderate
in price as to be attainable by those who have
slender purses. This season we also have the
embroidered net skirts that were introduced
last year, with the improvement that this
season the bodice-piece is sold as well. So
we have not to make troublesome inquiries
and huntings for the material to decorate
them. There seems to be a tendency likewise
to return to the use of a three-quarter length
sleeve, which fits the arm smoothly as far as
the elbow and terminates in a frill. The long
net and chiffon sleeves are still worn, and I
notice that there are some very pretty high
net bodices without sleeves, or, at least, with
a few folds of satin, which answer the purpose.
These will be a novelty if they should
be adopted, and will be charming for the
evening with all thin materials.

The illustration of two winter gowns shows
one of the new skirts and a bodice fastened at
the back. The skirt is also fastened there in the
newest fashion; the trimming consists of rows
of fine black braid, the dress being of fine
cloth, of a pervenche blue. The bodice is
trimmed with points of velvet, of a darker
shade of blue, and the same is used for the
bows at the back. The second dress is one of
those tucked throughout. It is of a soft satin
cloth, of a pale shade of grey. The revers
are braided, and there is a front of dark-grey
velvet and a high collar, with the lining
braided, like the revers. I hope you will
notice that this skirt opens on one side, usually
the left, and it is finished by a row of tiny
buttons, or by a small ruching of ribbon.

A great deal of this ribbon ruching is seen,
as well as much piping. Silk braids, very
fine and very narrow, in black and white,
form a feature of this year’s decorations,
and silver braids as well. Crystal buttons
are more liked than paste or steel ones,
and there is a craze for old lace and for
mixing fur with it. Black and white are in as
much favour as this mixture has always found
during the last four years, and the two are
constantly mixed in trimmings.

I think I mentioned in my last that the hair
was worn low on the neck—certainly far lower
than has been the custom for some little time.
But I do not find that the knot of hair is quite
so low just now. Evidently the idea has not
quite “caught on,” as the slang phrase has it,
and most of the well-dressed heads I have
lately seen have had the coil of hair at the
back of the head midway down. Perhaps,
later on, we shall see more of the low hair
dressing than we do now.

Truly the swing of the pendulum has quite
carried us away from the neat and ever-becoming
black stockings, and the new ones
are a study in colour and design. I think the
tartan ones will be worn, and will look well;
but I cannot say I like the others; nevertheless,
that may be because one has grown used to a
lack of colour for so long.

So far as boots and shoes are concerned,
the most fashionable people wear the American
ones with their extremely pointed toes and
narrow feet, but it is open to the sensible to
wear something more comfortable if they do
not mind a loss of style, for we cannot be
really smart unless our poor feet be pinched
and pointed to the last degree.

OUR PROSPECTUS PUZZLE REPORT.

SOLUTION.

ANOTHER NAUGHT.

A Roundel.

Prize Winners.

Ten Shillings Each.

• J. Hunt, 42, Francis Road, Birmingham.
• A. Phillips, 15, South Hill Park, Hampstead.
• Emily M. Wood, Woodbank, Southport.

Five Shillings Each.

• Margaret Baggallay, 3, Clarence Lawn, Dover.
• Marie Behrendt, Scanthorpe, Doncaster.
• Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley.
• Miss H. M. Brown, Longformacus, Duns, N.B.
• Charlotte D. Cole, 7, High Street, Beckenham.
• M. A. C. Crabb, Ipplepen, Alexandra Road, Hemel Hempstead.
• Agnes Dewhurst, 32, Lethbridge Road, Southport.
• Miss M. Hodgkinson, 2, Feversham Terrace, York.
• Benjamin Marcroft, High Legh, Grosvenor Drive, New Brighton.
• Nellie Meikle, 2, Newsham Drive, Liverpool.
• Henzell G. Robson, 7, Oxford Terrace, Gateshead-on-Tyne.
• F. A. Powell, 75, Hythe Road, Swindon.
• Anne Sifton, 230, Goldhawk Road, Shepherd’s Bush.
• M. Stuart, The Shrubbery, Grove Park, Kent.
• Ellen C. Tarrant, 2, Palace Grove, Bromley.
• Violet C. Todd, Ford, Cornhill-on-Tweed.

Very Highly Commended.

Mrs. Acheson, Eliza Acworth, Lottie R.
Biddle, E. J. Cameron, Mrs. J. Cumming,
May Merrall, E. C. Milne, Lilla Patterson,
Constance Taylor, Connie E. Thompson,
Daisy Tyler, Martha Wood.

For Artistic Execution.

Maud Abbott.

Highly Commended.

Annie A. Arnott, Fanny Ashby, Ethel M.
Atkins, Margaret Bailey, Eva M. Benson,
R. S. Benson, E. K. Berry, Mary A. Blagg,
Nancy Bolingbroke, M. S. Bourne, May
Burlinsay, Annie J. Cather, Mabel E. Davis,
Mrs. Deane, Edward R. Duffield, Alice M.
Feurer, Emily Francis, Mrs. W. H. Gotch,
Mrs. Grubbe, Edith E. Grundy, A. Hughes,
George L. Ingram, Annie G. Luck, C. Y.
MacGibbon, E. Mastin, Jessie Middlemiss,
Mrs. Nicholls, Percy J. Powell, Alice M.
Price, Gertrude Saffery, A. C. Sharp, Isabel
Snell, Norah M. Sullivan, A. C. T., Phyllis
Toker, Ann Toplis, Florence Whitlock, Mrs.
Wigglesworth, E. Wilson.

Honourable Mention.

S. Ballard, Mary I. Chislett, Helen M.
Coulthard, Mrs. H. Keel, K. H. Ingram,
E. M. Le Mottée, Charlotte Hayward,
Florence Hayward, Ethel C. Hobbs, Edith L.
Howse, Annette E. Jackson, Alice E. Johnson,
Fred Lindley, Ethel C. McMaster, Elsa P.
Neel, Charles Parr, Elizabeth A. Reynolds,
Annie Saunders, Dorothy Smith, Ellen R.
Smith, Gertrude Smith, May Tutte, Anna
Walker, J. Walker, Julia Waltenberg, John
R. Whyberd, G. Watherston.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

The insatiability of an editor who is clamouring
daily for our words of wisdom compels us
to be very brief. This is all the more to be
regretted because with such a subject to
handle we could have risen to great literary
heights. But to work!

The title was not “Another aught,” the
reason being that aught is not synonymous
with naught. The difference between the two
is considerable, “aught” signifying anything,
“naught” nothing. The importance of this
pleasing fact is often overlooked, especially by
schoolchildren, who frequently speak of a
cipher as “an aught,” or, as they in their
childish wisdom spell it “ought.”

In many solutions the final letter of
“onwards” was omitted. Doubtless, “onward”
is grammatically just as good, but as
the “s” was in the puzzle it was a pity not to
transfer it to the solution.

The beginning of the third line seems to
have caused trouble. Those who failed to
find the true solution generally gave “On our
three figures,” or “On our first numbers.”
Both readings are good interpretations of the
text, but the first is meaningless and the
second is incorrect. With “On all our
numbers “—adopted by a few solvers—we
have little fault to find.

Many competitors kindly pointed out that
the minus sign in line 6 ought to have been
the sign of division. Let us examine their
contention closely. Two weeks divided by
two yields one week and the beginning of the
line would run “A thousand one week.”
Two weeks minus two yields weeks, clearly,
and we need pursue the instruction no further.
Some of the readings at this point were remarkable,
e.g., “A thousand days”; “Twelve
thousand days”: “A thousand years,” and
“A million weeks.”

We have always been accustomed to regard
The Girl’s Own Paper with much veneration,
but the idea of its having first seen the
light something like fourteen thousand years
before Adam is somewhat startling.

In the next line, “G. O. P.” often took the
place of “magazine.” Our dislike of such
irritating abbreviations did not prevent us
from doing justice to the reading which is
rhythmically correct.

The number of solvers who wrote “barque”
for “bark” was amazing. The latter was in
the puzzle and signifies any small vessel. The
former was not in the puzzle and defines a
vessel of a particular rig. And there is really
no need for more.

{219}

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART III.

HOW TO GROW OLD.

When I was a child
a dear old lady,
who had been asking
questions about my
lessons, laid her
gentle hand on my
head and said, “I see you love
school, my child. ‘Learn
young, learn fair.'”

You, dear girl friends, will be at no loss to
understand the teaching of the proverb. It
says, in few words, that those lessons which
are early imprinted on our minds are likely to
have an abiding place in our memories and a
lasting influence over our lives.

There is one lesson amongst many which we
ought to be constantly learning from the time
that we can understand anything. It is, how
to grow old.

Do I see some of you smiling at each other,
as if old age were such a far-away subject that
it ought not to be introduced to my great
gathering of girls? Why, if I could have
spoken to you as children, one by one, I
would have asked, “Are you learning how to
grow old?”

You ought to be, for the moment you
began to live you started on the path that
leads to old age. From that path none of us
can turn aside and, perhaps without thinking
much of the inevitable ending, we pursue our
course thereon steadily and uninterruptedly.
We may start on many other paths—those of
duty, work, mental culture, etc.—and we may
take up certain pursuits and relinquish them
at our will, but the one onward journey is
continuous. We travel by night and by day.
Sleeping or waking, resting or working, we
are ever progressing towards old age, whether
we live to reach it or not.

It is often said that every age has its special
beauty, and yet I daresay many of you have
never dreamed of associating the idea of beauty
with old age. You are apt to claim it as the
special prerogative of youth. Yet I believe
that old age may be—and I assert that it
ought to be in certain senses—the most
beautiful of all, despite the white hair, the
tremulous hand, the feeble step which seeks
support from the strong arm of the young,
and the wrinkles on brows that were once
as smooth and fair as the fairest amongst
yours.

The young often shrink from the very
thought of being old. One hears the girl in
her teens whisper to her companion, as she
glances at a third who is not out of her
twenties, “She is getting to look quite old
already. She might be five-and-thirty.”

The tone is half pitying, half disparaging,
as if the object of the remark were somehow
in fault because a few more years had passed
over her young head than over the speaker’s.

Listen again to words from the lips of a
girl who is just “sweet seventeen.” (Alas
that seventeen does not always deserve the
adjective!) She has just stigmatised a friend
of thirty as “a cross old thing.” And for
what? She has only been trying to bring her
good common sense and sound judgment to
bear upon the other’s wilfulness. She is
anxious to save her from doing a foolish thing
on which her childish will is stubbornly set
and which is certain to be followed by remorse
and trouble.

“Sweet seventeen” purses her pretty lips
and tosses her foolish head whilst saying, “As
if I were going to be ordered about by her!
Cross old thing!” And she goes on her
wilful way and pays for it.

Still we must acknowledge that a dozen
extra years do not always bring proportionate
wisdom, any more than does the seventeenth
birthday invariably carry sweetness in its train.
We have to learn to grow old in such wise
that each year’s passage means also progress
in everything that is best.

It seems very strange—does it not?—that
whilst everyone desires long life, so many
dislike to look forward to old age in connection
with themselves. Or, if they do, it is not so
much in a frank and natural manner as in a
secret and stealthy fashion. If they speak of
it at all, they speak as of something which
may be near to others, but is still far, far away
from themselves. Such people would never
tell you that they are learning how to grow
old—striving each day after some knowledge
which will tend towards the attainment of a
really beautiful and lovable old age.

The need for such a study is ignored by so
many up to and beyond middle age, that one
wonders little at its being ignored by the
young. Yet other questions occupy their
earnest attention in connection with increasing
years.

How to ward off the semblance of old age,
for the reality cannot be deferred. How to
look young in spite of it. How to conceal
the number of the years that have passed over
their heads. How best to utilise art so as to
simulate the complexion of youth and to hide
the marks of time on their features.

Time is readily given in order to solve such
questions to the exclusion of those higher
lessons, attention to which would make old
age the most beautiful and lovely of all.

Girls, dear girls! you are generally keen
observers of externals, and especially so in
matters of female dress and adornment. If
one of you has been at a social gathering,
whether amongst humble workers or leaders
in society, what is usually the first question
asked by sisters or acquaintances on her
return? Is it not about the dresses worn?
You inquire how such a one looked, or if
another again wore a dress which is too well
known on account of its age. You want to
hear all about novelties in the fashioning of
new garments, and whether they were of a
mode likely to be becoming to yourselves. It
may be you give a little laugh as you say that
such a girl would be sure to look dowdy, or
inquire if the good taste of another was as
conspicuous as usual.

I am inclined to doubt whether you were as
anxious to know how your friend was impressed
by the words and conduct of those with whom
she had been associating, or whether she had,
during this little season of social enjoyment,
received impressions likely to influence her for
good. We ought to be learners in every place,
but not merely in regard to externals.

Now I want to ask you a question. I have
given you credit for being keen observers.
Tell me, can you imagine a picture more truly
pitiable and contemptible than that of a
woman on whose face is the stamp of age, but
who imagines that she has succeeded in hiding
it by paint and powder?

One who hugs the thought that she has
rendered her wrinkles invisible, or that her
dyed hair, with its tell-tale line of grey near
the roots, or the cunningly arranged golden
hued substitute for whitened locks, deceives
anyone but herself? All such shams make
the old look older still. They add to the
appearance of age instead of taking from it,
and they rob old age of much of the beauty
which is as real as that which pertains to the
youth it tries to simulate. I am alluding to
externals first because everyone sees them.

I have no doubt that you have all discovered
my liking for proverbial expressions. My
native county is rich in these pithy sayings
which convey so much meaning in few words.
The subject of our present talk brings to mind
one of these proverbs, which was often quoted
in my hearing when I was a girl. I recall one
occasion especially. A ruddy farmer turned to
look after an elderly woman who had just
passed him. She was girlishly dressed, and
she strove to trip along in youthful fashion,
feeling evidently well satisfied with herself,
and claiming admiration by every gesture.

What had our countryman to say about
her appearance? He jogged his neighbour’s
elbow, and quoted the proverb, as he indicated
the retreating figure with a jerk of his
thumb: “Old ewe dressed lamb fashion.”

“Aye,” said his friend, “and it’s no good.
Age will show in spite of paint and finery.
She was turned twenty when I was twelve, and
I’m over fifty-three to-day. Why, deary me!
There’s always somebody that remembers.”

These added words were as true as the
proverb itself. There is always someone,
amongst our many acquaintances and kinsfolk,
who has a good memory for dates, and who
can refer to the number of Life’s milestones we
have passed with unerring accuracy.

I asked you if there could be anything
more pitiable and contemptible than the sight
of an elderly woman trying to defy time and
age by such means as I have named?

I will answer my own question, “Yes, there
is. The sight of a girl who, possessing youth,
health, and the share of good looks and
attractiveness which must accompany these
two things, is ever striving to improve Nature’s
handiwork by the use of unnatural means.”
Believe me, my dear girl friends, the sight of
a young face disfigured by artificial colouring
and unnaturally whitened by powder, of
blackened eyebrows and eyelashes, together
with similar shams, excites in my mind a
feeling of true motherly regret. I love girls
too well to say hard things or to speak of
contempt for such practices; though they
ought to be contemptible in the eyes of all
pure and right-minded girls.

One associates the use of them with small
minds and natures whose chief end and aim
are to gratify personal vanity and attract
admiration, instead of striving to win respect
by the exercise of far nobler powers. Can
any girl be so self-deceived as to think she
will win honest affection by such means?{220}
She may win it in spite of them, but it will be
because the one who gives it is able to discover
something better and more deserving of
love beneath this miserable upper crust of
deception.

One is always ready to recognise, with
gratitude, even a mistaken attempt made by
the young with a view of giving pleasure to
others. But I am sure that self-pleasing and
the gratification of vanity are, in nearly every
case, the incentives to such displays as I have
condemned.

In looking round me, I have been struck
with the fact that some of the girls who use
paint, powder, and what are, I am informed,
known under the general name of “make-ups,”
are just those to whom Nature has
been specially liberal in the gift of beauty.

Beauty, when joined to vanity, has an
insatiable longing to add to its attractions.
It is more than conscious of all that it has,
but it is never satisfied, because it craves to
combine, in its own person, the attractions of
every style which is, from time to time,
commended in its hearing. Hence all these
useless and foolish efforts to improve on
Nature’s handiwork.

Do not misunderstand me so far as to think
I condemn the use of many little toilet accessories,
which add greatly both to comfort and
health. It would be insulting to the good
sense of my girls, if I were to specify what
things are lawful and useful, and what are
contemptible and to be avoided.

You would smile, in pitying fashion, at the
sight of an old lady, whose grey locks having
become too scanty to cover her head, had
thought fit to crown her wrinkled face with a
wig and fringe of golden hair. But if the
addition matched what remained of her own
growth, I hope you would be glad to think
that art had done something on behalf of
comfort and comeliness for old age, as well as
for youth. Depend on it the natural colour
of your hair is that which agrees best with your
features and complexion, and if there is anything
really wrong with the latter, it will be
better for you to consult your doctor than a
manufacturer of cosmetics.

I am glad to think I have not known many
girls whose vanity led them to spoil their
appearance in the manner I hope you join me
in condemning, but we have all seen plenty of
such. I picture two, however, both rather
exceptionally attractive. One had beautiful,
glossy, dark hair, with eyes to match, and a
complexion like a blush rose.

I did not see her for some time, and when
we met I was horrified at the change. A mop
of yellow, frizzled hair surmounted a face
whence the blush-rose tint had fled, or been
hidden under glaringly false red and white.
All the dainty charm of the face was gone,
and I am fain to confess that I went a little
out of my way to avoid a closer meeting with
my changed acquaintance. Happily I can tell
of a pleasant sequel in this case. Some good
influence has been brought to bear, or perhaps
the girl’s innate good sense has overcome her
vanity, and she has found out that such shams
are unworthy of a self-respecting girl.

She has given fair play to Nature, and that
just in time to save the blush-rose complexion
from ruin, and to be once more her bonny
self.

The second girl possessed remarkable beauty
especially of complexion, and her vanity and
greed of admiration were in proportion to it.
These impelled her to be ever experimenting
on herself to produce greater perfection, with
the result that whilst still a girl she looked
many years older than her age, and I hear,
though I do not see her now, that she is daily
becoming less attractive, though no less vain
than of old.

Quite apart from the harm done to personal
appearance by these foolish practices, but of
far greater importance, is the moral injury they
cause. One might call the exhibition of paint
an acted falsehood, because it is an attempt
to make ourselves appear what we are not.

But such devices are too transparent to
deceive. If begun, they become more and
more injurious and difficult to discontinue,
and those who practise them live in an
atmosphere of anxiety and disappointment.
Age comes, despite all efforts to delay its
progress, and it leaves footprints which baffle
art to disguise or obliterate.

Doubtless you have all heard this expression
used in relation to someone you know—”She
knows how to grow old gracefully.” You
understand it to picture one who accepts age
as the natural and inevitable sequence of
youth; who is above the paltry vanity which
would hide it—or, rather, try to hide it—yet
who neglects nothing which can help to make
it externally attractive, and especially to the
young. For, if age is to have its full
legitimate influence over youth, it must be
beautiful in itself, both without and within.

I will not ask you, my dear ones, to look
again at that pitiable picture of Vanity battling
with Age, despite the certainty of defeat and
disappointment. But be assured of this—that
the girl who starts on the same lines will reach
the same goal; but it will not be that of a
beautiful and lovable old age.

Do not imagine that I undervalue externals.
I would have you all be habitually careful
about them. Let your complexion be kept at
its best by scrupulous cleanliness. If your
hair is beautiful and abundant, take pains to
dress it in the fashion that best sets off such
good looks as you possess. If you are less
favoured in this respect, give the more care
and pains so as to make the best of what you
have.

Exercise good taste in your dress, whilst
carefully keeping your expenditure within your
means. The girl who dresses quietly and
becomingly will not make herself conspicuous
in later years by the use of glaring colours or
fantastic garments.

Try to be graceful and quiet in your movements,
and scrupulous in avoiding all little ways
and habits likely to be disturbing, unpleasant,
or offensive to others. And do not be
offended if a well-meaning friend ventures to
point out a tendency to any growing habit of
the kind, knowing that if once established it
will be almost impossible for you to overcome
it. Bear in mind that such a warning can be
only intended for your benefit and to help
you on your way towards growing old
gracefully.

Study to modulate your voices so that the
sound of them may fall pleasantly, even
musically, on the ear. Shrill, harsh, and loud
youthful voices become something too terrible
when they accompany age.

I wonder if any of you have heard our dear
Queen speak? I regret to say that I have
not, but friends have told me that they never
heard a voice which equalled hers for its
melodious tone, perfect clearness, and faultless
enunciation.

Try to avoid affectation in gesture and
movement, and any form of facial contortion.
Habit makes all these painful to witness, and
age exaggerates them. Sometimes a habit of
knitting the brows is contracted early in life,
with the result that the forehead is furrowed
and a forbidding expression given to the face
which permanently spoils it. Age intensifies
what is forbidding and disagreeable, but shows
to the greatest advantage all that is most
lastingly attractive in us, just as the flower
fulfils the promise of the bud.

In this lesson on “How to grow old” I
have confined myself to externals. It is time
for us to part, but when we meet again we
will study the subject from the highest
standpoint.

Before then a new year will have dawned
on us. Let me suggest as a fitting motto for
it, “I will go in the strength of the Lord
God.” May it prove a very happy one to you
all.

(To be continued.)

“SISTER WARWICK”: A STORY OF INFLUENCE.

By H. MARY WILSON, Author of “In Warwick Ward,” “In Monmouth Ward,” “Miss Elsie,” etc.

CHAPTER IV.

Granny 20 was in one of her most garrulous
moods, but who was there to listen? She tried
to catch a nurse or probationer as they hurried
by the end of the bed, with a “Listen to me
now, nurse.” But a smile and a nod and a
“By-and-by, Granny,” was all she got for
her pains.

Her nearest bed-fellows were too sleepy
for anything, and she had to content herself
with murmuring to an imaginary audience
until Sister had a moment’s leisure, and came
to her bedside.

“I was saying, Sister, that Mrs. 21 there
is one with me. We both rue our wedding-day!
And we thought—bless yer!—we
thought, when we stood up so proud and
made our vows, that we was the luckiest
women in the world.”

“And it all turned out badly, Granny?”

“Oh, well! It might have been wuss for
some of us. I won’t say it mightn’t; but me
was in too much of a hurry—that was the
mischief. Why, bless yer! Mrs. 21 there says
she wasn’t more’n sixteen when she took a
‘usband! And me? I was only just turned
eighteen. We didn’t know no better. We
were took by a ‘andsome face.”

“Well, Granny, I cannot err on the side of
marrying too young, whatever I do.”

“Sister! You ain’t never thinking of matrimoany?
Don’t ‘ee, dear! Don’t ‘ee! Just
take the advice of a old woman what knows.
This is what I say. If a man comes to you
and seems true enough, don’t trust him! No,
not if trust was to sparkle like a diamond
from the end of every hair on his head, don’t
trust him!”

Hardly knowing how to contain herself
for laughter, Sister promised to be very
careful, and thanked Granny for her wise
words.

“They aire wise. You may well say so,”
chuckled the old lady. “Now I could tell
you——”

“Another time, Granny dear—and see!
Here’s nurse with your tea. A cup of tea!
There’s nothing like it, is there?”

“Bless yer—no!”

And Nurse Hudson—what of her? Had{221}
the episode of yesterday’s carelessness with
the words of reproof that followed been the
warning Sister Warwick hoped? The watchful
eyes could detect very little that was amiss
that day. But she was obliged to acknowledge
that the nurse’s manner towards herself was
not what it should be. With her new efforts
not to repel her nurses by the stiffness of her
own manners she ignored what she could.
Later she felt glad she had done so.

After tea the medicines were given out.
It was the staff-nurse’s duty to-day, and
following the instructions on her chart, Hudson
went to and fro, pouring out the draughts, and
bringing them to each bed in order.

Sister, seated by No. 10, watched her
silently. But when she brought the dose for
this “typhoid,” she took it from her hand to
administer it herself.

What instinct made her pause, before
giving it, to ask:

“Is this the new medicine, nurse?”

“Of course it is, Sister!” The tone was
offensive, but, ignoring it, Sister Warwick
leant forward to hold the glass to the girl’s
lips. Again she paused. What was it stayed
her hand?

She raised the glass, smelt it, and then put
it to her own lips and tasted the liquid, her
eyes on the chart.

“This is an overdose!” she said sternly.
“Here are four times the right amount!”

For she knew in a flash what the nurse had
done, and she shuddered at the thought!
Hudson had certainly, as she said, given the
fresh medicine the chart directed, but in her
heedlessness she had not looked to see if the
quantity was altered too. She had poured
out two tablespoonfuls instead of two teaspoonfuls—a
dose that would have caused
intense suffering, if nothing worse, to the
sick girl.

Sister Warwick rose from her chair and
looked Nurse Hudson full in the face. Her
utter scorn and indignation at this culpable
carelessness rendered her speechless.

But her glance was enough!

Turning on her heel, she carried the
medicine-glass into her room, placed it in a
cupboard there, and locking it up, removed
the key.

Nurse Hudson watched it all—miserable
and self-condemned—knowing what the action
meant. Now that it was done, she would
have given anything to have been more
careful. Her colour came and went. She
stood irresolute. Her better self was urging
her to go at once and with a humble apology
plead for another trial with an earnest promise
of a different course in the future. But she
could not bring herself to do that. Pride and
Selfishness had been too closely her companions
lately, excluding better impulses.

No, she would not believe that Sister
Warwick meant to report her to the Matron.
Perhaps she would only ask for her removal
to another ward; there she could make a fresh
start. But she did not ask herself with what
motive.

Nurse Hudson’s work had always been
tarnished with the discolouring influences of
her own low aims. No wonder now that she
failed, and did not take the one step that
might have saved her nursing career.

She left the ward that evening without
another word with the Sister—miserable, self-pitying,
undecided, little thinking that she
would never enter it again.

“The whole affair shall be stopped at
once!” The Matron’s voice was full of
decision and very stern. “I will send for
Hudson and tell her I cannot keep her here
any longer. Nor will I sign her certificate!
I am not justified, after all you tell me, in
sending her away to pass herself off as a
qualified nurse.”

“You take a harder view of her conduct
than I do, Matron.” And Sister Warwick
then and there began to plead for the
nurse who had been such a “thorn in her
side.”

“You will not move me, Sister! Hudson
will go! It will seem right, from many
points of view, when you can look at it
dispassionately. I am only very thankful
that we so rarely have such a failure among
the nurses, and thankful most of all that no
worse harm has been done. We might have
had a case for the coroner.”

Sister Warwick knew the Matron’s words
were just. She left her and went back to
her own room, sinking into her leaning-chair
with the consciousness that an upset like this
“took it out of her” far more than even an
operation involving pain and suffering to one
of her dear ward babies. And, sad at heart,
she began to think of Ellen Hudson’s future,
then to search back in her own mind for
possible opportunities missed in the past
when she might have helped her more kindly.
She realised bitterly that she herself might
have done better too.

She sat forward then and wrote a little note
and sent it round to the Nurses’ Home, timed
to reach Nurse Hudson just after her interview
with the Matron.

It was to ask her staff-nurse to come and
see her before she left. But she never came.
She passed out of Sister Warwick’s life
from that hour, and her place knew her no
more.

Nurse Carden’s bright face and ready sympathy
were a pleasant interruption to the
Sister’s mournful ruminations that evening.
She came in a little before her usual time,
and the two had a quiet chat in the “Sisters’
Room” before the night work began.

Here Sister Cumberland joined them. These
three women—so different in character, so
united in aim and purpose—felt then the
sustaining power of a friendship that was
standing the wear and tear of life.

Seeing how worried the elder “Sister” was
by the present, the other two drew her thoughts
back to the past and to their earlier experiences
in the ward.

“Do you remember?” was the introduction
to many reminiscences Sister Cumberland
recalled that night on duty, when she fought
her fiercest fight with the craving for sleep.

Nurse Carden talked of Tommie the waif
and his whimsical ways. He could not be
forgotten, for it was not many days since at
the lodge-gate of her own home she had seen
the Tommie of to-day. Such a contrast! A
sturdy, ruddy, honest country lad, loving his
life as a gardener’s boy, and always ready, if
questioned, to say, “Oh, I belong to Nurse
Carden, I do! I ain’t got nobody else! But
she is good to me, she is!”

So the three talked until the hour struck
which took them to their various duties and
closed the second of these days my pen has
tried to describe—days chosen not because
they were remarkably different from many
others, but because they give an average picture
of the cares and anxieties, the pleasures and
interests that belong to a hospital Sister’s
life; because, too, they tell of an experience
that had a lasting effect in softening Sister
Warwick’s character and in extending her
influence over the nurses in her charge.

[THE END.]

GUS.

Ya want ti knaw aboot
ma maate Gus? Set
ya doon, then, an’
ah’ll tell ya all
aboot it.

Me an’ Gus wer
friends fra’ t’ first.
‘E wer a shy, quiet
soort o’ lad, an’ t’
other chaps didn’t
seem ti taake ti ‘im
at first, an’ it wer soort o’ loansoom for a
yoong chap lodgin’ aloan i’ a straange plaace,
specially as ‘e didn’t seem ti care mooch for
t’ public-‘oose o’ neets. Soa wun evening, as
we wer leavin’ woork, ah says ti ‘im, “Coom
in an’ ‘ave a bit o’ soopper wi’ ma an’ ma
missus, lad.”

‘E looked real pleased, an’ said ‘e would
coom, bud ‘e wouldn’t coom straight ‘oam
wi’ ma, as ah wanted ‘im ti. Noa, ‘e mun
gang back ti ‘is lodgins an’ fettle issen oop.

My missus weant best pleased when sha
‘eard ‘e wer coming; mebbe, theer weant
ower mooch for soopper, an’ sha niver were
fond o’ straangers; bud ‘e ‘adn’t been i’ oor
lahtle room aboove ‘alf a minute afoor ah seed
as sha’od taaken a fancy ti ‘im. ‘E com in
rather shy an’ bashful loike, for all ‘e’d maade
‘issen soa graand wi’ ‘is Soonday coate an’
all, an’ ma missus, she says—

“Set ya doon an’ maak yersen at whoam,
while ah get summat for ya ti eat,” an’ ‘e set
doon reet theer by t’ door, on t’ edge o’ ‘is
cheer, an’ ‘adn’t a woord to say for ‘issen.

Oor lahtle lass Polly—she wer nobbut
fooer year owd then—shoo com in an’ stood
starin’ at ‘im wi’ ‘er finger i’ ‘er mooth, an’ at
sight o’ ‘er ‘e foond ‘is tongue.

“Coom ‘ere, lahtle ma’ad,” says ‘e; “ah’m
wonnerful fond o’ childer. Coom an’ see
what ah’ve got i’ ma pocket.”

Bud t’ lahtle lass still stood beside ma,
starin’ at ‘im as if ‘e wer summat i’ a show.

Gus didn’t saay nowt moor, but ‘e oots wi’
‘is knife an’ a bit o’ wood and starts carvin’
summat.

“Noo,” says ‘e, arter a bit, “what shall it
be? Shall ah maak tha a ‘orse, or a coo, or
what?”

T’ lahtle lass foond ‘er toongue at that.

“A lad,” says she, an’ cooms a step nearer
ti see what ‘e wer at.

“Shoo’ll be a rare wun for t’ lads when
shoo’s a bit bigger, ah’se warran’,” says ‘e,
wi’ a laugh; an’ ‘e goes on carvin’ t’ bit o’
wood in a waay ‘at wer wunnerful ti me.
Soon t’ head an’ shoolthers appeared, an’
then t’ legs an’ arms, an’ all t’ while t’ tahtle
lass crept nearer an’ nearer, an’ by t’ tahm t’
lad wer doon, shoo wer sittin’ on ‘is knee an’
chatterin’ awaay ti ‘im as if ‘e wer’ an owd
friend.

That woon moother’s ‘eart, for shoo’s
powerful set on t’ lahtle lass, seem’ shoo’s t’
oanly wun wi’ ‘ave—an’ ah reckon ah weant
far be’ind ‘er i’ that—an’ befoor ‘e left
shoo’d arst ‘im ti taake ‘is dinner wi’ us
Soonday next. Arter that, Gus wer in an’
oot continual, an’ ‘e an’t’ lahtle lass wer as
thick as thieves. It wer pratty ti see ‘er
perched o’ ‘is knee, wi’ ‘is arm roond ‘er, an’
ti ‘ear ‘er pratty prattle, all aboot ‘er dolls an’
toys an’ sooch-like. ‘E used ti call ‘er ‘is
lahtle sweet-‘eart, an’ saay sha mun marry ‘im{222}
when sha wer growed a bit, an’ t’ lahtle lass
‘ud look oop i’ ‘is faace, as graave as graave,
an’ promise ti be ‘is lahtle wife. ‘Twer as
pratty a pictur as ‘eart could wish to see them
thegither, an’ ‘e niver seemed ti tire o’ ‘er
coompany, or care ti talk wi’ me or t’ missus
when t’ lahtle lass wer theer.

Well tahm went on, an’ t’ job e’d coom
doon ‘ere for wer nigh finished—layin’ rails
o’ new line it wer—an’ ‘e wer talkin’ o’
leavin’, for ‘e weant fra’ oor parts; when wun
daay—ah mind it wer t’ first o’ April, for
theer’d been soom foolin’ amoong t’ lads
earlier i’ t’ daay, an’ t’ blackthorn wer
buddin’ i’ t’ ‘edges—we wer setting on t’
railway bank eatin’ oor dinners. Gus wer
moor talkative than ordinary that daay; ah
mind ‘e’d been tellin’ us o’ t’ waay they did
‘arvestin’ i’ ‘is parts—Lancashire waay—an’
‘arvest-‘oams, an’ sooch-like, when all of a
soodden ah caught sight o’ ma lahtle lass
runnin’ along t’ line. It did gie ma a toorn,
for t’ doon traain ‘ad been signalled two or
three minutes sin’, an’ even as ah caught
sight o’ ‘er, ah ‘eerd it roombling along i’ t’
distance.

“Ma God!” ah cried. “Look theer!”

Jack Wilson—’im as lives i’ yon cottage
wi’ t’ creepers doon by t’ church—shoots as
lood as ‘e could, “Get oft t’ line, bairn! Get
off t’ line!” Bud Polly, sha didn’t taak noa
‘eed ti ‘im.

Then afoor ah ‘ad got ma wits aboot ma,
or ‘ad ony idea what ‘e wer goin ti do, Gus
‘ad joomped doon fra’ t’ bank, an’ were
roonnin’ for ‘is loife doon t’ line ti meet t’
lahtle lass. It wer awful to see ‘im, while
every moment t’ thoonder o’ t’ train com
nearer.

“Is t’ man mad?” cried Wilson. “It’s
certain death.” An’ even as ‘e spoke, t’
train com roond t’ corner.

Polly stood still, terrified, an’ Gus ran on
reet inti t’ teeth o’ t’ train. Ah turned
deadly sick, for ah niver thowt ‘e would be i’
tahm, an’ it seemed nobbut a waaste o’ two
lives; bud ‘e reached ‘er joost afoor t’ train
did. Ah seed ‘im catch ‘er oop an’ toss ‘er
on ti t’ bank, an’ then—then t’ traan wer on
‘im, an’ we saw noothing moor till it ‘ad past.
Then ah ran ti wheer ‘e wer lyin’, an’ an
awful sight it wer. It ‘aunts ma yet, thoo it’s
nigh on ten year sin. ‘E wer livin’, poor
chap, an’ ‘e looked up at ma wi’ a smile,
though t’ death dews were gathering on ‘is
faace.

“T’ lahtle lass?” ‘e asked anxiously.

“Saafe an’ well,” ah answered. “Eh,
Gus, lad, tha’ shouldn’t ‘a doon it. Ah
reckon she weant woorth it.”

“Niver saay that!” ‘e said. “Wheer is
sha? Ah’d like fine to bid her good-bye.”

Polly wer cryin’ wi’ fright on t’ bank cloas
at ‘and. Ah called ‘er, bud at first sha ‘ung
back, not knawin’ as it wer ‘er friend as lay
theer, a sickenin’ sight, an’ not fit for a bairn
ti see.

“Niver mind, John,” ‘e said, sadly enough.
“It’s better soa. Ah wouldn’t like ‘er ti
think o’ ma like this.” But ah went an’
fetched ‘er, an’ bade ‘er ti thank ‘im for
saavin’ ‘er loife.

“Nay, nay,” ‘e said, smoilin’ oop at ‘er.
“Good-bye, lahtle sweet’eart. Tha’lt ‘ave ti
get anoother lad noo.”

“Nay, ah’ll waait for thee an’ be thy lahtle
wife,” says Polly sturdily, not un’erstan’in’,
poor lahtle lass, as ‘e wer dyin’.

“Tha’lt ‘ave ti waait till tha gets ti t’ New
Jeroosalem, then,” ‘e answers, “if soa be as
they’ll let ma in.” An’ at that ‘e looks
serious.

Ah maade ‘aste ti cheer ‘im oop.

“Nay, lad, thoo need ‘ave noa fear o’ that,”
ah says. “Tha mind hoo He said, ‘Inasmooch
as ye ‘a doon it to wun o’ t’ least o’ these, ye
‘a doon it unto Me.'”

Hoo ‘is faace lighted oop at that word!
Then a spasm o’ agony crossed it, an’ t’ death
rattle began i’ ‘is throat.

‘E couldn’t speak, bud ‘e maade ma a sign
ti send t’ lahtle lass away, an’ ah bade ‘er
roon ‘oam ti ‘er moother. Then ah knelt
doon an’ raised ‘im in ma arms, an’ it weant
long—thank God, it weant long.

Well, it’s ten year sin, as ah said, an’ it’s
an owd story noo, an’ t’ grass is green on ‘is
graave. T’ lahtle lass keeps it rare an’ gay
wi’ flooers. Shoo’s growin’ a graat gell noo,
an’ it weant be long afoor t’ lads begin ti
coom aboot ‘er, for shoo’s growin’ bonny;
bud shoo’s niver forgotten Gus, an’ if shoo
iver did, ah wouldn’t oan ‘er as ma darter,
that ah wouldn’t!

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

MISCELLANEOUS.

{224}

OUR PUZZLE POEMS.

A NEW DEPARTURE.

We are publishing Three Puzzle Poems in succession dealing with accidents and the way to meet them, and
the following is the second of the series. The lines should be carefully committed to memory for the sake of
the valuable instruction they contain.

In addition to the ordinary monthly prizes Three Special Prizes are offered for the best solutions of the
whole series.

The first Special Prize will be Three Guineas; the second Special Prize, Two Guineas, and the third
Special Prize, One Guinea.

A careful record of mistakes will be kept, and these prizes will be awarded to those competitors who
perpetrate the fewest in all three puzzles.

If a winner of one of these prizes has already received an ordinary prize in the series, the amount of the
smaller prize will be deducted. This will then be sent to the most deserving non-prize-winner in the list
relating to the puzzle for which the prize in question was awarded.

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 February 17, 1899; from
Abroad, April 17, 1899.

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

OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY
COMPETITION.

SELF OR FRIEND?

A STORY IN MINIATURE.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

Margaret A. Fish, 49, Foregate Street,
Worcester.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

Rose Cook, 2, South Cliff, Lowestoft.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

Edith Ivens, Mayfield, Station Road,
Llandaff, nr. Cardiff.

Very Highly Commended.

Emily M. P. Wood, Woodbank, Southport.

Honourable Mention.

Mary Adamson, Eastbourne; Lucy H.
Chapman, Weston-super-Mare; “Conor,”
Bonchurch, I.W.; Rose L. Connor, Greenock,
N.B.; “Editha,” Birmingham; Kate Collins
Ensor, Atherstone; “Excelsior,” North Bow,
E.; Annie F. Hepple, N. Shields; E. Marian
Jupe, Warminster; “Mignonette,” New
Cross, S.E.; Edith Miller, Judd St., W.C.;
Agnes Osborne, Sidcup; Minnie Reeves,
Twyford; Lucy Richardson, York; Enid G.
St. Aubyn, Retford; Mary Adéle Venn,
West Kensington Park; L. M. Willis,
Harrogate; Mabel Wilson, Bedford Park.

To the Competitors.

My dear Girls,—To the prize winners and to those
of you also who failed to gain prizes, I offer my
hearty congratulations on the excellent papers you
sent in. The work of selecting the very best was
much less difficult than that of choosing a few for
“Honourable Mention,” out of hundreds of really
good ones.

It may interest you to know why some of you failed
to obtain a place in the list of honours. Twenty-eight
competitors were disqualified by breaking the
rule as to size of paper and space to be filled. Then
there were several charming essays on the story which
were not miniatures of it. In a considerable number
necessary parts of the outline were omitted, hence
the work was incomplete.

It gave me true pleasure to note how thoroughly
most of you grasped the lesson which the story was
intended to convey.

Do not be disheartened. Try again. Such good
papers cannot be called failures, and the exercise
will benefit you whether you gain prizes or not.

Your affectionate old friend,
Ruth Lamb.

OUR NEXT STORY COMPETITION.

STORIES IN MINIATURE.

Subject:—”The G. O. P. Supplement for
January.“

WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME.

By SARAH DOUDNEY, Author of “A Cluster
of Roses,” “A Flower of Light,” etc.

We offer three prizes of Two Guineas,
One Guinea, and Half-a-Guinea for the
three best papers on our “Story Supplement”
for this month. 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.

The last day for receiving the papers is
January 20th; and no papers can in any case
be returned.

Examiners:—The Author of the Story
(Sarah Doudney), and the Editor of The
Girl’s Own Paper.