{273}

THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

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

“OUR HERO.”
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.
VARIETIES.
OUR LILY GARDEN.
OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN IDEAL GARDEN.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OUR PUZZLE POEMS.
OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.
OUR NEXT STORY COMPETITION.

“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.

“‘POOR FELLOW! HE DOES LOOK DONE!’” (See p. 262.)

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XVIII.

ROY’S IMPRUDENCE.

The letter from Mrs. Fairbank to
Colonel Baron, which Roy undertook to
read aloud to Denham, was lengthy and
verbose. Some extracts may be given
from it, the remainder being, in old-fashioned
phrase, “left to the reader’s
imagination.”

It may be remarked here that
much had happened during the
last four years in European history,
since the Barons had left
their own country. Notable{274}
among famous events was the Battle of
Trafalgar in 1805, which crippled for
half a century to come the naval power
of France.

For three years at least previous to
that date, England had been kept on
tenterhooks of expectation, incessantly
dreading a French invasion. Napoleon
had talked largely of such an invasion,
and had made preparations for it on no
mean scale. England also had made
ready for it, had feared it, had laughed
at it. And at the last, partly through
Continental complications, causing
Napoleon to withdraw most of the great
military force which had long sat at
Boulogne, waiting for a safe chance of
crossing the Channel, but much more
through the magnificent and crushing
victory of Nelson, in the course of which
he received his death-wound, England
escaped it.

She escaped it, seemingly, by a very
narrow margin. But for Napoleon’s
pressing need of more soldiers elsewhere,
and but for this crowning victory
of Nelson’s, the attempt might certainly
have been made. As everybody knows,
Nelson chased the combined fleets of
France and Spain across the Atlantic to
the West Indies and back again; and
had he, by one little slip, just missed
finding those fleets at the critical
moment, a landing of French troops
might actually have taken place.

Whether Napoleon could ever have
done more than land his troops upon
the coast, is a question which cannot
now be answered. It is not absolutely
inconceivable that, through superior
numbers and possibly superior discipline,[1]
he might have gained one or
two small victories, thereby placing
himself in a position to march towards
London. Even so much is unlikely;
and that he could ever in the end
have conquered Britain is absolutely
inconceivable, despite his own boastful
assurance on that point, which lasted or
appeared to last until the end of his life.

But that he might have done a large
amount of damage, that his soldiers
might have pillaged right and left, that
villages and towns might have been
destroyed, that widespread loss and
misery might have been inflicted, of
all this there can be small question, at
least as to the bare possibility.

These fears, however, were now at an
end. Napoleon’s career of conquest
on land continued unchecked; but at
sea the flag of Great Britain reigned
supreme. Nelson’s body lay beneath
St. Paul’s Cathedral: but before he
went he had done his work. He had
saved his country from the iron heel of
Napoleon. So Mrs. Fairbank’s letter
contained no further descriptions of
invasion scares, such as she would have
had to write two or three years earlier,
though it did contain certain references
to the Emperor, not too cautiously
worded for a letter on its road to France.
Some past hopes of a peace between
England and France, now at an end,
were alluded to also.

“I’ll read it aloud to you, may I?”
asked Roy again, when Captain Ivor
had made his appearance, refreshed
and smartened as to the outer man, and
had been made to sit down to a hastily-prepared
meal, to which he failed to do
justice. “And,” Roy added, recalling
Lucille’s words, “you can get on the
sofa, and have a rest.”

Ivor declined to pose as an invalid,
and submitted only to being installed in
the Colonel’s large arm-chair, while
Roy plunged into Mrs. Fairbank’s
epistle, wading through it on the whole
perseveringly, though not without suggestions
of skippings.

“It’s written, ‘Bath, August 4th,
1806,’—ever so long ago,” he remarked
as a preliminary. “But she didn’t get
it all done in one day—not near. I can
leave out the other dates. They don’t
matter.

“‘My dear Sir,—Though ’tis somewhat
hopeless work writing, under the
present aspect of affairs, I will send
another letter, wishing that it may by
some means reach you in safety. We
still look out perpetually, with Constant
Anxiety, for any sort of news of yourselves,
which indeed but seldom arrives.
These passing years are tru’ly melancholy
to think upon. Molly is now
fifteen, and has not seen Roy for a space
of three years and more! Who could
have thought——’ O I say, can’t I skip
this? She does go on so. Well, I won’t,
if you’d rather not; but it’s no good,
you know. ‘Who could have thought
it, my dear Sir, when you and your wife
unhappily decided to make that doleful
excursion to France, intending to stay
but one fortnight, which resulted in this
continued separation? Alas, how little
man knows ever what lies Before him, in
the Future!’ But what’s the good of
her saying all that?

“‘The late tremendous storms about
Lonⁿ have caused much Alarm, but
these terrors seem to be now somewhat
Abating…. I have been to the Pump
Room and to the Circulating Library,
and find people are not much elevated
at the prospect of Mr. Fox concluding a
Peace in the present dolorous situation,
it being confidently said he cannot live
a fortnight, and that he knows his
situation.

“‘I presume that you with ourselves
greatly lamented the death of Mr. Pitt
last spring; a sad event at so critical
a period.’ But I don’t see what she
means about Macbeth—do you, Den?
It’s so funny. O do you know, we got
the Times with all about the ‘obsequies’
of Mr. Fox, and a picture of the
hearse; and I kept it. I can show it to
you by-and-by.

“‘A laughable jest was not long
since in circulation here, that Bonaparte
intended to compel the Pope to marry
his Mother…. There are a society
of monied people in Bath, buying all
the Houses they can meet with, on
Speculation, which raises them and also
Lodgings, which, with the taxes, are
high beyond any former period, and in
the end will be a disadvantage to Bath;
for the Keepers of Lodging-houses, if
they can’t raise the price of rooms,
oblige the strangers to take or at least
pay for more than they want. The
times do indeed afford a Melancholy
Prospect. And still Bonaparte exists![2]

“‘If you have not, do read the
Secret History of the Cabinet of St.
Cloud…. I have had quite a levee
this morning; two ladies quite in a pet
that they cannot get genteel Lodgings
for themselves and Maids under 80 or
90 pounds a year. Bath fills with
Company…. It is rumoured that the
Country Bankers are expected to have
a run upon them for a little time; on
what account I don’t clearly understand;
therefore shall endeavour to get
as many of their five-pound notes
changed as I can at the Shops, by
buying store of Candles, Sugar, etc., for
they, the Bankers, will not part with
any cash….’ O now we’re going to
get to something more interesting.

“‘Jack is now with us for a fortnight,
and he and Polly went this morning
to the Public Library, and heard a
Group of Gentlemen’s very serious
opinions on the condition of Affairs at
the present moment. What a succession
of triumphs attends the Corsican,
wicked Elf! Poor old England stands
alone; but how long——?[2]

“‘General Moore, who as you doubtless
are aware is now Sir John Moore,
and has been these two years past,
continues to Befriend Jack, when Opportunity
offers. Jack is sorely Disappointed
at not being of the number sent
on this Expedition to Sicily. He hopes
he may yet be ordered thither, if more
troops are wanted. I don’t for my part
know precisely what they may be doing
there; but doubtless the Government
has good Reasons for all that’s done.
How much you in your long banishment
may hear of Public News we have no
means of guessing, my dear Sir, but
most heartily do I wish it were over, and
the Blessings of an assured Peace once
more restored to Europe. Alas, while
that persistent Disturber of Peace continues
to flourish, what can be looked
for but persistent War? ’Tis said that
Mr. William Wilberforce declares that
Austerlitz was the death-blow to Mr.
Pitt.

“‘Polly desires me to send her due
Remembrances to Captain Ivor, and her
hopes that he continues well in health.
She writ him but lately a long letter,
tho’ ’tis disheartening work, none knowing
if ever the letters sent do arrive.
Polly is extremely well, and has her
Roses in full Bloom, and is in vastly
Good Spirits, albeit she was greatly
Disappointed at the failure of the Peace
negotiations, on which Mr. Fox built
much, but without cause. ’Tis said
that she grows a more elegant young
woman each year; and for my part I
know not if this be not the truth. Molly
also is becoming fast a grown-up
young woman; and there is in her face—altho’
she is not Handsome—an expression
of such fine Moral Sensibility
as cannot but gratify the Beholder.’”

{275}

Roy made a slight pause when
Polly’s name came up, as if wondering
whether Denham would say anything;
but the break was not taken advantage
of, and his still face said nothing. So
Roy went on to the end, gabbling rather
hurriedly through Molly’s affectionate
and prim little composition to himself,
which somehow always gave him a
sense of stricture in the throat.

“That’s all. Nothing more,” said
Roy.

“There may be scores of letters buried
in official bureaux,” suggested Mrs.
Baron. “From—Polly and all of them.”

Denham was looking steadily down,
with an expression which to her as to
Roy was inscrutable. No response
came. He merely said, after a pause—

“I think that letter should be
destroyed, Colonel. Unsafe to keep.”

Colonel Baron made a sound of assent.
Home subjects then were dropped, and
Denham was plied with questions as to
his manner of life at Valenciennes. He
had a good deal to tell, and his account
of the Commandant there contrasted
favourably with their experiences of
General Wirion.

The next day was by common consent
granted to Roy as a whole holiday.
His studies had been carried on partly
under the young clergyman, Mr. Kinsland,
partly under his father, during the
last eighteen months; but a free day
seemed only fair, in honour of Denham’s
return. The boy was in wild spirits, full
of schemes for hunting up old friends
in Denham’s company, Denham did
not appear at all till after breakfast, just
in time to attend appel, and Roy,
having been withheld from disturbing
him, was off on some business of his
own. When, after appel, he rushed in,
it was to find Denham in the Colonel’s
chair, with a book open which he was
not reading, and with the air of a man
who would not be easily dislodged. His
face told its own tale; and Roy’s look
became suddenly blank.

“I’m afraid there is no help for it,
Roy. You must give me a day’s grace.
I’ve done a good deal of walking, you
see;” which was a mild statement of
the case.

“I thought you’d be rested by this
morning.”

“Ought! but Morpheus declined to
be courted.”

“Couldn’t you sleep? And you don’t
want to go out again?”

“I don’t think a team of horses could
drag me a mile. But you will look up
the Curtises for me.”

“Yes, of course. Where are they?
O you don’t know. I’ll find out. Is
that it?”

“See where Carey is too.”

“Carey? Wasn’t it he that had
your horse—the horse you ought to have
ridden?”

“No ‘ought’ in the question. Don’t
say a word of that sort to him. I want
to know where he is putting up. And—Franklyn——”

“Roy, do not make him talk,” as
Denham’s hand went over his eyes.

“No, ma’am, I won’t. Only just
to know—but ’tis all right now. I’ll
look everybody up, Den, and don’t you
mind about anything till your head is
better.”

Roy went off, and Lucille came softly
to where Mrs. Baron was standing.
“So changed!” Mrs. Baron murmured.

“Oui,” assented Lucille, under
her breath. “There are creatures,
Madame, that cannot live in captivity.”

“Somebody over there is talking not
very good sense,” murmured Denham,
with a touch of reproof. Lucille stopped
instantly, with a flush. The remark had
been involuntary, and she had not
imagined that he could hear.

Roy went the round of a good many
returned acquaintances, finding out, as
he went, where to go for others. He
discovered Franklyn and Carey without
difficulty, and in time learnt where the
Curtises had bestowed themselves.
From one and all he heard one tale as
to Denham. Captain Ivor’s kindness
and generosity towards all who were in
difficulties formed a general theme.
“What we should have done, but for
him——” was an expression which
occurred again and again. Roy no
longer wondered that he had been
“cleared out” to his last sou.

“Of course he was wrong,” Major
Woodgate said decisively. “Only half
recovered from an illness, and undertaking
such a tramp as that! Insane
of him! but it’s the sort of insanity
that one doesn’t get too much of in this
world. No, Carey wasn’t fit for the
march. Might have finished him off,
poor boy. But Ivor was hardly better
fit. He settled the point himself, and
did it out and out, as he generally does.
Why couldn’t they share the horse between
them? Quixotic, of course, and
one likes him all the better for it. He—in
fact, Ivor is a dear fellow. How is he
this morning? Done for? I expected
as much. Where are you off to now?”

Roy had had twelve o’clock lunch
with the Woodgates, finding himself at
some distance from home, with his task
not accomplished. He was by this time
much excited, and rather off his balance.

The Curtises came next, last on his
round. He hunted out the rooms in
which they had taken refuge, and again
heard a good deal about Denham, besides
much as to their own doings during
the last few months.

“I say, I don’t think you’ve got into
very nice quarters,” he said, surveying
the walls.

“Best we can afford, old man. By-and-by
we hope to change. I want to
start painting again, and one must have
a good light. Got a capital idea in my
mind.”

“You won’t take the trouble to copy
that, anyhow,” remarked Roy, pointing
at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon,
which stood on the mantel-piece.
“I wouldn’t keep the wretched thing
there, if I were you.”

“My dear boy, it’s from no sort of
devotion to the original, I assure you.
But what’s to be done? Our landlady
is a flaring red-hot Bonapartist.
Gushed about him for an hour this
morning to my wife—didn’t she, dear?”

“I told her politely that I should like
him better, if he would kindly allow us
to go home,” added Mrs. Curtis.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t suit her
views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and
put King George instead. Take care,
Roy. Look out.”

Roy was standing by the table, on
which lay a little heap of wood-chips.
Curtis always had something in hand—either
painting or moulding or carving.
If no other occupation presented itself,
he would content himself with whittling
a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently
this had been his last occupation.
Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully
at the bust, and flung it.

“Missed, by half-an-inch! I’ll try
again. That’s right. Hit him fair and
square on the nose. Now you, Curtis.
See if you can beat that.”

“You’ll break something, I’m sure,”
objected Mrs. Curtis. “And then we
shall have to pay for it.”

“All right. I’ll pay. Now your turn.
Whew! another miss. I’m getting out
of practice. That’s it! Nose again.”

Roy was in a wild mood, delighted to
find some vent for his happiness, and
not to be easily checked; and Curtis
was drawn in, hardly resisting. First
one, then the other, aimed chip after
chip at that self-contained face of worldwide
fame, sometimes hitting, sometimes
missing. When for the third time
Roy succeeded in touching the nose, he
was hilariously delighted. “Bravo,
bravo!” he cried. “Down with the
old fellow! À bas l’Empereur!”

“Sh—h! Roy, be careful. You’ll
certainly get yourself into trouble.”

“All right—nobody here but ourselves.
Now you again. I say, I wish I could
do this to the real individual. Wouldn’t
it be a game worth playing? À bas the
old chap! Now you—down with Nap!
Now it’s me.”

Roy’s excitement went beyond bounds.
He seized a solid ball, belonging to
the baby, and aimed with precision.

“À bas l’Empereur.”

Down came the bust, with a crash,
into the fender, and was smashed.

Roy stood still, conscious of having
done a very silly thing, and a shriek
sounded in his rear. The door had
just been opened, the landlady had
appeared, and she was now shaking her
fists, and executing a dance of rage.

“I say, Roy, stop! Don’t go on fooling
like this. You’ll get us all into trouble.”
Curtis spoke roughly, realising in a moment
that matters might become serious.
“Tell her you mean nothing by it.”

“Mean nothing. But of course I do
mean——”

“Roy! Will you hold your tongue?
Stop this foolery!”

Roy obeyed, while the woman, shaking
her fists, continued to pour out a
torrent of abuse, in the midst of which
occurred several times the ominous
word “gendarmes.”

Curtis went nearer to her, and spoke
in his quietest tones.

“Madame is mistaken,” he said.
“Nothing is intended. Monsieur is but
a boy, and Monsieur was but in jest.”

“It is an insult to l’Empereur! It shall
be made known,” screamed the other.

“I beg of you to hear me. It is no
insult. This gentleman had no wish,
none whatever, to break the figure. He{276}
did but aim at it in jest—as English
Messieurs love to do. Not because it
was a bust of the Emperor, but to
have something to aim at,” explained
Curtis.

He might as well have addressed
himself to the winds.

“A jest!—and as to the Emperor!
Truly a fit subject for a jest! But the
thing shall be known. M. le Général
Wirion shall hear. Ah—ha, and we
shall see what the gendarmes will say
to Monsieur’s little jest! Eh—hé, Monsieur,
I know a thing or two as to
les Anglais, I can tell you. And my
ornament that is broken—broken all in
pieces——”

“Madame shall have full value for
the bust.”

Roy felt in his pockets. “I’ve only
five francs here. But it can’t be worth
more.”

“You won’t get off with the mere
market value of the thing,” Curtis said
in English. “I have five more, and not
a sou besides in the house. Here, offer
her the ten.”

Roy’s hand was thrust contemptuously
aside.

“Non, vraiment! Dix francs! Does
Monsieur think ten francs will pay for
that!” tragically pointing towards the
fragments in the fender. “An image
of the Emperor! Non, Monsieur! I go
to the General.”

“How much?” Curtis tried to make
her say. She gesticulated furiously, and
declined payment. It was an insult to
the Emperor. Did Monsieur imagine
that money would wipe out that? Did
Monsieur suppose that she cared only
for her own loss? Bah!—nothing of the
kind, though Madame was a widow, and
could ill afford to lose anything. But
this was a profound matter. Madame
had a duty to perform, and incontestibly
she would perform it.

With which declaration the irate
landlady disappeared.

“That’s awkward,” Curtis said
seriously. “She is the first of the
kind that I have come across yet.
We had a nice little landlady at
Valenciennes. Roy, you had better be
off, sharp. She may not know your
name.”

“And leave you to bear the blame for
what I’ve done! I’m not so mean!”

“It’s not meanness. She may cool
down when she does not see you, and I
must make another attempt. Of course
I know that your father will pay anything
in reason to get you out of the
difficulty. Be off, Roy.”

“But she knows my name well enough.
She has seen me before, I’m pretty
sure.”

“All the more reason why you
shouldn’t stay here. Get home as fast
as you can, and tell your father at once.
Don’t put off. I hope it will come to
nothing; but Wirion is certain not to
lose his chance of putting on the screw,
and squeezing some money out of your
people. Run off, as fast as you can.
I’ll tackle her again.”

Roy obeyed, by this time rather
serious. “I wonder what does come
over a fellow sometimes to make him
make a fool of himself,” he cogitated.

(To be continued.)

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

By RUTH LAMB.

PART IV.

HOW TO GROW OLD.

You, my dear girl friends, will not have forgotten
our last talk about growing old, or
that we left the most important part of it for
this evening. We then dealt with externals,
yet we realised that these were the outcome
of our inner selves, and inseparable from them.

Let me ask you to impress on your memories
the text I have just quoted—

“The hoary head is a crown of glory if it
be found in the way of righteousness.”

There is no glory in gray hairs unless
accompanied by the holy, Christ-like life.
On the contrary, anything in a character
which is pitiable, degrading, impure, or contemptible,
seems more lamentable in old age
than at any other period of life. Childhood
is emphatically the “age of innocence,” or
ought to be such. Of the children those
sweet lines were written:

and even when their young minds have been
polluted and their simplicity smirched through
evil surroundings, there is room for hope that
in the years to come the seeds of evil may be
uprooted, and the stains removed.

Girlhood is the step in advance, and
suggestive of the opening bud which promises
fulness of beauty to come.

Old age, that last stage in Life’s journey,
ought to be the season of ripe wisdom, the
period when everything that is good in us
should be at its best, despite our failing
bodily powers. Naturally, then, the sight of
soured, unlovable, or degraded old age shocks
us most of all, on account of its almost hopelessness.
There is so little likelihood of any
change for the better.

A bad habit long indulged in is a tyrant
whose claim has been tightening round its
wearer with every day’s indulgence in it.
How small a chance is there that its hold will
be relaxed in the time of hoar hairs and
bodily weakness.

Let us look together at some types of old
age, those which we admire, revere, love, and
long to imitate, and others which make the
very thought of age repulsive. From such a
contemplation you must turn to yourselves,
my dear ones, and search your hearts and
lives in order that you may find out what they
promise for that, to you, far-away future,
old age.

If you discover the germs of an evil growth
which will reach maturity with hoar hairs if
left to increase, and will make your latest
days a trouble to yourselves and to others, do
not rest until you have exterminated them.

On the contrary, you must cherish every
thought and aspiration after what is higher,
holier, better, and more in harmony with the
teaching of our perfect Pattern. The longings
must find expression in prayer that they may
become habits, which will grow and cling to
you and gain strength daily, until the end of
your earthly lives.

A good old age! What a beautiful
expression this is! A Bible phrase applied,
however, to very few even of the most famous
of Bible characters.

Some of us may be apt to think that it
merely refers to the great number of a person’s
years. Surely this cannot be the only
qualification for a good old age; for if so, it
would have been written of Methuselah, the
oldest man that ever walked this earth. His
days were nine hundred and sixty-nine years.
“And he died.” But of his father, who did not
attain to half that age, we are told, “He walked
with God and was not; for God took him.”

Abraham, again, was less than half the age
of Enoch when he died “in a good old age.”

David, the man after God’s own heart,
died, we are told, “in a good old age, full of
days, riches, and honour.”

Enoch was three hundred and sixty-five
years old when “God took him.” Abraham,
one hundred and seventy-five, and David only
threescore years and ten, yet the term “good
old age” was applied to both the last named,
so it is plain that mere length of years was
not all.

To you, to me, to every true servant of God
who is spared to reach the season of hoar
hairs, a good old age is as possible as it was
to those of whom we read in the sacred pages
of the Bible.

None of us can tell what was meant by the
four words in which the story of Enoch’s
earthly pilgrimage is told. God’s life histories
are alike, so brief and yet so full. “Enoch
walked with God,” says so little, but means
so much, that we are lost in wonder at the
vast possibilities suggested to our minds.
Is not the first effect of the words good to
ourselves? Do they not fill us with new
yearnings and longings for closer communion
with God than we have hitherto known?

It is sweet to think that each of you to
whom I speak may also walk with God, may
live in constant touch with Him, and have a
delightful sense of His nearness to you and
love for you. If you walk with God, your feet
must be on the “narrow way” which leads to
everlasting life. It will not be free from
trouble, sorrow, temptation, or difficulty, but
it will be a path of holiness, righteousness,
peace and joy. If you thus “walk with God,”
His presence insures fulness of joy whatever
trials you may meet with on your way. Ever
pressing onward, your latter days will be
better than those of your youth, for “the
path of the just is as the shining light that
shineth more and more unto the perfect day.”

Yours may sometimes be but trembling
footsteps that you plant on that “narrow
way,” and many a time and oft you will
need to cry, “Hold up my goings in Thy
paths, that my footsteps slip not.” But
thoughts of joy and cheer will help you
onward, for you will remember how near He
is with Whom you are striving to walk, as
well as all-powerful to keep you from falling.
I say “you” instead of “we” and “us,” as
I usually do. You will understand why. I
am such a long way in advance of you in the
journey of life, my dear girl friends, that in
fancy I look back and see you comparatively
near the beginning of it.

{277}

The first Bible character of whom it is
said, he died “in a good old age,” is Abraham,
who is called “the friend of God” by
chronicler, prophet and apostle.

Surely this is the most glorious title ever
given to a human being; yet if you and I walk
in “the way of the righteous” we may joyfully
claim to share it through the grace of our
Lord Jesus Christ. Did not He say to the
little band of disciples who had journeyed with
Him, seen His miracles, and sat as learners at
His feet, “Ye are my friends if ye do whatsoever
I command you”?

To be called the servant of Christ is an
honour unspeakable. But Christ’s words,
which may be joyfully appropriated by every
true disciple of His, are these. “Henceforth
I call you not servants, for the servant knoweth
not what his lord doeth, but I have called you
friends, for all things that I have heard of my
Father I have made known unto you.”

You see then, dear ones, that if we know
the will of God as Christ has revealed it, and
knowing render hearty willing obedience, we,
too, may claim the proud title of friends
of God.

We may not attain to the close communion
of that one who, in the early years of the
world’s history, “walked with God.” We can
never walk with Jesus as the disciples did in
the days of His flesh, but we may call ourselves
His friends, if, in humble dependence on
the guidance of the Holy Spirit, we follow in
His footsteps and obey His commands. Only
thus can we journey towards a truly “good
old age.”

We must now go back almost to the point
at which we started this evening.

There are many samples of old age from
which the young, especially, shrink with pity,
repulsion, or even dislike. The saddest and
worst of all must be the man or woman who,
in the time of hoar hairs, is living without
God. Who could help grieving for that
human being who knows nothing of God’s
love in Christ Jesus? Who that does not
know it could help doing the one thing which
is in the power of all? The most helpless
can pray for such a one.

Quite apart from those in whose lives God
has no place are many in whom the beauty of
old age is marred by some habit which ought
never to have grown into one, and never
would had it been checked in time. A tiny
germ at first, but, unchecked, it grew into
what dimmed and overshadowed a life.

Years ago, through being brought in
contact with various samples of soured old
age, I learned to dread the very thought of
resembling them, and often exclaimed, “I
hope I shall never become a grumbling,
crabbed old woman!” I noted that old age
was often lonely and neglected because it
exercised a depressing effect on all who came
within its reach.

I doubt not that amongst you, my dear
girl friends, there are many who visit old
people in various positions. In some cases,
you look forward with gladness to the
prospect of a welcome, a happy, helpful talk,
and a lingering good-bye. As you leave, you
look back at the window at which you know
your old friend will be standing, to catch the
last glimpse of the grandmotherly face and
the wave of a wrinkled hand. You trip away,
smiling as you go, or perchance with a look
of sweet thoughtfulness on your face as you
recall some wise words that have fallen from
those aged lips and which are already influencing
you for good.

Did you grudge the time spent with this
friend, or pay your visit as a matter of duty?
No, indeed. Almost before you reached
home you were looking forward to your next
meeting as a privilege and a pleasure. Your
friend was a sample of good old age. She
had begun to walk with God in her youth,
and each year of life had drawn her into closer
communion with Him.

Let us look at another picture. You have
been paying a duty call, and as you closed the
door behind you, it was with a sigh of relief
and a feeling of thankfulness that a disagreeable
task was ended for the present. No
looking back at that house. No longing for
a last glimpse of an old face at a window.
You had gone thither in obedience to the call
of conscience and because you wanted to do
right in a patient, self-sacrificing spirit, remembering
your divine Master, who “pleased
not Himself.” All the same it had been hard
for you to listen to ceaseless complaints,
expressions of self-pity, hard judgments on
your neighbours, or even on some who were
dear to you, to which it was very difficult not
to reply so as to give offence.

Then, when you had stretched your call to
the utmost possible limit, you have perhaps
heard words something like these: “Are you
really going? So soon? It was very good
of you to come at all, for you would naturally
prefer more cheerful company than that of a
lonely woman, who has no news to tell that
is worth listening to. I have few visitors
now. It was different once, but at my time
of life I must expect to be lonely and neglected.”
And so on.

Is it wonderful that age like this should be
neglected or visited as a matter of duty only,
or as a task in which love and inclination have
no part? The soured nature which can find
voice only for complaints and repinings, that
regards a smiling face almost as a personal
insult, and the sight of youth and bright
spirits as an aggravation of chronic grievances,
can expect only neglect save from those in
whom the same mind that was in Christ Jesus
overcomes all selfish considerations.

The most persistent grumblers are often
those who have the least real cause for
complaint, and who possess blessings and
comforts which others might well envy. But
they turn away from a heaven flooded with
sunshine, and will only look at a single cloud
overhead, or search the horizon on the chance
of discovering others.

You will agree with me that such a case as
I have described is almost, if not quite, past
remedy. Have I not admitted this from the
very beginning of our talk about growing old?

Prevention is better than cure, and I want
to urge upon you to be, whilst youth is yours
and life nearly all before you, what you would
like to be, only in a still higher and better
degree, when you reach hoar hairs. I want
every one of you to live to a good old age.
So you must crush out the first signs of
discontent, silence the inclination to murmur
and resolve to make the best of your lot.
You must be cheerful, patient and gentle
towards others, careful in speech so as not to
give needless offence, true in word and deed,
so that from your youth up you may each be
looked upon as one who may be fully trusted.

You must be kind and considerate for the
feelings and peculiarities of your neighbours,
even including their prejudices, realising that
all which you are called upon to render to them
you also need from them in return.

You must try to avoid the temptation to
hard and hasty judgments, and turn a deaf
ear to slanderous tales and malicious words.
If tempted to do or say things unbecoming to
a servant of Christ, or to utter sharp, cutting
words because they are witty and clever,
though they are sure to wound, pause and
ask yourself, “Should I like to be the subject
of such a jest? How should I feel under the
lash of a cruel though witty tongue?”

Cherish a grateful spirit. Never forget to
acknowledge a kindness, and utter your
thanks not as if they were a matter of form,
but as if they came from your heart. When
someone says a kind thing, or confers some
unsought favour, do not begin to ask yourself
whether the donor has something to gain by
serving you. Take the service, remember the
kindly words said, and believe in the possibility
of unselfishness as you acknowledge
them.

If you surprise yourself in the practice of
habits which, without being absolutely wrong,
detract from the charm and refinement of
youth, you may be sure that, if not checked,
they will sadly interfere with the beauty of
old age.

Age should have a sweet graciousness of
manner, without any sign of condescension.
It should have even more winning and pretty
ways, if I may call them so, than youth has,
though the seeds of them will have been
planted in its young days, and will have
grown to fair maturity with the rest of the
character. Youth is often excused because it
is young for many things that would bring
contempt on age; so practise now, my dear
ones, every little thing that can give glory to
the hoary head. Set yourselves to deserve
love and to win it now, and you will never
know the misery of a neglected, lonely,
friendless age. So far from that, the young
will seek your companionship for the sake of
what you are, not for what you have. Parents
will rejoice to know you for the sake of what
you can teach themselves, and the blessing of
your example to their children.

You cannot “walk with God” and think
little and seldom of Him. Every instance of
His providential care will stir you to thanksgiving
and increase your love for Him. The
thought of His love will make silence impossible,
and as you go about your daily
employments, little spontaneous bursts of
praise will well straight upward from your
hearts. Thus habits of praise and glad
thankfulness will grow upon you from day to
day.

Experience of His love in providence and
grace will give you confidence, and so each
want of yours will find utterance in the prayer
of faith, not only for the supply of your own
ceaseless needs, but for blessings on the souls
and bodies of your neighbours also. You will
want “to love the Lord your God with heart
and soul and mind and strength, and your
neighbour as yourself,” and you will want and
ask for the same longings to be felt by every
human being.

What a good old age will be the result of
such habits of life, such communion with
God!

What a beautiful old age will that be
where the heart is full of love to God and
man!

What a happy old age when there is the
certainty of a place in the Father’s home
above at the close of it!

One part of God’s promise to Abraham
was, “Thou shalt go to thy fathers in peace.”
A sweet assurance this to one who, rich in
all that the world calls wealth, had known
changes, troubles, and trials such as fall to
the lot of few human beings. Age should be
a time of peace, and it will be such to these
who during past years have humbly “walked
with God.”

To all who are children of God through
Christ will come words straight from His lips
as precious as was that old promise made by
Jehovah to the man whom He called “friend.”
“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give
unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto
you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither
let it be afraid.”

There can be no lonely old age for God’s
true servants, the friends of Jesus, for our
risen Lord’s last message to His disciples
forbids the possibility. Did He not say,
“Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end
of the world”?

(To be continued.)

{278}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XVII.

rthur Saville
waited in vain by
the schoolroom
fire, for his sister
did not join him.
And when he entered
the dining-room
in response
to the summons of
the gong, she had
not yet made her
appearance.

Mrs. Asplin
looked at him with
uplifted brows.

“Where is
Peggy?”

“I don’t know.
I haven’t seen her
since she went upstairs.
The little
wretch can’t have
hurried very
much.”

“She hasn’t
been with you, then! Never mind, there
is plenty of time to come. She must
be making a special toilette for your
benefit.”

But when the first course was nearly
over and the girl had not yet appeared,
Mrs. Asplin grew impatient and despatched
the servant to hasten her
movements.

“Just tell her that we have been at
table for nearly ten minutes. Ask if
she will be long.”

Mary left the room, was absent a
short time, and came back with an
extraordinary statement.

“Miss Peggy is not in her room,
ma’am.”

“Not in her room! Then she must
have come downstairs. Perhaps she
didn’t hear the gong. Just look in the
schoolroom, Mary, and in the other
rooms too, and tell her to come at once.”

Another few minutes passed, and
back again came Mary, looking flushed
and mysterious.

“I can’t see Miss Peggy anywhere,
ma’am. She has not come downstairs.”

“You have looked in the drawing-room—Mr.
Asplin’s study?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you go upstairs again?”

“No, ma’am. I had looked there
before.”

“Esther dear, you go!” cried Mrs.
Asplin quickly. “Bring her down at
once! What in the world is the child
doing? It’s most extraordinary!”

“She’s not given to playing games
of hide and seek just at dinner-time, is
she?” asked Arthur, laughing. “I am
never surprised at anything Peggy does.
She has some little prank on hand,
depend upon it, and will turn up in good
time. It’s her own fault if she misses
her dinner.”

“But it’s so extraordinary! To-night
of all nights, when you have just
arrived! I wish the child would come!”
replied Mrs. Asplin, craning her neck
forward to listen to the cries of “Peggy!
Peggy!” which came from the upper
storey.

The door stood open, and everyone
ceased talking to follow Esther’s footsteps
to and fro, to count the opening
and shutting of doors—one, two, three,
four, five—to look apprehensively at
each other as the messenger returned—alone!

“Mother, she is not there! I’ve
looked everywhere—in every corner—and
she has not changed her dress, nor
washed, nor anything. The room looks
exactly as if she had never gone in; but
she did, for we all followed her upstairs.
I looked over the wardrobe, and all her
dresses are there, and the can of hot
water is untouched, and the gas left
full up.”

“Oh dear, what can have happened?”
Mrs. Asplin pushed back her chair and
stood up, looking anxious and puzzled.
“I cannot rest until she is found! I
must look myself! Go on with dinner,
all of you; I won’t be long. Where
can the child be hiding herself?”

“Don’t worry, mater!” said Arthur
kindly. “It’s very tiresome of Peggy
to disappear at such an inopportune
moment, but no harm can have happened
to her, you know. It’s impossible! As
I said before, she has probably some
wild prank in her head of which this is
a part. I’ll give her a lecture when I
catch her for spoiling dinner like this,
and such an uncommonly good dinner,
too!” And Arthur smiled in cheery
fashion and tried his best to keep up
the failing spirits of the company by
chatting away while his hostess was
out of the room, as if nothing had
happened which was the least unusual
or alarming.

When Mrs. Asplin returned, however,
after a lengthened absence, there was a
simultaneous rising from the table to
listen to her report.

“She is not in the house! Jane
began at the top and I began at the
bottom, and we searched every hole and
corner. I have looked in the very cupboards
and wardrobes! I even searched
the cistern-room, but she is not to be
found. I don’t know what to do next.
It seems impossible that she can have
disappeared—yet where can she be?”

“Have you looked in the cloak-room
to see if any of her outdoor things are
missing?”

“I went in, but I never thought
of looking at her clothes. Outdoor?
What on earth should take the child out
at this hour in the dark and rain?”

“I can’t tell you that, dear, but
we must think of every possibility.
Esther, you know best what Peggy had
in the cloak-room—see if anything is
missing. Mellicent, run upstairs and
find if any hats or jackets have been
taken from their places. If she is not
in the house, she must have gone out.
It was most thoughtless and foolish to
go without asking permission, and at
such an hour; but, as Arthur says,
there is not much chance of any harm
befalling her. Try not to work yourself
up into a state of anxiety, dear; we
shall soon find your truant for you.
Well, Esther, what is it?”

“Her mackintosh has gone, father,
and her red Tam-o’-Shanter, and her
snow-shoes. Her peg is next to mine,
and there is nothing on it but her check
golf cape.”

“She has gone out, then! What can
it mean—to-night of all nights, when
she was so happy, when Arthur had just
arrived, when she promised to be downstairs
in ten minutes——”

“It is most extraordinary! It must
have been something of great importance,
one would say. Does anyone
know if Peggy had any special interest
on hand at present? Was there any
gift which she wished to buy? It does
not happen to be anyone’s birthday
to-morrow, does it? Yours, Arthur, for
instance? No? The birthday of a
school-friend, then? She might suddenly
have remembered such an occasion
and rushed out to post a letter——”

“But there is no post until to-morrow
morning, so she would gain no time
by doing that. The postman called at
five o’clock, and the letters were on the
hall table waiting for him as usual. I
do not know of any work that she had
on hand, but the girls have complained
that she has spent all her spare time in
her room lately, and when I spoke
to her about it she said she was
writing——”

“Perhaps she is writing a book,”
suggested Mellicent thoughtfully. “She
says she is going to be an authoress
when she grows up. I think Robert
knew what she was doing. They were
always talking together and looking
over books, and I heard him say to her,
‘Bring me all you have finished, to
look over.’ I said something to her
about printing some photographs for
Christmas cards, and she said she could
do nothing until after the nineteenth.”

“The nineteenth!” echoed the Vicar
sharply. “That is to-day. We gather
from that, then, that Peggy had been
busy with work, either by herself or in
conjunction with Robert, which had to be
completed by to-day. Nobody has the
least idea of what nature it was? No?
Then I shall go to Robert’s room and
see if there is anything lying about
which can give me a clue.”

“I’ll go with you, sir,” said Arthur,
who was beginning to look a little
anxious and uneasy as the moments
passed by and brought no sign of his
sister; but, alas, the scattered papers
on Rob’s table gave no clue to the
mystery!

When one is endeavouring to find a
reason why a girl should mysteriously
disappear from her home, it does not
help very much to find a few slips of{279}
paper on which are written such items
as “Tennyson’s Poems, page 26,”
“Selections from British Authors, 203,”
“Macaulay’s Essays, 97,” etc.

Arthur and Mr. Asplin looked at one
another, puzzled and disappointed, and
had no alternative but to return to the
dining-room and confess their failure.

“Would not it be a good thing to go
up to the Larches, and hear what
Robert has to say on the subject,”
Arthur asked, and when he was told
that Robert was in London, he still held
to his suggestion. “For someone else
in the house may know about it,” he
declared. “Rob may have confided in
his mother or sister. At the worst we
can get his address, and telegraph to
him for information, if she has not returned
before we get back. She might
even have gone to the Larches herself
to—to see Rosalind!”

“Peggy doesn’t like Rosalind. She
never goes to see her if she can help it.
I’m quite sure she has not gone there,”
said Mellicent shrewdly. “It is more
likely she has gone to Fräulein’s lodgings,
to tell her about Arthur. She is
fond of Fräulein.”

The suggestion was not very brilliant,
but it was hailed with eagerness by the
listeners as the most probable explanation
yet offered.

“Then I’ll tell you what we will do.
I’ll go off to the Larches,” cried
Arthur, “and one of you fellows can see
Fräulein and find out if Peggy has been
there. We must try every place, likely
and unlikely. It is better than sitting
here doing nothing.”

Max frowned and hesitated. “Or—er—or
you might go to Fräulein, and I’ll
take the Larches! It is a long walk for
you after your journey,” he suggested
with a sudden access of politeness, “and
there seems more probability that Fräulein
may be able to help us. You could
go there and back in a short time.”

“Just as you like, of course. It is all
the same to me,” returned Arthur, in a
tone which plainly intimated that it was
nothing of the sort. Mrs. Asplin looked
from one to the other of the flushed faces
realising that even in the midst of
anxiety, the image of beautiful, golden-haired
Rosalind had a Will-o’-the-wisp
attraction for the two big lads, but her
husband saw nothing of what lay behind
the commonplace words, and said
calmly—

“Very well, then, Max, be off with
you as fast as you can go. Find out if
Robert has said anything about the
work which he has had on hand; find
out his address in town, and, if possible,
where a telegram would reach him this
evening. Arthur will call at Fräulein’s
lodgings, and, Oswald, you might go
with him so far, and walk through the
village. Ask at old Mrs. Gilpin’s shop
if Miss Saville has been there, but don’t
talk about it too much; we don’t want
to make more fuss than we can help.
Keep your eyes open!”

The three lads departed without
further delay; the Vicar put on his coat
and hat preparatory to searching the
garden and the lanes in the immediate
neighbourhood, and the womenkind of
the household settled down to an hour
of painful waiting.

Mrs. Asplin lay back in her chair,
with her hand to her head, now silent,
now breaking out into impetuous lamentations.
The fear lest any accident had
happened to Peggy paralysed her with
dread. Her thoughts went out to far-away
India; she imagined the arrival
of the ominous cablegram; pictured it
carried into the house by a native
servant; saw the light die out of two
happy faces at the reading of the fatal
words. “Oh, Peggy, Peggy,” she
groaned. “Oh, the poor father—the
poor mother! What will I do? What
will I do? Oh, Peggy, dearie, come
back! come back!”

Esther busied herself looking after
a dozen little domestic arrangements, to
which no one else seemed capable of
attendance, and Mellicent laid her head
on her mother’s lap, and never ceased
crying, except for one brief interval, when
she darted upstairs to peep inside the
old oak chest, prompted thereto by a
sudden reminiscence of the bride of the
“Mistletoe Bough.” There was no
Peggy inside the chest, however; only
a few blankets, and a very strong smell
of camphor; so Mellicent crept back to
her footstool, and cried with redoubled
energy. In the kitchen the fat old cook
sat with a hand planted on either knee,
and thrilled the other servants with an
account of how “a cousin of me own
brother-in-law, him that married our
Annie, had a child as went a-missing,
as fine a girl as you could wish to see
from June to January. Beautiful, kerly
’air, for all the world like Miss Mellicent’s,
and such nice ways with her!
Everybody loved that child, gentle and
simple. ‘Beller,’ ’er name was, after her
mother. She went out unbeknownst,
just as it might be Miss Peggy, and
they searched and better searched”—cook’s
hands waved up and down, and
the heads of the listeners wagged in
sympathy—“and never a trace could
they find. ’Er father—he’s a stone
mason by trade, and getting good
money—he knocked off work, and his
friends they knocked off too, and they
searched the country far and wide. Day
and night I tell you they searched, a
week on end, and poor Isabeller nearly
off her head with grief. I’ve heard
my sister say as she never tasted
bite or sup the whole time, and was
wasted to a shadow. Eh, poor soul,
it’s hard to rare up a child, and have it
go out smiling and bonnie, and never
see nothink of it again but its bones—for
she had fallen into a lime pit, had
Beller, and it was nothing but her
skeleton as they brought ’ome. There
was building going on around there, and
she was playing near the pit—childlike—just
as it might be Miss Peggy….”
So on and on. The horrors accumulated
with every moment. The housemaid
had heard tell of a beautiful little girl,
the heiress to a big estate, who had
been carried off by strolling gipsies, and
never been seen again by her sorrowing
relations; while the waitress hinted
darkly that the time might come when
it would be a comfort to know force
had been employed, for sharper than a
serpent’s tooth was an ungrateful child,
and she always had said that there was
something uncanny about that little Miss
Saville!

The clock was striking nine o’clock
when the first of the messengers came
back to report his failure; he was
closely followed by a second; and, last
of all, came Max, bringing word that
nothing had been seen or heard of
Peggy at the Larches; that neither
Lord Darcy nor Rosalind had the
faintest idea of the nature of the work
which had just been completed; and,
further, that on this evening Robert was
escorting his mother to some entertainment,
so that even if sent off at once, a
telegram could not reach him until a
late hour. Mrs. Asplin turned her
white face from one speaker to the
other, and when the last word was
spoken, broke into a paroxysm of
helpless weeping.

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

Hot Sweet Mango Chutney.—One hundred
green mangoes; syrup of four pounds of brown
sugar; three quarts of vinegar; four pounds
of tamarind, stoned and strained; eight or
ten bay-leaves; one pound of ground chillies;
two pounds sliced ginger; one pound of
raisins; and two pounds of salt.

Peel and cut the mangoes into fine slices,
and steep them in salt for twenty-four hours,
remove the mangoes from the salt water, and
boil in syrup and three quarts of vinegar.
When quite cool lay in a preserving pan,
sprinkle over the remaining salt, add all the
condiments, tamarind, raisins, etc., and allow
the whole to simmer for half-an-hour, stirring
all the time. The ingredients should not be
washed in water. When quite cold, put into
bottles.

Hungarian Tea Loaf.—As this is intended
for slicing as bread and butter it should be
at least a day old before being cut; if kept in
an airtight tin it will remain moist for several
days.

Of Hungarian flour take a pound and mix
with it two ounces of castor sugar and a
pinch of salt. Dissolve two ounces of fresh
butter and add it to half a pint of warmed
milk, then a whole egg well beaten and two
tablespoonfuls of brewers’ barm, or an ounce
of creamed German yeast. Make a dough
with the flour and these ingredients and leave
it to rise for an hour or two in a warm place.
Place in a well buttered tin, which the dough
should only half fill, and put this into a brisk
oven; when well risen brush the top over
with the white of an egg and sugar, shield
with paper to keep from burning and finish
baking in a slower heat. Let it cool on a sieve.

Seed Bread, made from bread dough into
which two ounces of dissolved butter, as much
sugar and a tablespoonful of crushed caraways
to every pound of dough are kneaded together,
then baked in small loaves, cut thinly and
spread with butter, makes a welcome variety
among plain cakes.

{280}

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

The principal thing that strikes one in the
dressing of to-day is the great stress laid upon
the ornamentation of the front portion of both
the dress and the jacket, mantle or cape. In
fact, here is centred the whole of the smart
effect of the costume. The use of real lace
seems very great, and I have noticed in the
daily press a statement that the Queens of the
various kingdoms have bonded themselves
together, on the invitation of the Queen of
Portugal, to wear nothing but real lace, and
to encourage this industry to the utmost of
their powers, as it seems its very existence is
threatened by the machine-made laces, which
have reached a great point of perfection
within the last few years. It is even said that
none but an expert would know the difference
between some of the imitations and the real
thing. Of course, we know that great efforts
have been made to help the real lace industry
already, but it is evident that it is not a thing
that everyone could afford, so that the machine
laces must be used; but it is quite befitting
that the Queens of the many States interested
should help by wearing it exclusively. Our
own Queen has always been a great patron of
the English-made laces, especially Honiton,
and one cannot imagine her Majesty wearing
anything but real laces, of which it is said she
has an immense store.

I saw the other day a priceless cape or scarf
of real French lace, worn over a sable cape;
and the collars of capes are frequently lined
with lace, which finishes in a bow and ruffles
in the front. Entire lace fronts are worn both
to dresses and coats. In fact, those who
possess antique lace to-day are quite in luck,
while those who do not, wear the machine-made,
which looks (save to the eye of the
initiated) quite as good, and in a great deal
better state of repair, perhaps. Many old-fashioned
women will not have their lace
cleaned, but prefer to wear it yellow, and
what the outside world might call dirty; and
real lace, even when cleaned, never should
look as if it were clean, as the cleaner should
know how to bestow a yellow cast upon it,
which a machine-made lace could not equal.{281}
All old laces seem to be fashionable, but the old French lace
more than all. I have seen a good deal of Venetian point
as well.

THREE NEW COATS.

Our first large illustration shows three of the newest jacket
shapes, or rather coats, of the present season. Two of them
follow the fashion closely in being rounded at the front
corners, with a wide effect at the shoulders, which comes to
a point at the waist, thus giving that effect of length and
thinness to the figure which is so much sought after. One
really wonders sometimes where all the short-waisted people
have gone. It is quite wonderful what changes Dame
Fashion can work even in the human frame. Only think of
the sloping shoulders in vogue fifty or sixty years ago, and
then look at the square shoulders of to-day. Even in the
matter of our foreheads we follow the orders of the reigning
mode, and that decrees “that foreheads low and wide are
to be worn,” and even these are veiled to the eyebrows with
frizzled hair. But there is one fashion which mankind
follows rather too closely, and that is bald-headedness. It
is really dreadful to note the numbers of bald heads, and surely
when we women have improved so much in the care and
preservation of our locks, our hair doctors might do something
for men. It is quite a common thing to see really fine
heads of grey and white hair, and the wearing of caps has
nearly ceased to be a fashion, for women wear the head
covering with which nature provided them. Of course, there
are probably a few added locks, but still the head shows no
signs of baldness, and even the days of those terrible thin
partings seem over. There is a great saving in this emancipation
from caps, for they were a serious expense to the poor
lady, which was only lightened when a woman was clever
enough to make them for herself.

COSTUME OF GREY CLOTH WITH BLACK VELVET AND
STEEL ORNAMENTS.

But my chat about the illustrations has diverged from its course,
though I am very glad to record here the disappearance of certain
prejudices that used to be rampant amongst us. False teeth and
false hair were things that one never dared to own up to having.
Now we know that if we wish to retain our health and strength we
must replace the teeth we have lost, and we have also learnt that a
pleasant and taking appearance lends us favour and influence for
good, and that it is our duty to attend to this matter as much as to
any other, from higher reasons than from those of mere vanity.

IN THE HOUSE AND OUT.

In “Three New Coats,” the centre figure wears a black Velours
du Nord, or velvet coat, which is cut quite without fulness at the
back, and has a chinchilla collar and wide revers. The skirt is of grey,
and it is also trimmed with narrow bands of chinchilla, put on in a
pointed shape in the front, and going round the edge of the skirt at
the back. The hat is of black velvet and white feathers, with paste
buckles. The jacket of the next figure sitting down is made of light
brown cloth, trimmed with bands of lighter brown braid. The collar
and revers are made of a darker shade of brown velvet and edged
with beaver. The skirt is of the same cloth, but made in quite a
plain fashion. The standing figure has a coat made with one of the
new capes fitted to the shoulders and neck. The dress itself is of
rifle green cloth, made without trimming, and the coat is short.
The front is a plastron edged with dark beaver fur, and trimmed
across with cords to match the green of the dress. The hat is green,
with white feathers.

A great number of white fox boas and muffs are to be seen this
winter, and the figure in the illustration we have called “In the House{282}
and out” wears one of them. They are
very becoming and pretty, and look well
with everything. In this case the toque is
made to match the boa and the gown, which
is of violet velveteen. The new boas of this
winter are made flat, not round, and they are
lined with either satin or a pretty fancy silk,
so they protect the shoulders in a slight
degree. There is also white Tibet lamb,
which is now dyed to resemble the blue fox.
The second figure, dressed for indoors, wears
a dress of the new red. The collar and revers
of the short Eton coat are trimmed with black
satin ribbon. A silk vest underneath the coat
is made of a red silk broché with a black
pattern on it. The skirt is trimmed with a
black ribbon, and has a rounded front, which
is brought up as far as the waist at the side.
There is a lace necktie and some trimming
inside the high collar. The leading colour in
Paris just now is red, and the trimmings for it
are generally bands of black velvet or satin.
For the red hats to be used with these dresses
Parma violets are the favourite trimming.

The shade of red worn may be best described
as a hunting pink, in fact, a real scarlet, and
as it must always be trimmed with black,
astrachan is in great favour for its decoration.
So is black velvet, and thus toned down, it
cannot be called ugly. It is, moreover, very
becoming to people with good complexions
and fair skins. The small red jackets are seen
very frequently worn with a skirt of another
colour, which really ought to be black, and
which harmonises with them best of all.
These little jackets are worn by the best-dressed
people, and are especially nice and
bright for young girls, not in their teens, but
in their twenties, perhaps.

Never has velvet been so popular as this
winter, and, of course, in naming velvet I
include velveteen, which is often of so good a
quality that it looks like the real thing. I
have always found a good velveteen an excellent
investment, and if treated with care,
and used as the “going-out-of-doors” dress
which it really ought to be, it is very valuable.
Every tone and shade of colour can be
obtained in it, and as velvet blouses are still
in fashion, we can select with ease either for
day or evening wear.

Our third illustration shows a single figure
wearing a costume of grey cloth, which is cut
into what is called by some of our writers an
eel-skin skirt. But I observe that in France
it is merely called a fitted skirt, which really
means that the dressmaker must bestow just
as much trouble upon it as she does on the
bodice, and that you must distrust everyone
who wishes you to believe otherwise. I
notice that paddings for the back and hips
are already for sale, and much advertised, but
this tightly-fitted skirt is not for the short and
stout, nor for the tall and very thin. On
neither of them can it be esteemed a success.
The dress in our illustration is in grey cloth,
with black velvet trimmings and bands, and
steel ornaments, a delightful combination of
colour. The back of this dress is really
princess, while the front has the style of a
short double-breasted jacket, very short. This
combination is one of the new cuts of the
season. The shaped flounce is headed by
rows of black velvet, and the sleeves are
made with square cuffs, not the much-worn
“flare” cuff. The toque is of grey velvet,
white silk and feathers, and grey tips, with
steel ornaments.

One can scarcely see any real change in the
dressing of the hair. All that one can say is
that there is a decided tendency for it to go
lower on the head, and the present hats and
bonnets really answer better when the hair is
rather high. There are plenty of small ornaments
for the hair to be seen in the shops,
but the most popular of all for the evening is,
I think, the black velvet bow.

The favourite perfume is still violet, and
Violette de Parme seems to be the correct kind.
I note that the pretty black moiré ribbons
with slides have now been applied to the
muff, and have taken the place of muff chains
with many people.

One of the odd fashions of the day is a
single eyeglass, and many women have taken
to it. This hitherto has not been a woman’s
fashion, but a man’s, and has even been
thought rather an affected one; but I hear
that these single eyeglasses are prescribed by
doctors, as so many people require help in one
eye and not in the other. Just now, however,
they look odd, as we have not been used to
them, and it is certain that both eyes should
be worked alike, the strain being too much
for one. Besides, the eye that may need
extra help may be the left one. So an oculist
should decide the question as to which eye
should wear the glass.

GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.

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

PART IV.

THE MOODY GIRL.

As there are few things more certain
than that girls are given for
what stars are given—to give light
upon the earth—the moody girl
fails lamentably to fulfil her vocation.

Some are of the opinion that this
girl is a nineteenth century product,
but so far is that from being the
case, that she figures in a play of a
hundred years ago. Says Miss
Biddy in Garrick’s comedy “Miss
In Her Teens”—

“When I say ‘Heigho,’ it means
‘Yes.’”

Yes could hardly be said in a mournfuller
way, and the case of Miss In Her Teens to-day
is only by so much more mournful than that
of her prototype of Garrick’s day that when
she says “Heigho” it as often as not means
“No.”

Her cause of grief is what the moody girl
is rarely able to state. There are people
whom this surprises; yet there is nothing
surprising in it. The lives of most pessimists,
looked at closely, show these persons to have
lived under fair advantages, and not, as they
would make out, under unfair disadvantages.
Many of them follow a process uncommonly
like that followed by certain “sturdy beggars,”
who, if rumour concerning them be true,
rubbed their skins with blistering plants—wild
ranunculus and the like—to cause sores
which should excite sympathy. The moody
girl is she who picks from life’s full garden
wild ranunculus only, and puts it to a wicked
use devised by “sturdy beggars.”

Has she no aspirations? In truth, she has no
fewer than Ovid had, and, like Ovid, she might
say, “I see and approve the better things;
I follow the worse”—in Ovid’s language,
Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor.

What is she like to look at? Lean as a
rake? Not necessarily. Watts’ famous
picture named “Aspirations” is the presentment
of a fat-faced, woolly-haired boy. A
moody girl known to me has nothing bodeful
in her face, and has a little, plump, white
hand—Napoleon’s hand. Her wail, too, is
Napoleon’s: “Nothing is left to do!”
Another has a round, troubleful little face
with poco fatto—“little done”—written all
over it. One moody girl only known to me
looks the part she elects to play. This girl
has a thin, pallid face, with thick, straight,
black, moist, heavy hair. She says dreamily,
and says often, “I know I’m disagreeable.”
She says little more than that.

The moody girl has rarely a wide range of
conversation. She is apt to end her most
voluble narrative with a portentous “But
however.” There is a moody girl now living
who goes by the name of “But However.”
Of another moody girl
now living a tradition
has it that she never
speaks, except to ask,
“Is there a letter for
me?” Howbeit sometimes
a moody girl can
string twenty and odd
words together, and
there is on record a
very notable statement in the form of a paradox
once made by such a girl; to wit, this—

“When married I shall never know happiness
until I have shown my husband that I
am master, and then I shall be miserable
because I shall despise him.”

Well-a-day!

This is the place perhaps in which to tell
of the slaty-blue girl.

Figure to yourself a damsel in a slaty-blue
dress and slaty-blue hat, wearing slaty-blue
gloves, and having slaty-blue eyes and slaty-blue
lips, and figure her to yourself as “footing
slow,” to borrow a phase from Milton,
and as doing this as one of a party of us
making a rush for a train “already in.” And
figure us seated in a third-class compartment,
a little child in which is drawing his finger
down the window-pane. To whom the slaty-blue
girl says (as we phase it, “dyingly”) from
the end of the seat—

“Don’t, please. That gets on my nerves.”

The moody girl is hyper-nervous.

Here is another story of her. She was my
visitor, and I led her to a seat and spoke of
this and that. She listened absently, then
said, as she glanced at a penny bunch of
sweet violets
distant from
her by the
length of a
large room—

“Would you
mind that bouquet’s
being
taken away?
I smell to
agony.”

Rather unamiable
that,
but not intentionally
unamiable.
Now
there are moody girls who are intentionally
unamiable—Baubles, for instance. We call
her by that name, because she has the word
“baubles” much on her lips, and in sound it{283}
is not very remote from Barbara, which is her
baptismal name.

Baubles is always in deadly earnest; that
one may be in lively earnest she does
not dream. Another thing; she knows that
there is such a thing as “a foolish face of
praise.” She has still to learn that there is
such a thing as a foolish face of blame.
Bauble’s face is her misfortune. In the
following I give a conversation which I once
had with another girl regarding her.

“She loves you,” said this other girl.

“Does she?” I asked, pleased, but surprised.
“She looks at me as if I were
especially abhorrent to her.”

“She always,” was the answer, “looks like
that at people whom she loves.”

A girl like that is scarcely in the possession
of her full reason, and what shall be said of a
girl like this? She met a woman of her
friends some little time since in the street, and
responded to her greeting by a stare of blank
non-recognition. The following day brought
an apology, coupled with the intimation that
she had moments when she
could not bow.

A case like that becomes
interesting in connection with
the anatomy of melancholy.
The girl who has moments
when she cannot bow is
suffering from a form of the
disease known in mental
pathology as “impulsive insanity.”
The victims to this
disease lapse into states of
defective control.

What shall one say to the moody girl?
Shall one not tell her to face life cheerily?
There has never been known a year of nights
on every one of which the stars shone, but no
more has there ever been known a year of
nights on not one of which the stars shone.
The moody girl takes life as if all her years
of days had been years of nights, and as if on
not one of these nights the stars had shone.
She has much to learn, this chiefly, that there
are compensations for almost everything.

“Look at my teeth,” so said a moody girl
to a German philosopher, “look at my teeth,
and I am a singer.”

Her teeth were
large and protruding.

“Those teeth
are good for a
singer,” said the
German philosopher.

Envy—this
thing may not be
said aloud, but it
may be said in
a whisper to the
moody girl—is at
the bottom of
much self-made
misery. The cry
of Shakespeare’s Helena is the cry of many
Helenas.

“How happy some o’er other some can
be!”

This, too, is true of the moody girl. She is
pre-eminently a faultfinder. In this she is the
more to blame that they who find fault are
they who seek fault. She is lavish of her
censure and is chary of her praise. She should
be told what a Frenchwoman has said—

“’Tis in a sort to participate in good deeds
to praise them.” In the Frenchwoman’s
language, “C’est en quelque sorte se donner
aux belles actions que de les louer.”

The suppositions of a moody girl are sometimes
singular. “I suppose,” says one Sybil,
“any of us could remember six unpleasant
circumstances in our lives more easily than six
pleasant.”

This Sybil it was who cited to her father
the famous line regarding “the loud laugh,”
and who learnt from him that the loud groan
shows every whit as much “the vacant
mind.”

What makes for moodiness? A life of
ease according to the poet to whom belongs
the phrase “stretched on the rack of a too-easy
chair.” The rich girl who wishes she
was poor is full as common as the poor girl
who wishes she was rich.

Her brother does not spare the moody girl.
Sometimes his gibes are stupid; once in a
while they are fairly clever. As boy’s satire,
what follows appears to me rather good.

“Any baby can put its
finger in its eye and cry.”

As girl’s satire, what next
follows—being the speech
of a girl not moody on the
subject of a moody girl—is
excellent.

“She is one of those
people who always bring up
miserable subjects and—sympathise.”

A rather common type
of moody person is that composed of girls
who not only themselves wear habitually a
dolorous expression, but who admire this
expression on the faces of others. I sat to
such a girl once for my portrait. She surprised
me by her variant of the photographer’s
familiar request. “Will you,” she said mellifluously,
“please try to think of something—unpleasant?”

I tried my hardest and succeeded, within
the limitations set to Irishwomen.

It has been said here that no fixed type of
face belongs to a moody girl. Everyone
therefore, who could paint such a girl would
paint a different face. The one that I would
paint would be that of one Maud Mary. It is
a wonderful face, even without the smile.
Something can be told of it, but all could
never be told. The colouring of it is rich
brown and red, the lips are the line of scarlet
praised by the Psalmist, the eyes are pitch-black
in shadow and golden-brown in light,
the eye-brows and lashes are black, like the
hair, and a black frown is much on the face,
this with the result that a smile coming to it is
like the flashing of light out of darkness.
Maud Mary asked me once for a motto. I
gave her one which is from Pythagoras, and
has been praised by Bacon: “Cor ne edito,”
“Eat not the heart.”

Maud Mary asked for another motto, a
motto in rhyme, and in English. I gave her
one from Shakespeare—

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

Foretelling the Weather.

One morning a countryman knocked at
the door of the celebrated astronomer, Sir
Frederick William Herschell, and requested
the favour of a few words with him.

When Sir William entered the hall the
countryman said—

“I ask pardon, Doctor, for disturbing you,
but I am in a quandary, so I have made bold to
call and ask your advice. You must know
that my meadows are a great deal too long
for cutting, but before I begin I should like to
hear whether you think the weather will soon
break up?”

“First look round,” said the astronomer,
“and tell me what you see.”

“See,” said the countryman; “why hay
that is not worth saving. What dunderhead
owns it that lives so near you and cuts it
without asking your advice?”

“I am the dunderhead,” said Sir William,
“and had it cut the very day before the rain
came on.”

Work for all.—No girl is born into this
world whose work is not born with her; there
is always work and tools to work withal for
those who will.

Returning Good for Evil.

An old man of the name of Guyot lived and
died in the city of Marseilles. He amassed a
large fortune by the most laborious industry
and the severest habits of abstinence and
privation. What appeared his miserly ways
made him anything but popular, and the
populace pursued him with hootings and
execration whenever he appeared.

In course of time he died, and when his will
was opened the following words were found:
“Having observed from my childhood that
the poor of Marseilles are ill-supplied with
water, which can only be procured at a great
price, I have cheerfully laboured the whole of
my life to procure for them this great blessing,
and I direct that the whole of my property
be laid out in building an aqueduct for their
use.”

Let the Flowers Live.—“I like to see
flowers growing,” writes Charlotte Brontë,
“but when they are gathered they cease to
please. I look upon them as rootless and
perishable; their likeness then to life makes
me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love;
I never wish to receive them from hands dear
to me.”

Railways were Novelties then.

When railway travelling was in its infancy
an old Scotch woman was about to make her
first railway journey. While waiting at the
station she began to ask the passengers, one
after the other, “Are you gaun to Perth?”

On receiving from each one an answer in
the negative she exclaimed in amazement,
“Guidness me! Will the railway folk send
a train a’ the road to Perth juist wi’ a’ puir
auld wife like me?”

The Secret of his Simple Style.

When Charles Dickens was editing Household
Words, he one day wrote to a contributor
asking him to call.

The contributor came with an uneasy feeling
that he was going to get a scolding
about something, but it turned out that his
chief wished to compliment him.

“I am constantly struck,” said Dickens,
“by your admirable simple style. How did
you attain it?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Dickens,” said the
contributor, “there are so many words I don’t
understand, and so many words I can’t spell,
that I have to use a very simple sort of
language.”

{284}

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

Lilium Candidum.

The genus lilium is a large one, containing
as it does over fifty species. The species
themselves are very distinct and differ remarkably
from each other in their forms
and habits. It has therefore been thought
advisable to sub-divide the genus into certain
groups or sections which are distinguished
chiefly by the shape of the flower.

There have been many divisions of the
genus, and, as in every other classification of
natural objects, all are very imperfect. It
is extraordinary the contempt that nature
has for human classifications and statistics!
However
you may
divide any set
of objects, you
will find that
there are many of
them which will
stick on the wall and
refuse to be included
in any one of your orders.
And so it is in the present instance.
The most approved division
is given below; but you will see that there
are grave objections to it. Personally we
cannot see the scientific reason for the
division of the genus at all. This is our
excuse for not following the generally received
classification. The arrangement of
lilies which we are going to adopt does
not pretend to be scientific. It is merely
adopted in order that we can group together
species which are more or less like
each other. It is a classification for the
flower grower and not for the botanist.

One of the latest, best, and most generally
accepted classifications is the following division
of the genus into six groups thus—

Section I.—Cardiocrinum.

Perianth[3] funnel-shaped, with oblanceolate[4]
segments, falcate[5] only at the apex.
Leaves heart-shaped, ovate, and stalked,
1. Cordifolium. 2. Giganteum.

Section II.—Eulirion.

Perianth same as Cardiocrinum. Leaves
linear or lanceolate, not stalked.

(a) Tube scarcely widened from base to
middle. 3. Philippinense. 4. Wallichianum.
5. Longiflorum. 6. Neilgherrense.

(b) Tube widened from neck to base, (α)
Leaves scattered. 7. Japonicum Odorum.
8. Brownii. 9. Krameri. 10. Nepaulense.
11. Candidum. 12. Belladonna. (β) Leaves
in whorls. 13. Washingtonianum. 14. Parryi.

Section III.—Archelirion.

Perianth open and funnel-shaped. Segments
deeply spreading and broadest about the
middle. Stamens diverging from the style,
which is curved.

(a) Leaves sessile. 15. Tigrinum. 16.
Oxypetalum.

(b) Leaves stalked. 17. Speciosum. 18.
Auratum.

Section IV.—Isolirion.

Perianth erect. Segments falcate, but not
revolute. Stamens diverging on all sides.

(a) Leaves in whorls. 19. Philadelphicum.
20. Medeoloides.

(b) Leaves scattered, (α) Style shorter than
ovary. 21. Concolor. (β) Style longer than
ovary. 22. Bulbiferum. 23. Croceum. 24.
Davuricum. 25. Elegans. 26. Catesbaei.

Section V.—Martagons.

Perianth cernuous with the segments very
revolute. Stamens diverging on all sides.

(a) Leaves in whorls. (α) American
species; bulbs annual bearing rhizomes.
27. Canadense. 28. Pardalinum. 29. Superbum.
30. Lucidum. 31. Roezlii. 32.
Columbianum. 33. Humboldti. (β) Old
world species. 34. Martagon. 35. Avenaceum.
36. Hansoni.

(b) Leaves scattered, (α) Leaves lanceolate.
Many-nerved. (i.) Perianth falcate
above middle. 37. Monadelphum. (ii.)
Perianth revolute to below middle. 38.
Polyphyllum. 39. Ponticum. 40. Carniolicum.
(β) Leaves narrow. With one or few
nerves. (i.) Segments of the perianth from
six to twelve lines broad in the middle.
41. Testaceum. 42. Leichtlini. 43. Batmanniae.
44. Pseudo-Tigrinum. 45. Wallacei.
(ii.) Segments of the perianth from
three to six lines broad in the middle. 46.
Pomponium. 47. Chalcedonicum. 48. Callosum.
49. Tenuifolium.

Section VI.—Notholirion.

50. Hookeri. 51. Roseum.

We said that in all divisions of natural
objects there were “aberrant” types which{285}
refused to be located in any one group and
remained sitting on the wall between several
of the divisions. And in this group there are
likewise some which stick upon the wall.
The chief reasons we have for not using this
classification will be apparent from the following
criticism of it.

The first section, Cardiocrinum, forms a
very natural group. L. Cordifolium and L.
Giganteum, though distinct species, are yet
very near akin and are totally different from
any other lilies.

Of the Eulirion section, the first or Longiflorum
group, containing L. Longiflorum,
L. Wallichianum, L. Philippinense, L. Neilgherrense,
and the new L. Formosanum,
forms as natural a division as is Cardiocrinum.
But the other members of the Eulirion group
are by no means so easy to classify.

L. Japonicum Odorum and L. Brownii are
very nearly allied. L. Krameri, with the new
L. Rubellum, more nearly resemble the
Archelirion than the present group.

In certain characters L. Nepaulense nearly
resembles L. Monadelphum, a member of the
Martagon group.

L. Candidum bears but little resemblance to
the other Eulirions. Its flowers are short and
numerous, and the bulb sends up an autumn
crop of leaves. In the last characteristic
it differs very markedly from every known
lily.

L. Belladonna is unknown to us.

L. Washingtonianum and its varieties
resemble L. Candidum in bearing numerous
small short flowers. Its bulb is very similar
to that of L. Humboldti in being an oblique,
almost rhizomatose,
structure.

L. Parryi resembles
L. Nepaulense in some
particulars, and L. Washingtonianum
in others.
Its bulb, however, is more
like that of L. Pardalinum
than that of any
other species.

Of the Archelirion section,
L. Auratum and
L. Speciosum have much
in common. But L. Tigrinum
has but little relation
to the former two
lilies; its drooping flowers
strongly suggest that this
lily should be placed with
the Martagons.

L. Leichtlini and
Pseudo-Tigrinum are
placed among the Martagons;
yet these two
lilies bear a very strong
resemblance to L. Tigrinum.

L. Oxypetalum differs
from all other lilies in
many respects. It resembles the fritillaries in
most points and was formerly included with
those plants.

As regards the Isolirion group, in which
the flowers are erect, we would place L. Medeoloides with the Martagons, next to
L. Hansoni—the plant which it most
resembles.

L. Umbellatum. (Showing abnormal development of
aerial bulblets.)

L. Concolor and its varieties should form a
group of themselves.

L. Batmanniae[6] and L. Wallacei should
certainly be included with the Isolirions, and
not with the Martagons.

LILY LEAVES. (From a photograph. Quarter diameter.)

• 1. Leaf from upper part of stem, L. Giganteum.
• 2. Basal leaf of L. Cordifolium.
• 3. Leaf of L. Auratum.
• 4. Leaf of L. Auratum Platyphyllum.
• 5. Leaf of L. Pyrenaicum.
• 6. Leaves of L. Longiflorum, showing injury done by green fly.
• 7. Leaves of L. Brownii, showing commencement of disease.
• 8. Deformed leaf, L. Longiflorum.
• 9. Leaves and bulblets of L. Tigrinum.

{286}

The Martagons fall naturally into several
groups. The first group, which we might call
the swamp lilies,[7] includes L. Superbum,
L. Canadense, L. Pardalinum, L. Roezlii,
and one or two new species. All these lilies
have but slightly recurved flowers and rhizomatose
bulbs. They are all natives of
North America.

Another group which we might call the
true Martagons would include L. Martagon,
L. Pomponium, L. Pyrenaicum, L. Avenaceum,
L. Tenuifolium, L. Callosum, L. Chalcedonicum,
and L. Hansoni, etc.

L. Humboldti is different from any other
lily in many points. Its bulb somewhat
resembles that of L. Washingtonianum.

L. Polyphyllum and L. Monadelphum much
resemble each other in the form of their
flowers.

L. Testaceum is a hybrid. L. Ponticum is
a variety of L. Monadelphum. L. Lucidum
is unknown to us.

We are not going to adhere to this division.
The one we are about to tabulate seems to
us to be more useful. It is tentative, and is
subject maybe to grave objections; but on the
whole we think that it will be more generally
useful to the lily grower. Obviously it is
founded on the former classification, and we
have used the names of the groups which are
generally accepted.

We append no description to each group,
for, though we could do so if we were pressed,
we wish it to be clearly understood that the
division is purely experimental, as what classification
is not?

Group I.—Cardiocrinum.

1. Giganteum. 2. Cordifolium.

Group II.—Eulirion.

Longiflorum Section: 3. Longiflorum. 4.
Formosanum. 5. Philippinense. 6. Wallichianum.
7. Neilgherrense.

Japonicum Section: 8. Japonicum Odorum.
9. Brownii.

Candidum Section: 10. Candidum.

Washingtonianum Section: 11. Washingtonianum.
12. Parryi. 13. Nepaulense.
14. Lowi.

Group III.—Archelirion.

Auratum Section: 15. Auratum. 16.
Speciosum.

Krameri Section: 17. Krameri. 18.
Rubellum.

Tigrinum Section: 19. Tigrinum. 20.
Leichtlini. 21. Maximowiczi. 22. Henryi.

Group IV.—Isolirion.

23. Bulbiferum. 24. Catesbaei. 25. Batmanniae.
26. Wallacei. 27. Philadelphicum.
28. Elegans. 29. Croceum. 30.
Davuricum.

Group V.—Martagon.

True Martagon Section: 31. Martagon.
32. Pomponium. 33. Pyrenaicum. 34.
Hansoni. 35. Medeoloides. 36. Avenaceum.
37. Callosum. 38. Tenuifolium. 39. Carniolicum.
40. Chalcedonicum.

Swamp-lily Section: 41. Columbianum.
42. Humboldti. 43. Canadense. 44. Parvum.
45. Maritimum. 46. Superbum. 47.
Roezlii. 48. Pardalinum. 49. Californicum.
50. Grayi.

Monadelphum Section: 51. Monadelphum.
52. Polyphyllum.

Group VI.

53. Concolor. 54. Davidii.

Group VII.

55. Oxypetalum. 56. Roseum. 57.
Hookeri.

There are therefore fifty-seven distinct species
of lilies; but of these there are over one
hundred and twenty varieties. Besides these
there are four double-flowered varieties, and
four definite hybrids.

In our next number we will proceed with
the description of these various species and
varieties. But before we attempt to describe
the individual species, let us glance at some
of the chief characteristics of the various parts
of lilies.

The lily has two sets of roots. One set
develops beneath the bulb, the other is given
off by the flower shoot above the bulb. Each
set serves a definite purpose, and both are
absolutely necessary to the welfare of the
plant. The lower roots are concerned chiefly
with the development of the bulb; the upper
roots, or those given off by the flower-shoot,
are the main source of supply to the stem and
flowers. Unless these roots develop and are
well covered with earth, the plant will not
flower.

If the flower stem is removed from the bulb
and the upper roots are not disturbed, it will
continue to grow unchecked. Or, again, if
the bulb be destroyed by disease, or its
lower roots do not develop, the lily may still
flower; but if the stem roots are destroyed,
the shoot dies, even though the bulb and
lower roots are quite perfect.

All the lilies possess bulbs. These bulbs
are exceedingly characteristic, and differ
greatly from those of any other plant. The
bulbs of all lilies are imbricate—that is,
consist of a number of scales united at their
bases.

A typical bulb, such as that of Lilium
Longiflorum, consists of numerous scales,
closely packed together, united to a firm,
fleshy part—the base of the bulb. It is from
the base that the lower roots spring. In a
perfectly sound fresh bulb the outer scales are
approximated to the next layer, but in dry
bulbs the outer scales wither and are but
loosely applied to the inner ones.

The bulb is narrow at the base, whence it
rapidly increases towards the middle, being
thickest about one third of the way up from
the base. From the middle it rapidly dwindles
towards the crown, which usually ends in a
point. In the centre of the bulb is the
flower spike, which is the densest part of
the bulb.

Lily bulbs vary in size, in colour, in shape,
and in structure, according to the species.
The bulb of Lilium Giganteum is from four
to five inches in diameter, whereas that of
L. Wallacei is barely half an inch across.
As a rule, the larger the plant the larger is
its bulb; but this is by no means always the
case. The bulb of L. Tigrinum var. Fortunei
Giganteum is no larger than that of L. Longiflorum, whereas the former plant is
quite three times the size of the latter.

When freshly dug up, most lily bulbs are
nearly white in colour; but after exposure
to the air for a short time, they get tinted
with various shades, which differ remarkably
in the different species.

The bulbs of L. Elegans, L. Bulbiferum,
L. Croceum, and L. Umbellatum, and others
usually remain pure white. L. Longiflorum
and a great many others become of a yellowish
tint. L. Speciosum and L. Auratum usually
become a dark brown or purplish colour. The
bulb of L. Giganteum is usually a deep russet
colour.

Lily bulbs vary greatly in shape and structure.
The typical bulb is ovate or pyramidal
in shape, with small regular scales. There
are many variations from this. Some are
more or less rounded, others, notably that of
L. Polyphyllum, are very long and narrow.
Some have large flat scales, whilst in others
the scales are small and rounded. Some
bulbs, such as those of L. Superbum, L. Canadense, and many others, are borne upon
a perennial rhizome, the bulbs themselves
being annual.

The bulbs of L. Humboldti and L. Washingtonianum
are curiously unlike those of any
other lilies, being flat and oblique. Some
bulbs possess a large number of minute scales,
others have but a few large scales.

The bulbs of L. Roseum and L. Hookeri
are invested with a dense membranous sheath
like the bulbs of the tulip. No other lily
bulb possesses this sheath. These are some
of the varieties of lily bulbs; an accurate
description of most will be found in connection
with the accounts of the various species.

The stem of the lily is usually straight
and unbranched. Very rarely the stem is
branched. It varies in diameter and toughness
in the various species. In some species it is
covered with down.

The leaves are subject to even greater
variety than is the bulb. They may be few
or many, arranged in whorls or scattered, and
of various colours and shapes.

L. Chalcedonicum has many hundred leaves,
whilst L. Auratum rarely has more than
thirty. In some lilies, such as L. Washingtonianum,
L. Humboldti, L. Martagon, etc.,
the leaves are arranged in whorls, but in most
kinds the leaves are irregularly scattered.

In colour the leaves of the lilies present
much variety. Usually the leaves are deep
glossy green. In L. Longiflorum Foliis
Albo-Marginatis the leaves are pale green
bordered with white. In one variety of L. Candidum they are edged with yellow.

Lily leaves are usually linear or lanceolate;
but they vary in shape from the thin pine-needle-like
leaf of L. Pyrenaicum, to the
broad heart-shape leaf of L. Cordifolium.

Usually but one kind of leaf is present, but
in L. Giganteum at least three distinct forms
of leaves are developed. And in Lilium
Candidum the autumn or base leaves are
totally distinct from the linear leaves borne
on the stem.

The leaves of L. Bulbiferum and L. Tigrinum
bear bulblets in their axils. Other lilies
occasionally bear bulblets in the axils of their
leaves, especially if the plant fails to flower.
A bulb is only a modified bud, so that it is
not surprising it should occasionally develop
above ground. L. Umbellatum and L. Longiflorum
are the commonest lilies to bear these
aerial bulblets, except of course L. Tigrinum
and L. Bulbiferum, in both of which lilies
they are always present.

The flowers of the lilies vary immensely in
most particulars. There are always three
sepals, three petals, and six stamens. The
flowers are either solitary, or there may be
two or three or many borne in a pyramidal
inflorescence. The flowers are borne terminally
on the stalk. It is upon the characters
of the flowers that the classification of the
genus is based.

The fruit is a six-sided capsule, and the
seeds are flat with broad membranous wings.

(To be continued.)

{287}

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN IDEAL GARDEN.

SOLUTION.

An Ideal Garden.

Prize Winners.

Seven Shillings Each.

• Eliza Acworth, 9, Blenheim Mount, Bradford.
• Miss W. M. Cassan, 25, Lee Terrace, Blackheath, S.E.
• M. A. C. Crabb, Ipplepen, Alexandra Road, Hemel Hempstead, Herts.
• Jessie F. Dulley, Lindens, Wellingborough.
• Emily Francis, 9, Darlington Street, Egremont, Cheshire.
• Herbert V. French, 19, Hart Street, Carlisle.
• Miss F. M. Goodchild, Burton Bradstock, Bridport, Dorset.
• Annie M. Goss, 4, Blenheim Terrace, St. John’s Wood, N.W.
• Mrs. Nicholls, Parlors Hall, Bridgnorth, Salop.
• N. E. Purvey, Penrhyn, Hayward’s Heath.
• Mildred Richardson, Glentworth, Queen Anne Terrace, Bowes Park, N.
• Wm. Dunford-Smith, 71, Ondine Road, East Dulwich, S.E.
• Mrs. W. C. Stevenson, Knockan, Londonderry.
• Norah M. Sullivan, 2, Ortranto Place, Sandycove, Co. Dublin.
• Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.

Most Highly Commended.

M. S. Arnold, Annie A. Arnott, Helen M.
Coulthard, Dr. R. Swan Coulthard, Mabel E.
Davis, S. Dewhirst, Miss Flinn, M. Evangeline
Hulse, Mrs. H. Jordan, Mata Kelway, E. E.
Lockyear, E. Lord, Annie J. McConnell, A.
Phillips, Lucy Richardson, Edith S. Russell,
C. E. Thurgar, Mrs. B. M. Welford.

Very Highly Commended.

Division I.

May Adamson, Mrs. Adkins, Ethel Anderson,
“Annis,” Mrs. Astbury, A. Burgeis
Badcock, Mary H. Barlow, Mabel Barnicott,
Maud F. Bazeley, Frances Beach, Alice M.
Berry, Clara A. Binks, Gertrude Bowdler,
Ina M. Broad, Lillie and Daisy Browell, Violet
Byrne, Agnes Clark, Mary A. Collins, Maud
G. Collins, A. C. Crabb, E. V. Davies, C. M.
A. Fitzgerald, Grace I. Gibson, Mrs. W. H.
Gotch, Florence Graves, E. M. Hartill, Edith
M. Higgs, Rose A. Hooppell, Eva Hooley,
Muriel Howie, Mabel Howitt, “Iseult,” Mary
Jolliffe, Helen Jones, L. Foster-Jones, Ethel
Knight, Mrs. Latter, Clara E. Law, Edith
Leadbeater, Edith M. Letch, Mary Lethbridge,
M. H. Longhurst, M. A. Lowe, Annie
G. Luck, Helen A. Manning, Nellie Meikle,
Emilie Mills, E. C. Milne, Elizabeth Morgan,
A. Morris, E. M. Le Mottée, Harriet Moule,
Jessie Neighbour, Ethel C. Newell, Agnes
Nicholls, Kate D. Norris, Edith Nye, Marion
T. Ockleston, E. A. O’Donoghue, Janie
Olver, Blanche E. Patch, G. de Courcy Peach,
Mrs. N. M. Pollard, Mrs. W. Porritt, E.
Preston, Elizabeth Rodgers, Muriel E. Scott,
Agnes A. M. Shearer, Katherine H. Shorto,
Caroline Skinner, Mary E. Spencer, Sadie
Stelfox, Miss Stephenson, Alice E. Stretton,
Gertrude M. Stott, Emily M. Tattam, Constance
Taylor, L. M. Todd, Mabel Wearing,
Caroline Weitzel, A. D. Wood, Emily M. P.
Wood, David Young, Katherine Young.

Division II.

Mr. A. W. Blackburn, G. Brightwell, E.
Burrell, Jenny M. Carmichael, Helen A. Carpenter,
Leonora E. L. Clark, Gracie Davidge,
Katherine Davids, Bessie Dominey, Ada E.
Edmonds, Alfred G. Everett, Dorothy Felce,
Mary E. Foley, J. Gutteridge, Ellen Hambly,
Ellie Hanlon, Minnie C. Harris, Hilda M.
Harrison, Maude Hayward, Blanche Holmes,
Percy H. Horne, Lennox Howse, K. H.
Ingram, Eva M. Jeayes, Eugenie Marinscheck,
E. Mastin, Laura E. Mellor, Jessie Middlemiss,
Katharine E. Moreton, E. Moss, Robert
Murdoch, Mary M. Murray, Nita Nettleton,
Grace Neville, Charles Nunneley, Mrs. A.
Paulin, Lizzie Peacock, Mary Pennell, J. A.
Emerson Reynolds, Florence E. Russell, J.
Sedgwick, Agnes Smith, Mrs. G. W. Smith,
A. M. Somersgale, B. M. Stagg, Mrs. H. F.
Staunton, M. Stuart, H. H. Taylor, Edith
Tichener, Nora S. Townshend, Freda Walter,
Edith G. Wheeler, E. F. Woodhams, Emily
C. Woodward.

Division III.

M. S. Baker, Lily Belling, Hetty Blakeston,
Ines Bryson, F. Chute, Edith Collins, George
R. Davidge, A. S. K. Ellson, Henry Goodwyn,
Caroline S. Gregory, Caroline Gundry, Beatrice
A. Hawes, Mrs. Hartnell, Marguerite Hendley,
M. Hodgkinson, E. St. G. Hodson, Frances
E. Kershaw, Mildred E. Lockyear, Winifred
A. Lockyear, Jessie Mack, R. Pitman, E. G.
Potter, Henzell G. Robson, Edward Rogulski,
Annie Saunders, L. W. Siffken, Margaret B.
Strathern, L. M. Todd, Mrs. C. E. Walker,
Wm. Wearing, Gertrude Wearing.

EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

Once again we have good cause to lament
simplicity, nearly three hundred solutions
being all but perfect. All those mentioned
are word perfect, and the differences which
separate the various classes are so slight as to
be almost trivial. Let us be explicit: The
prize-winners are perfect in every way. The
most highly commended are perfect in word
and form. Ten group the lines into two
stanzas, four leave out the second e in blessed,
three omit the note of exclamation in the
last verse, and one writes an interjection o!
with a small letter.

The “very highly commended” list mentions
those solvers whose only important fault was a
failure to indent the second and corresponding
lines. In division I. the lines were grouped
into four verses; in division II. into one verse,
and in division III. into two verses.

Following close upon the steps of perfection
is a batch of ninety-six solutions which give
“noonday” as a compound word or, even
worse, as two words. We do not attempt to
deny that solutions with only so trifling an
error are deserving of high commendation, but
before their turn came the space at our
disposal was filled.

Some of our readers with that perversity
which is the heritage of many puzzle solvers,
will doubtless fail to discern the basis of sound
common sense underlying our ruling and will
denounce it as arbitrary. Candidly, it is
sailing quite as near to the wind as we like;
but necessity knows no law, so why should an
examiner? And after all we are confident
that the sweet reasonableness of our decisions
will appeal to all but the unwise and
prejudiced.

A few solvers still persist in ignoring rule 2.
It can hardly be because they fail to understand
it, and this time we have refrained from
mentioning any solver who has transgressed it.

Two or three solvers spelt “luxuriancy”
with an e instead of an a. This was a pity,
because it is much safer in a close competition
to spell correctly.

There were not many fantastic readings to
while away the tedium of adjudication. Perhaps
the most curious was a rendering of the
eighth line, found in several solutions:—

Although the reading can be justified by the
text, it has nothing else to commend it unless
it be its eccentricity.

The eleventh line was often translated:—

This we fail to understand from any point
of view, because if the minus sign be taken for
a line the text runs blineed, which, when you
come to think of it, is rather a clumsy way of
spelling blind. It is clear, at any rate to us,
that the stroke cannot do duty for both the
minus sign and line. If it could all would be
well, thus:—

But enough! for our brain reels.

A Short Story in Verse.—In this competition
a perfect solution was sent by Alice
M. Seaman of St. Peter’s Park. By a clerical
error it was misplaced, and did not reach us
until some time after our adjudication. A
prize has since been sent to this competitor,
from whom, by the way, we received no
complaint.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

{288}

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 third and last 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 March 17, 1899; from
Abroad, May 17, 1899.

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

OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY
COMPETITION.

A LITTLE EXILE.

A STORY IN MINIATURE.

First Prize (£2 2s.).

Eva Mary Allport, Earl’s Court, S.W.

Second Prize (£1 1s.).

Jessie E. Jackson, Beverley, E. Yorks.

Third Prize (10s. 6d.).

M. F. Jamieson, Portbello, N.B.

Honourable Mention.

Ethel Mary Wake Cleveland, Bedford; Mary Adèle
Venn, West Kensington Park, W.; A. Abigail
Binns, Rochdale; Edith Alice White, Balham, S.W.;
Mabel Moscrop, Saltburn-by-the-Sea; Frances Carr,
Princes Park, Liverpool; L. M. Barber, Brixton,
S.W.; Edith B. Jowett, Grange-over-Sands; Mary
Amelia Rudd, Bussage, near Stroud; Rose S. Bracey,
Hastings; Margaret E. Crellin, Longsynt, Manchester;
G. M. Lang, Sunderland; Lucy Richardson,
York; Ellen M. Price, South Shields; Kate Kelsey,
Montpelier, Bristol; R. Holman, Paris; Mary
Maile, Provost Road, N.W.; Minnie Curry, Bradford,
York; Annie C. Herbertson, Ealing, W.;
Margaret Taylor, Birkdale, Lancashire; Lucy
Bourne, Winchester; Bessie Hine, South Tottenham,
N.; C. Winifred Dyer, Wandsworth, S.W.

Dear Mr. Editor,—I have given very careful
consideration to the Prize Competition papers on A
Little Exile, and am sending a list of those which
seem most to deserve the awards.

The selection has been the less easy since the
papers present a very general level of excellence, and
are all intelligently written, showing that the story
has been carefully read.

Some few exceed the prescribed space, and others
fall into the very natural error of enlarging on the
opening incidents of the tale and leaving out a few
lines for its development and conclusion.

Those contributors selected for prizes have, it
seems to me, best observed the balance and proportion
of the story, and have thus given the fairest idea
of what it is all about.

But it gives me much pleasure to praise, with
scarcely a reservation, the care and neatness which
the many aspirants have bestowed on their papers;
the correctness of the spelling, and the legibility of the
writing.

May I venture to hint that a little more care given
to punctuation would, in this instance, have still
further lightened the reader’s pleasant task.

Faithfully yours,

Leslie Keith.

⁂ We quite endorse all that the Author says in
the above letter.—Ed.

OUR NEXT STORY COMPETITION.

STORIES IN MINIATURE.

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

UP-TO-DATE MAIDENS:
A Story from Woman’s Clubland.

By JEAN A. OWEN, Author of “Candalaria,” 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
February 20th; and no papers can in any case
be returned.

Examiners:—The Author of the Story
(Jean A. Owen), and the Editor of The
Girl’s Own Paper.