path: root/65358-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65358 ***

[Illustration:

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. VIII.—NO. 362.]      DECEMBER 4, 1886.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




MERLE’S CRUSADE.

BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

[Illustration: “‘OH, MERLE!’ SHE WHISPERED, IN A VOICE OF AGONY.”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER IX.

BERENGARIA.

The bright spring days found me a close prisoner to the house. The end
of April had been unusually chilly, and one cold rainy night Reggie was
taken with an attack of croup.

It was a very severe attack, and for an hour or two my alarm was
excessive. Mrs. Morton was at a fancy ball, and Mr. Morton was
attending a late debate, and, to add to my trouble, Mrs. Garnett, who
would at once have come to my assistance, was confined to her bed with
a slight illness.

Travers had no experience in these cases, and her presence was
perfectly useless. Hannah, frightened and half awake as she was, was
far more helpful. Happily Anderson was still up, and he undertook at
once to go for the doctor, adding, of his own accord, that he would
go round to the stables on his return, and send the carriage off for
his mistress. “She is not expected home until three, and it is only
half-past one, but she would never forgive us if she were not fetched
as quickly as possible.”

I thanked Anderson, and begged Hannah to replenish the bath with hot
water. Happily, I knew what remedies to use; my former experience in my
schoolfellow’s nursery proved useful to me now. I remembered how the
doctor had approved of what I had done, and I resolved to do exactly
the same for Reggie. Frightened as I was, I am thankful to know my
fears did not impede my usefulness; I did all I could to relieve my
darling, and Hannah seconded my efforts. I am sure Travers wished with
all her heart to help us, but she had no nerve, and her lamentable
voice made me a trifle impatient.

It was a great relief when Anderson appeared with Dr. Myrtle. He
waited for a few minutes to hear from the doctor that all dangers had
been averted by the prompt remedies, and then he went in search of
Stephenson. It was some time before we heard the sound of carriage
wheels.

Reggie was still wrapped in a blanket on my lap, and had just fallen
asleep, worn out by the violence of the remedies still more than by the
attack. Dr. Myrtle whispered to me not to move, as he would speak to
Mrs. Morton downstairs, and enforce on her the need of quiet. It would
have been grievous to wake the exhausted little creature, and I was
quite content to sit holding him in my lap until morning, if Dr. Myrtle
thought it well for me to do so.

I had forgotten all about the fancy ball, and my start when I saw Mrs.
Morton standing in the doorway almost woke Reggie. I really thought for
a moment that I was dreaming. I learnt afterwards that she had taken
the character of Berengaria, wife of the lion-hearted Richard, but for
the moment I was too confused to identify her. She was dressed in
dark blue velvet, and her gown and mantle were trimmed with ermine;
she wore a glittering belt that looked as though it were studded with
brilliants, and her brown hair hung in loose braids and plaits under
a gold coronet. As she swept noiselessly towards us, I could see the
tears were running down her cheeks, and her bosom was heaving under her
ermine.

“Oh, Merle!” she whispered, in a voice of agony, as she knelt down
beside us, “to think my boy was in danger, and his mother was decked
out in this fool’s garb; it makes me sick only to remember it; oh, my
baby, my baby!” and she leant her head against my arm and sobbed, not
loudly, but with the utmost bitterness.

“Dear Mrs. Morton,” I returned, gently, “it was not your fault; no one
could have foreseen this. Reggie had a little cold, but I thought it
was nothing. Oh, what are you doing!” for she had actually kissed me,
not once, but twice.

“Let me do it, Merle,” returned my sweet mistress; “I am so grateful
to you, and so will my husband be when he knows all. Dr. Myrtle says
he never saw a nurse who understood her duties so well; everything had
been done for the child before he came.”

“Oh, Aunt Agatha, if only you and Uncle Keith had heard that!”

We had talked in whispers, but nothing seemed to disturb Reggie. A
moment after Mr. Morton came hurriedly into the nursery; he was very
pale and discomposed, and a sort of shock seemed to pass over him as he
saw his wife.

“Violet,” he whispered, as she clung to him in a passion of weeping,
“this has unnerved you, but, indeed, Dr. Myrtle says our boy will do
well. My darling, will you not try to comfort yourself?”

“I was at Lady S.’s ball when Muriel, our precious baby—oh, you
remember, Alick”—for she seemed unable to go on. Poor woman, no wonder
her tears flowed at such a memory. Mrs. Garnett told me reluctantly,
when I questioned her the next day, that baby Muriel had been taken
with a fit when Mrs. Morton and her husband were at a ball, and the
mother had only arrived in time to see the infant breathe its last.

“Yes, yes,” he said, soothing her, “but nothing could have saved her,
you know. Dr. Myrtle told you so; and you were only spared the pain
of seeing her suffer. Try to be sensible about it, my dearest; our
baby has been ill, but everything has been done for him; and now he
is relieved, poor little fellow. We have to thank you for that, Miss
Fenton. How nicely you are holding him! he looks as comfortable as
possible,” touching the boy’s cheek with his forefinger. “Now, my love,
let me relieve you of this cumbrous thing,” taking off her coronet;
“this mantle will unfasten, too, I see. Now, suppose you put on your
dressing-gown, and ask Travers to make you and Miss Fenton some tea. I
will not be so cruel as to tell you to go to bed”—as she looked at him,
pleadingly. “If you were a wise woman you would go, but I suppose I
must humour you; but you must get rid of all this frippery.”

“Oh, Alick, how good you are!” she said, gratefully, and in a few
minutes more she returned in her warm, quilted dressing gown, with her
hair simply braided; she looked even more beautiful than she had done
as Berengaria.

Mr. Morton soon left us after placing his wife in my charge. The night
passed very quickly away after that. When Reggie stirred I put him in
his cot, and begged Mrs. Morton to lie down on the bed beside him. She
did not refuse; emotion had exhausted her, but her eyes never closed.
She told me long afterwards she dared not sleep, lest the old dream
should torment her of the dead baby’s hand, that she could never warm
with all her efforts.

“I can feel it quite icy cold in mine, and sometimes there is a little
cold face on my bosom, but nothing ever warms them, and when I wake up
I am shivering too.”

I could not tell what was passing through the poor mother’s mind, but I
did not like the feverish look in her wide, distended eyes. Mr. Morton
was right, and the shock of her boy’s illness had utterly unnerved her.
I thought, perhaps she was blaming herself needlessly, and yet never
was there a human being more utterly devoid of vanity and selfishness;
she was simply sacrificing her maternal duties to her husband’s
ambition; of her own accord she would never have entered a ball-room; I
am sure of that.

I longed to soothe her, and yet I hardly knew what to say. Presently
she shivered, and I covered her up carefully with all the wraps I could
find, and then knelt down and chafed her hands.

“You cannot sleep, Mrs. Morton; I am so sorry, and yet you are tired
out.”

“I do not want to sleep,” she answered. “I dream badly sometimes, and I
would rather lie awake and listen to my boy’s breathing; he is sleeping
nicely, Merle.”

“Yes, indeed; there is no need for anxiety now, and I am watching him
carefully.”

“Oh, I can trust you,” with a faint smile; “I trusted you from the
first moment. But, my poor girl, I am afraid you are very tired, and I
have taken your bed from you.”

“I would rather see you resting there, Mrs. Morton.”

“Do you think you could read to me a little? My husband often reads to
me when I am nervous and cannot sleep. Anything will do, the simplest
child’s story; it is just the sound of the voice that soothes me. What
is that book? Oh, the Bible! I am afraid I do not read that enough, I
have so little time to myself, and then I am often too tired.”

“It is just the book for tired people,” I returned; “if you want a
story. I think the history of Ruth is one of the most touching, she has
always seemed to me one of the sweetest characters in the Bible; it is
a perfect idyll of Oriental life.”

“It is so long since I have read it,” she returned, apologetically,
“you shall read it to me if you like.” And I read the whole book
throughout to her, only pausing now and then to look at Reggie.

She listened to it without interrupting me once, but I was rejoiced
to see that the strained expression had passed out of her eyes; they
looked more natural.

“You are right, Merle,” she observed, when I had finished, “it is very
beautiful and touching; that was something like love, ‘where thou
goest, I will go.’ Now you may read me a psalm, if you are not tired. I
like your voice, it is so clear and quiet.”

I read to her until she bade me stop; and then we talked a little.
I told her an incident or two in my school-days about our nutting
expeditions in the Luttrell woods, and how one of our party had strayed
and had encountered a gipsy caravan. I was just in the middle of Rose
Mervyn’s recital, when I heard measured breathing. She had fallen
asleep.

I saw a great deal of Mrs. Morton during the next few days. She
was very unwell, and Dr. Myrtle insisted on her giving up all her
engagements for a week. He spoke very decidedly, and Mr. Morton was
obliged to yield to his opinion; but he seemed a little put out.

“It is such a pity all those people should be disappointed,” he
observed, in a grumbling voice. “Mrs. Granville had quite set her heart
on having us both on Thursday. I knew how it would be when you fretted
yourself ill last night.”

“I could not help it,” she pleaded. “Anderson gave me such a fright; of
course, he thought his coming for me was the best, but when I saw his
face I thought I should have died with fear.”

“Nonsense, Violet, you ought to learn more self-control; you know I
dislike to see you give way so entirely. Well, we must abide by Dr.
Myrtle’s orders and treat you as an invalid.”

“But, Alick,” detaining him as he was turning away, not in the best of
humours, as I could see from the night nursery, “I can write for you
all the same; the library is quite warm.”

“How absurd!” was the reply. “Do you think I should let you tire
yourself for me? I hope I am not quite so selfish, my dear child,” for
she was still holding his arm beseechingly; “you must really let me go,
for I am dreadfully busy; rest yourself and get well, that is all I ask
of you,” and he kissed her and left the room. He was not often hasty
with her, but he was overworked and irritable.

We made the most of that week between us. Reggie soon recovered, and as
long as he was kept in a certain temperature, and carefully watched,
gave us no further anxiety.

His mother took entire charge of him during that week; she came up to
the nursery as soon as she was dressed, and stayed with us until Reggie
was in bed and Travers came to summon her. She even took her meals with
us. Dr. Myrtle thought she was suffering from a chill, and the warm
nursery was just the right temperature for her. It was a lovely sight
to watch her with her children. I think even Mr. Morton was struck by
the beauty of the scene when he came up one afternoon and found her
sitting in her easy chair with Reggie on her lap and Joyce standing
beside her.

“You seem all very happy together,” he said, as he took up his position
on the rug. I had retreated with my work into the other room, but I
could hear her answer distinctly.

“Oh, Alick, it has been such a happy week—a real holiday; it was worth
being ill to see so much of the children; Reggie has such pretty ways;
I knew so little about him before. He can say ‘fada,’ quite plainly.”

“Indeed, my boy, then suppose you say your new words.”

“Do you know what I have been wishing all this week?” she continued,
when Reggie had finished his vocabulary, and had been taken into his
father’s arms.

“No, my dear,” sitting down beside her, “unless you wished for me to be
a Cabinet Minister.”

“Oh no, Alick,” and there was pain in her voice, “not unless you wish
it very much too; I had a very different desire from that.”

“Perhaps you were longing for a house in the country; well, that may
come by-and-by.”

“Wrong again, Alick. I was wishing that you were a poor man—not a very
poor man, I should not like that—and that we lived in a small house
with a pretty garden where there would be a lawn for the children to
play on, and plenty of flowers for them to pick.”

“Indeed! this is a strange wish of yours, you discontented woman.”

“No, not discontented, but very, very happy, dear, so you need not
frown over my poor little wish; everyone builds castles, only mine is
not a castle, but a cottage.”

“I should not care to live in your cottage, Violet; I am an ambitious
man. The Cabinet would be more to my taste.”

“Yes, dear,” with a sigh, “it was only make believe nonsense,” and
she did not say another word about that fancy of hers, but began
questioning him about last night’s debate. That was just her way to
forget herself and follow his bent. No wonder he could not do without
her, and was restless and ill at ease if she were unavoidably absent.

I wonder he understood in the least what she meant by wishing him to
be poor. No doubt her innocent fancy had constructed a home where no
uncongenial anxieties or ambition should sever her from her children,
where she should be all in all to them as well as to her husband.

I daresay she imagined herself no longer burthened with wearisome
receptions, but sitting working in the shade of the little porch while
her children made daisy chains on the lawn of that humble abode. The
mother would undress her children and hear them say their little
prayers. Hark! was not that a click of the gate? Father has come home.
How late you are, Alick; the children are asleep; you must kiss them
without waking them. Hush, what nonsense, she is dreaming. Alick would
be in the Cabinet; people were prophesying that already. She must take
up her burthen again and follow him up the steep hill of fame. What if
her woman’s heart fainted sometimes, women must do their work in life,
as she would do hers.

The next day the mother’s place was empty in the nursery. “Mrs. Morton
was with her husband in the library,” Travers told us. Later on we
heard she was driving. Just as I was putting Reggie, half asleep, in
his cot, she came up to wish the children good-night, but she did not
stay with us ten minutes. I remarked that she looked very ill and
exhausted.

“Oh, I am only a little tired,” she returned, hurriedly; “I have been
paying calls all the afternoon, trying to make up for my idle week, and
the talking has tired me. Never mind, it is all in the day’s work.” And
she nodded to me kindly and left the room.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




CHRISTMAS GIFTS.


With the approach of Christmas and Christmas gifts, the cares of the
girl members of a large family may be said to arrive at a crisis. There
is no girl so friendless or so heartless that there is no one she loves
or wishes to remind of that love at this season, while there are many
surrounded by affectionate relations and true friends, whose love they
warmly return, and whom they wish to please with a gift, and yet have
but a small sum at command, and must think carefully over its division.

How many anxious calculations have to be made, what knitting of
smooth brows, what hasty arithmetic on stray scraps of paper, what
self-denial in personal matters to increase the little store, and
then, when the materials are bought, what secret work is carried on
behind father’s chair, should he happen to be awake, and in this and
that out-of-the-way nook of the house, so that the all-important,
and generally extremely apparent, secret is not divulged until the
Christmas or New Year’s morning!

All honour to this secrecy, this planning and patient work! It is the
true spirit of present-giving; and let not any of our readers despise
it as childish; rather let them remember that that which costs no
time, no thought, no self-sacrifice is but of little value in the eyes
of affection, and pleases only where the gift is valued for itself,
and not for the giver. The girl who can walk into a shop and select
the first handsome article in it for mamma, and pay for it from an
amply-supplied purse, neither awakens in herself or her mother the
same holy feelings that are excited when baby works an impossible
kettle-holder “all by herself,” and which she “bided” out of the
pennies given her for sweeties.

Admiring and sympathising as we do with girls who are generous-minded
and do not count labour and time when anxious to please, we have
brought together in this paper, with the idea of helping them, several
useful and pretty articles that can be made without any great expense.

For a small present, costing at the utmost one shilling, the
fashionable little “hold-all bags” are good. These bags are four in
number, and are connected together only at the top; they are filled
with odds and ends, such as buttons and silks, until they stand upright
and all of a row, and they find a conspicuous place among drawing-room
nick-nacks.

To make them, purchase one yard of good satin ribbon, in colour either
ruby, navy blue, or chestnut brown, with the reverse side of a pale
blue or old gold shade. The ribbon should be from two and a half to
three inches wide. Divide the yard into four equal portions, sew over
the sides, and hem the tops of two bags without decorating them,
but work on one of the other bags a handsome and legible monogram
containing the initials of the person for whom the present is intended.
Work this with fine gold-coloured purse silk, and surround the chief
outlines with Japanese gold thread. On the other bag work a small
spray of flowers, either a branch of wild rose, a bit of heather,
forget-me-not, or jessamine. Sew up these two bags, and hem them
round like the others; then make sixteen eyelet-holes, four on each
bag; make these round and not very big, and place them opposite to
each other, and at the extreme corners of the opening. Sew the bags
together by overcasting the first bag with its monogram turned outwards
on the inner side of its opening to the outer side of the opening
of one of the undecorated bags. Attach the second plain bag to the
inner side of the first plain bag, and sew the fourth bag, with its
decorated side turned outwards, to the inner side of the third bag. By
this arrangement both the decorated bags are outside, and every bag
at its base is separate. Finally, take a silk dress lace, the colour
of the satin ribbon, and run that through the eyelet-holes to make a
draw-string. Fill the bags, plant them out on the table, and draw their
openings slightly together.

These “hold-all bags,” instead of being filled with odds and ends, are
sometimes turned into flower-vases. The smallest-sized penny tumblers
are inserted into each bag and filled with cut flowers, or the smallest
size flowerpot, filled with a tiny fern, is used. In the latter case,
a piece of American cloth is fastened round the pot to prevent any
moisture soiling the satin bag.

The present method for concealing flower-pots when required for drawing
room decoration makes another simple but acceptable present. This is
a bag of plush, into which the pot is put. To make this bag of plush,
cut a round of millboard or stiff cardboard the size of the bottom
of an ordinary flower-pot. Take a piece of plush, in width twice the
circumference of the centre part of the pot, and in height the height
of the pot; sew the two ends of the plush together, and make a hem an
inch and a half wide. As a finish to the upper part, just below this
hem, on the wrong side of the bag, run on a narrow piece of black tape
to hold a draw-string, which make by running in a piece of strong
elastic, that will draw in the fulness of the plush until it fits the
upper part of the flower-pot tightly. Gather the lower ends of the
plush, arrange evenly round the piece of millboard, and sew to the
latter with the edges concealed, using strong thread for the securing
stitches. When the plush cover is used, its millboard foundation keeps
the bottom of the pot (which may be damp) from doing any damage to
the furniture, and the wide hem beyond the draw-string stands out as
a frilling a little below the edge of the pot. Half a yard of plush,
which costs two shillings, will make a pair of flower-pot covers.

From America comes to us a novelty in bedroom decoration, and one
very suitable as a present to a young lady who uses her bedroom as
a sitting-room and likes it prettily decorated. This is known as a
“pillow sham,” and is a long strip of linen or cambric ornamented with
lace and ribbons, and laid over the top part of the bed in the daytime
only. It fits the width of the bed whatever size that is, and does
not fall down the sides. If the worker is an adept at drawn-thread
work, the pillow sham can be made very inexpensively and of material
that will last through much wear, but when drawn-thread work is not
used, Torchon and other strongly made lace is required. An easy way
for making a pillow sham is to buy four new hem-stitched-bordered
handkerchiefs, and upon the corner of one of the handkerchiefs to
embroider the first letter of the owner’s Christian name, making it
four inches high and slanting it from the corner to the middle of the
handkerchief. Join these handkerchiefs together, inserting between each
an inch and a half wide strip of Torchon lace insertion, and bordering
the handkerchiefs lengthways with a line of the same, so that each
square of cambric is surrounded by insertion lace. Finish with a frill
of Torchon lace edging, which carefully whip to the insertion lace. A
careless bow of ribbon or one of Liberty’s silk scarves tied in a bow
is sewn to the corner of the pillow sham, just above the embroidered
corner.

When using drawn-work instead of lace insertion, a piece of linen the
length and width of the sham is taken, and the threads from this are
drawn out as strips down the width, leaving five squares of plain
linen between them. After working the strips over with linen thread
into a pattern, narrow coloured ribbon is run down the centres of the
drawn-work, and the linen squares embroidered with washing cotton of
the same colour as the ribbon. An edging of lace finishes the border,
and into this lace a line of narrow ribbon is threaded.

Another variety of pillow sham is made by sewing together five or eight
pocket handkerchiefs with coloured borders, and ornamenting the same
with a large knot of narrow ribbons of various shades of colour. The
handkerchief borders in this case need not be alike, but should blend
together, and their colours should be used as some of the colours in
the knot of ribbons.

Palm-leaf fans still find favour as drawing-room fans, but are no
longer left undecorated. The two newest ways of decorating them are
as follows:—Take a well shaped and strong fan and paint it with
oil-colours, with which a very little varnish has been mixed, either a
very bright yellow or a brilliant scarlet. Give two coats of colour,
and let the fan dry. Buy some ribbon half an inch in width; in colours,
black, vivid green, sky-blue, and yellow-pink. Make a wide vandyke
running down one of the lengths of ribbon by taking the running thread
in diagonal lines across the ribbon from edge to edge. Draw the ribbon
up so that it forms a number of pointed vandykes, sew the strips down
the ribs of the fan at equal distances apart, and use black ribbon more
than the other colours. Sew on a line of red gold tinsel between each
strip of ribbon, and finish the handle with a knot of coloured ribbons.

The second make of fan requires a piece of plush, some narrow coloured
silk cords, and various shades of tinsel. The cords are obtained by
buying a yard of a twisted silk cord made up of various shades, and
using the strands of this separately. Cut the piece of the plush the
size of half the fan, so that it covers the fan on one side from the
tip of leaf to the handle. Fasten this round the edge to the back of
the fan, and ornament its straight edge on the fan with a line of
tinsel on the uncovered side of the fan. Sew down each rib alternate
lines of coloured silk cord and double lines of tinsel, using as many
varieties of tinsel as possible, and arranging the cords with due
regard to effect. Take three long peacocks’ feathers, and fasten these
across the piece of plush and sew their ends together close to the
handle of the fan. Cover the handle with a piece of plush, and arrange
a bow and ends of ribbon round the handle and to conceal the peacock
feather ends. Line the back of the fan with thin silk or dark twill.

Blotting-book covers of velveteen are always acceptable presents.
The foundation for these is a sixpenny blotter, size ten inches by
eight inches, while three quarters of a yard of velveteen (price
three shillings the yard) will make two covers, with a piece of brown
holland or blue twill for the inside lining. The decoration for these
covers is embroidery, but this is only worked on the upper side of
the blotter, the underside being left plain, so as not to interfere
with its usefulness. The embroidery can be of any description of silk
embroidery, either oriental embroidery with its quaintly-formed but
impossible flowers and foliage, or sprays of naturally-tinted flowers
worked in crewel silks, and both worked directly on to the velveteen
foundation; or silk embroidery finished with a gold thread outline
and worked upon a coloured rep silk foundation, and sewn on as an
ornamental corner to the blotter; in fact there are many ways of
ornamenting the cover, and the embroidery the worker is most proficient
in should be selected. If church embroidery is within her capabilities,
we advise the initials or coat of arms of the owner being worked in a
frame on linen, cut out and couched down to the velveteen foundation
with gold thread or gold cord; but such elaborate embroidery is not
often obtainable. The way to make up the blotter is to cut the holland
lining exactly the size of the sixpenny blotter, and the velveteen a
little larger. Turn in the edges of both, and overcast them together,
enclosing the stiff cover of the blotter between them, and sewing the
blotting paper sheets in when the cover is made. Bradshaw covers are
made like blotters, but naturally take less material, and are only
embroidered in one corner.

Large photograph-holders can be easily made at home. These are used for
the display of a number of cabinet photos, and are fitted with bands,
into which the photograph is slipped and easily taken out. The size
of such a stand is usually seventeen inches long by thirteen inches
high, but they can be made of any size desired. The foundation is of
millboard, to which a millboard support is fastened by its being glued
to stout tape and the tape glued to the millboard, with sufficient
width of tape left between the two pieces of millboard to allow the
support to work. The upper side of the millboard is covered with
quilted satin. The satin is selected of some bright colour, and the
quilting lines are run as diagonal lines, not as making diamonds. Three
tight bands of satin are sewn across the quilting; these are two inches
in width, and require a lining of stiff net when made up. They are
embroidered with coloured silks, either forming a running design, such
as a spray of jessamine or celandine, or with some geometrical pattern
constantly repeated. When finished and lined, the bands are placed as
diagonal lines across the satin, not as horizontal lines.

For a photograph-holder the size given, the first band will be eleven
inches in length, and will cross from the top of the holder to the
left-hand side; the second band will be nineteen inches in length, and
will cross from the extreme top corner of the frame on the right side
to the bottom of the frame on the left; the third band will be twelve
inches in length, and will be arranged beneath the last-mentioned,
crossing from the right side to the bottom of the frame. Into these
bands the photographs are stuck; therefore, they must be sewn firmly
down at the sides where they end and commence, and stretch tightly
across the quilted frame. On the right-hand bottom corner of the
foundation, which is never covered with photographs, the owner’s
initials are sometimes worked in black silk over the quilting lines.
This makes a good finish, but is not essential.

Bachelors’ wall pincushions are useful presents for gentlemen. They are
made of plush, and are ornamented with the perforated brass ornament
used about the harness of cart-horses. These brass rounds are sold by
all harness and saddle makers, and cost from sixpence to a shilling,
and for the latter price the small brass handle by which they hang will
be removed by the shopman, as it is not required for the pincushion. A
quarter of a yard of plush, a quarter of a yard of house-flannel, and
one yard of narrow satin ribbon are required for these cushions. To
make them, tear up the house-flannel into an inch and a quarter wide
widths. Roll these strips very tightly one over the other as a wide
narrow wheel, and keep the strips firm by sticking pins through the
wheel. When a round as large as the perforated brass is made, cut the
plush into two rounds of the same size and a long strip an inch and a
half wide. Cover one plush round with the perforated brass, and sew
them both on the face of the wheel and well through to the back; turn
the edges of the round of plush over the side, and sew on the round for
the back of the cushion; conceal the edges of both pieces of plush with
the narrow band, which turn in at its edges and secure tightly round
the sides of the cushion. Make a loop of the ribbon to hang up the
pincushion by, and sew the ends to the sides of the cushion, and with
the remaining ribbon make a pretty bow, which fasten to the top of the
loop.

The newest decoration for white wooden articles is the poker or
burnt-wood work. This consists of burning down the background of any
design so that the design itself is in relief. The fumes of the burning
wood slightly colour the parts left untouched, and give an extremely
soft and ivory-like appearance to the work, which, if carried out with
the new apparatus introduced by Mr. Barnard, is quickly and easily
accomplished.

The articles decorated with burnt wood work are all kinds of white
wood photo frames, small wooden table screens, all kinds of boxes,
bookslides, book cutters, drawing-room bellows, salt boxes, milking
stools, tubs, paste rollers, etc. The best designs are those of large,
single-petalled flowers, with their leaves, such as daffodils, daisies,
and dog-roses. The design is drawn upon the wood, outlined with a
burnt-in line, and its chief lines, such as divisions of flower petals,
centres of flowers, veins of leaves indicated, and then the background
burnt until it is depressed, and is of a warm brown deepening to
black in colour. Mr. Barnard’s apparatus consists of a platinum point
connected by an indiarubber tube to a bottle of benzine, which is
connected with another indiarubber tube to a small air pump. The
latter held in the left hand is pressed, forcing air over the benzine
to the platinum point and keeping that always red hot. The right hand
holds the point and uses it like a broad pencil, keeping it steadily
pressed on the wood until that is deeply burnt in. This apparatus costs
twenty-five shillings, but if several girls join together to purchase
it, there is no further outlay. Small pokers are used if the apparatus
is not procurable. These are about eight inches long and an inch in
circumference; they are sunk in wooden handles, and kept hot in a fire;
four to six are required at once, as they soon become cold. The parts
of the wood not burnt, such as the back of a screen, the legs of a
stool, require to be stained, sized, and varnished, and the burnt wood
is also varnished (not stained) as a finish. The paste rollers are used
for holding whips, keys, etc. They are hung to the wall with coloured
ribbons, and have a row of hooks screwed into them to hang keys, etc.,
to.

        B. C. SAWARD.




THE AMATEUR CHOIR TEACHER.

BY THE HON. VICTORIA GROSVENOR.


In a former article we made some suggestions as to the possibility of
improving a moderate gift for music with the view of learning to play
the organ and qualifying for the noblest of service, that of leading
God’s praise in His church.

We propose now to take up the subject of training choirs for the same
excellent service, on the understanding that the future teacher has
taken the advice already given as to her own musical improvement.
Personal fitness for this branch of instruction is most necessary; as
if once the taught discover they know anything of which the teacher
has not more perfect knowledge, that teacher’s task will be a hard
one. Therefore, there should be familiar acquaintance with every
description of musical notation. Alto and tenor clefs should be well
understood to be clearly explained when met with. On this subject we
should like to recommend the careful study of “A Short Treatise on
the Stave,” by the late Dr. John Hullah, published by Parker, where
the whole matter is admirably set forth and illustrated on its own
technical grounds. The often-heard, but somewhat slipshod explanation,
“Oh! you must read a note higher or a note lower,” which leaves the
puzzled learner very much where he was before, will thus be avoided.
Even supposing the alto and tenor clefs are never met with, the study
will repay the intending teacher by opening her mind and giving
clearness to her musical ideas.

It will be seen, by what has been said, that we consider our amateur
teacher’s first qualification should be thorough knowledge of her
subject. The second should decidedly be untiring patience, which will
bear with stupidity, carelessness, want of zeal, deficient ear, bad
pronunciation, and all the thousand and one difficulties which beset
choirs. These consist generally of volunteers who join with but little
idea of giving of their best to God, and an impatient teacher would
soon find herself in the lonely position of the last player in Haydn’s
“Good-bye” symphony.

We would next place hopefulness in the teacher’s catalogue of moral
furniture. The learners will soon find out if they are being taught
without hope of their improvement; listless work will be the result,
and the shy, anxious members will give it up in despair. The power of
encouraging effort, of detecting and commending the slightest sign of
improvement, of persuading the members mentioned above that the work is
within their grasp, if persevered in, is most necessary, and a kindly
sunny disposition ever ready to look at the brightest side is simply
invaluable.

Next we should place regularity and perseverance. Without these the
teacher can do nothing. If she works in the best spirit she will feel
that, like David, she cannot offer to God of that which doth cost her
nothing, and she will be ready to forego little pleasures in order that
the practice may not be interfered with, or the evening of the week
changed. This last is a most important point; as the lives of working
people, from whose ranks most members of choirs are recruited, do not
adapt themselves to change, they seldom receive in its integrity a
hasty message sent round to put off, and of all things, a walk for
nothing after a day’s work is to be avoided. Of course rules must be
elastic and not unbending as iron, but experience shows that the above
advice is really needful. Regularity in the teacher is sure to be
imitated by the learners, and steady work must tell in the end.

The next point should be firmness tempered with wisdom. The teacher
must be supreme, or no choir will prosper. Infallible she cannot be
while here below; but even so, one will must rule or anarchy will be
the result. Twenty (or whatever number may compose the choir) views
of doing the same thing cannot conduce to harmony, moral or musical,
and this fact must be impressed. At the same time there are local
prejudices and fancies in most places, which a clever tactful teacher
will soon discover and understand, so as to know when she had better
give way.

Enough has been said to show that we do not consider the task of
teaching a choir an easy one, nor will it always repay with success
those who have given it much trouble. The teacher must sometimes find
herself grappling with the effort of making the proverbial “sow’s ear
into a silk purse.” She has impossible materials to weld, such as,
_e.g._, excellent, but roaring basses, trebles possessing no high
notes, tenors out of tune, and leaning to amalgamation with treble,
altos none! What is she to do? Courage! Go on, do your best, teach,
exhort, scold, coax, never lose hope, and if you get no credit, try
not to mind. Man does not know, but God does, what work you do for His
sake, only be sure that you are so doing it. If the music be really
the unattainable “silk purse,” how much may be done in teaching the
inharmonious little choir to phrase well, to throw out by judicious
accent the sense of canticle and hymn, and so lead the congregation to
think of the lesson it contains! How much zeal may be kindled by the
teacher’s energy! How speedily the broad dialect peculiar to the place
will disappear before a little good-natured chaff and imitation from
one in whose lips it is seen, even by its votaries, to be ridiculous!
How the ill-used letter “H” may be helped and restored with the advice
of breathing over it.

The reader will not, perhaps, think us very encouraging; but it is
obvious that where excellent voices are to be had, forming them into
a choir only needs intelligence and a firm hand from one who is equal
in knowledge to the task undertaken. We have, therefore, tried to suit
our advice to the needs of the many, who must perforce work under
difficulty, being obliged to take, not the materials they desire to
have, but only the heterogeneous ones at hand.

A few practical suggestions and we have done! Do not attempt too much
in public. Congregations are very critical. One piece of music badly
done will be more noticed than several faultless ones. On the other
hand, keep on learning some music above the power of the choir for
improvement and interest. In cold weather, when possible, choose music
which does not try the voices too much by giving them sustained high
notes to sing.

Lastly, work according to the views of the vicar of the parish, who
is responsible for everything in it; try to carry out in the best
possible manner whatever form of musical worship he desires to have in
his parish church. You may not be of the same opinion; but you will
gain nothing but good by putting your own views in the background and
thus learning to obey as well as to teach. And may we not hope that
the loving Father will acknowledge such work, even if imperfect in its
results, as done by His child to His Glory?




“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.


Mrs. Wilson’s recovery was slow and tedious, even more trying to
herself, perhaps, than to her nurses. She had always been particularly
brisk and active, and had scorned to consider, or, as she said,
“coddle,” herself in any way, and it was a great trial to her
energetic, self-reliant nature to be waited on hand and foot, and
watched over “like a baby.”

Ella, entirely unaccustomed as she was to illness of any sort, save
her mother’s occasional attacks of asthma, thought the nurse was
unnecessarily checking her aunt’s attempts to help herself, till Mrs.
Mobberly explained to her what different treatment is necessary for
different people, and how impossible it would be, with Mrs. Wilson’s
active temperament, to prevent her from getting excited and over-tired
if she once began to take any part in what was going on around her,
although a little exertion might have been actually beneficial to one
of a calmer and more indolent nature.

It seemed a long time before Mrs. Wilson was allowed any food more
substantial than beef-tea, of which she wearied greatly in spite of the
nurse’s many devices for varying it. She showed Ella how to alter the
nature of it altogether by making it with half the quantity of mutton,
or veal, instead of entirely beef; or with all three together. This
not only made a pleasant change, but the doctor told them it was often
found more easily digestible than when made of beef alone. Then again,
both flavour and consistency were varied by adding cream, or an egg
well beaten up, or thickening with corn flour, tapioca, wheaten flour,
or rice, while at other times it was served clear, without either
flavouring or thickening, or in the form of a jelly turned out of a
tiny mould not larger than a teacup.

Gradually, however, Mrs. Wilson began to take more solid food, and
then Ella’s great difficulties began. By the end of her first week’s
experience of providing real meals for her aunt, she wrote to her
mother that she had come to the conclusion that it was quite impossible
to arrange dishes suitable in every respect for a sick room.

“Do pity the sorrows of a poor young housekeeper,” she wrote, “with
three people to please, the doctor, the nurse, and the patient, and
they all want something different. First comes the doctor, and tells
me I must now devote my attention to making the dishes as nourishing
as possible, as it is time aunt was picking up her strength again; so
I crowd in all the strengthening things I can think of, and flatter
myself I have made a mixture strong enough to restore the weakest
invalid; and the consequence is that next day nurse tells me she has
been up all night with her patient, whose supper was too concentrated
to digest. Next time, inspired by nurse’s tale of sufferings, I make
the simplest dish imaginable, which could not disagree with a baby,
and it comes down almost untouched, with a sarcastic remark from Aunt
Mary that when she is well she does not mind how plain her food is, but
that in her present state of health she needs something to tempt the
appetite a little. And yet——but I will draw a veil over the doctor’s
reproaches when I ventured to make her a spicy little dish.”

But on the whole, in spite of her poor opinion of her own performances,
Ella managed to supply the needs of the sick-room very satisfactorily;
and she was much comforted on hearing from her mother that even
the most experienced housekeepers find it a hard task to tempt the
capricious appetite of an invalid, especially when it is necessary also
that the food should be very nourishing, and at the same time so light
as not to overtax the most feeble digestion, Mrs. Hastings sent her
daughter a list of suggestions for little dishes for the sick-room,
and added, at the close of her letter—

“At any rate, my child, if your task is difficult, as I know it must
be, it is also satisfactory, for you can watch your patient each day
able to take a little more nourishment, or a little more substantial
food than the day before. You are saved the terribly sad duty of vainly
trying to tempt an appetite which daily gets a little poorer, or of
watching a dear one getting each day a little weaker, proving only too
clearly that all your efforts are in vain.”

Happily Mrs. Wilson liked oysters, and, though she soon tired of them,
as of everything else, they formed the basis of a number of tempting
little dishes. The favourite of these, a suggestion of the doctor’s,
was called “Angels on Horseback.” Ella was very anxious to know what
the ridiculous name meant, but could get no information from the
doctor, who said he had often wondered himself, but all he knew was
that it was a favourite dish with invalids, and that was the name it
had always gone by. Each oyster was taken from the shell, and the beard
cut off, and was then rolled up in a very thin slice of bacon, tied
round with cotton, and fried. Usually three of these little rolls were
enough for a dish.

At first Ella’s generous nature led her into the mistake of sending
up too large quantities of everything for the patient, but she
soon learnt that a dish which would tempt an invalid if offered in
small quantities, would be pushed aside in disgust if large and
substantial-looking.

Next to “Angels on Horseback,” the favourite dishes were scalloped
or stewed oysters; while for a little additional nourishment between
meals, the nurse would often suggest a “Prairie Oyster.” This
exceedingly simple dish is not an oyster at all, but merely the raw
yolk of an egg, served like an oyster on a small shell, with the
smallest possible sprinkling of salt and pepper over it. The white must
be very carefully strained off, so as to preserve the yolk unbroken,
and it can then be slipped into the mouth and swallowed without any
trouble to the patient.

Two other favourite dishes which the cook was particularly clever in
making were jellied veal and faggots. For the former a small knuckle of
veal was boiled till the meat slipped easily off the bones, which were
then taken out. The meat was cut into very small pieces, and pepper,
salt, mace, and thyme added to taste, with a small shalot chopped very
fine. This was all put back into the liquor, and boiled again till it
was thick, and then turned into a mould. When cold it formed a stiff
jelly. Ella always found the flavouring a difficulty, for Mrs. Wilson’s
taste as an invalid was of course very different from what it was
when in health, and her digestion was very easily upset; but the cook
obstinately declared that she knew her mistress’s tastes better than
Ella, and in spite of all orders persisted in putting in flavouring
according to her own fancy; so that many dishes which might have been
simple and nourishing enough to be frequently asked for, had to be
altogether prohibited, as being too spicy for the invalid’s delicate
digestion.

For the faggots, a rump steak was cut into thin strips of about three
inches by two, and on these was spread a little butter, with pepper,
salt, and the smallest atom of minced shalot, or sometimes a few herbs.
The strips were then rolled up, tied with string, and fried in butter
or clarified dripping, and served up in gravy.

Then there were the different kinds of panada, made of slices of
chicken or game cut off the bones, and scraped and pounded, and gently
simmered in milk; not to mention the numberless ways of cooking eggs,
buttered, scrambled, poached, and boiled, besides omelettes, custards,
and milk puddings of all descriptions.

At last, Mrs. Wilson began to show signs of real improvement, and as
her strength returned she was allowed to spend part of every day on her
comfortable, old-fashioned sofa, while a few visitors were admitted
to see her. The nurse kept a very watchful eye over these visitors,
and after their departure sometimes expressed herself in very strong
language to Ella, saying that, “They ought to know better than to tire
out an invalid with stopping such a long time, and as for some of them,
why, they don’t never seem to care how high they send Mrs. Wilson’s
temperature up, with their worriting talk, and exciting the poor
creature so.”

The nurse would have soon taken the matter into her own hands, and
requested the visitors to retire when her patient began to look tired,
but that Mrs. Wilson preferred Ella’s attendance in the room to that of
the nurse when visitors came, and she was not sufficiently experienced
to know when her aunt was beginning to get tired. The nurse hit upon
a plan, at last, which afforded Ella a good deal of secret amusement.
Mrs. Wilson’s spectacle-case was always placed on a little table by
the side of her sofa, and the nurse arranged that, whenever she began
to feel a little tired, and wished to be relieved of her visitors, she
should take up this spectacle-case and lay it beside her on the sofa,
which should be the signal for Ella, or the nurse, to suggest to the
caller that Mrs. Wilson had talked as much as was good for her.

Every morning Ella had to bring an account of all the pets to her aunt,
and under her searching questions revealed an amount of ignorance that
quite appalled the old lady.

“You should not feed the ducks and hens together,” she said, one day,
in answer to a remark of Ella’s. “Of course, the ducks eat more than
their share, with their great flat bills. Where are your brains, child?”

Ella had a good deal of trouble with the fowls’ food at first. Their
morning meal was soft food, consisting of “sharps” (the outer part of
wheat, which is separated in grinding the corn for white flour) and
barley meal, mixed in equal parts, and added to any kitchen scraps
there might be. This was wetted with boiling water, and should have
been made into a stiff, dryish paste—a point Mrs. Wilson had been most
particular about. The cook, however, objected to any extra trouble; as
it was much easier to pour in water enough at once to make the mixture
wet and sloppy, she always did so; while, as for the kettle really
boiling—well, that was only one of her mistress’s many fads.

Then there was the Indian meal, which ought not to have been used,
except in the cold weather, and then only occasionally mixed with
the other meal, but this had all been used up, and no fresh had been
ordered, so the fowls had been fed on Indian meal alone, till that,
too, was finished.

Again, with her liberal ideas, Ella gave them far more food than they
could eat, and the wet, sour mess lay about all day; so that it was not
at all to be wondered at that the fowls drooped, seemed out of order,
and did not lay their proper quantity of eggs, and Ella, afraid of
exciting her aunt by telling her they were ailing, only increased the
evil by increasing the quantity of food.

This state of things had lasted some time, when the nurse took pity
on Ella’s difficulties, and told her it would do her aunt no harm to
be asked for advice about the fowls; so, to Ella’s great relief, they
talked the matter over together, and a change was instituted in the
feeding. Fresh meal of all kinds was ordered, and Ella had a practical
lessons in mixing it.

Mrs. Wilson had all the materials brought into her room, and directed
the process, while Ella, arrayed in a large apron, and with her sleeves
turned up carefully, followed her instructions.

Some potato peelings and kitchen scraps had previously been boiled
together till they were quite soft, and now Ella cut these up small,
with an old knife, and then mixed the meal in equal parts, while
waiting for the kettle to boil.

As soon as it boiled, the scraps were mixed in with the dry flour, and
Ella, seizing the big wooden spoon, began to stir vigorously, while the
nurse poured in the boiling water.

“Enough water,” Mrs. Wilson cried, in spite of the incredulity of
the two operators, who had intended to put in twice as much. “Don’t
stop beating it up, child,” and Ella continued till she was hot and
breathless.

“Now take up a handful and squeeze it.”

Ella did so, and it fell from her hand a stiff lump, leaving her palm
quite clean.

“That is quite right,” said Mrs. Wilson, encouragingly, after slowly
arranging her gold spectacles, and peering at the mass in the basin.
“See that it is always stiff like that; and never give them more than
they will run after when you throw it for them. If you find any is
left, do not give them so much next time. At night give them each as
much grain as you can take up in your hand, but no more. You may give
the ducks a little more, but stop at once when their hunger is not
keen. Now go and feed them, child; I am tired.”

Under this treatment the fowls soon revived, and Ella was happy about
them again, at any rate till she discovered that she had made other
mistakes. She found the eggs she got now were much better and richer
than those bought in shops, or even than those she got when the fowls
were being carelessly fed, and that in consequence fewer of them were
necessary in cooking.

One day, before she had began to take solid food, to the great delight
of her nurses, Mrs. Wilson declared she was hungry, and had taken a
fancy for a boiled egg. There were not many eggs from the hens now, but
the ducks laid regularly; so Ella picked out a fine large duck egg,
and carried in the prettily arranged tray herself; but what was her
disappointment when, on breaking the shell, the egg was found not to be
fresh. Her aunt pushed the tray away in disgust, the sight of the bad
egg had quite turned off her appetite, and she refused to eat anything
at all.

The nurse was very much vexed, and Ella herself was greatly distressed,
and went off with the tray, more convinced than ever that housekeeping
was not her vocation, and that she never would succeed in it.

The next time she was alone in the sick-room her aunt told her that she
was evidently very careless about the eggs, and must begin to manage
them differently. To begin with, she must use up all in the house as
quickly as possible for cooking, and every fresh one that came in must
be dated with lead pencil, and placed in order, with the large end
downward, in a board pierced with round holes for the purpose, and
which was kept in the cool larder. They were to be used in the order in
which they were brought in, and, Mrs. Wilson added, severely, she hoped
they would not soon disgrace themselves again by serving up a musty egg.

At the beginning of January, Mrs. Wilson directed Ella to bring a
certain note-book and the writing materials.

“Now,” she began, as soon as Ella was ready, “you will find a list, at
the beginning, of all subscriptions that are due. I want you to write
to all the people, and enclose the amounts. I will write cheques for
the large sums, but for the others you must get postal orders. Make a
list of all you will want, and then you can get them when you go out.”

“But they have not applied for the subscriptions yet, auntie. I have
brought you every application that has come. Would it not be better to
leave them till they are asked for?”

But this did not suit Aunt Mary’s views at all. She pointed out to Ella
that she kept a note herself of the date when her subscriptions were
due, and therefore knew the time as well as the recipients; and so she
did not see the good of making the charities expend a penny postage,
in addition to the cost of paper and envelope and clerk’s salary, in
merely reminding her of the fact.

“And be sure,” she continued, “that you put a stamped envelope in with
each subscription. I want them to get the benefit of the whole amount,
without having to spend part of it in reminding and thanking me.”

“There is another notice under the ‘January’ heading, auntie, about
paying the dog tax. Ought that to be attended to?”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. Now you see the good of keeping a memorandum
book, for I had quite forgotten that January was the month for renewing
the licence. That will be seven and sixpence. Two dogs, did you say?
Dear, dear, child, how ignorant you are, to be sure! Don’t you know
that dogs are not taxed till they are six months old, and the puppy is
not nearly that yet?”

Ella looked rather crestfallen at this rebuke, which her aunt
perceiving, hastened to comfort her by saying—

“Well, it can’t be helped. You are a good girl, and do your best,
my dear; but things were different when I was young, and girls were
expected to know all the ways of a house. Ah, yes! girls were very
useful, in the old days, when I was young.”

(_To be continued._)




“NO.”

BY MARY E. HULLAH.


[Illustration]

Embrance Clemon sat writing in a snug room on the second floor of
a house in an old-fashioned London street. A geranium stood on a
flower-stand near the window; the walls were painted brown, and the
carpet had faded into a comfortable insignificance.

Embrance was just twenty-four. She had come to London three years ago,
on the strength of a promise of two pupils, and, behold! the pupils
had multiplied rapidly, and she now had as many lessons as she could
manage. She had been brought up by an aunt in the west of England; she
had been educated at a high school, where she had successfully passed
all the examinations that were open to her, and she was thoroughly
happy in her present work. In very truth, she stood alone in the world.
A few months ago, Mrs. Clemon (the aunt who had bestowed upon her such
good care) had set sail for New Zealand, to join her only son, who was
a farmer. She would fain have taken Embrance with her, but there were
two insurmountable difficulties in the way: a lack of funds, and the
young farmer’s desire to marry his cousin, as soon as he should be in
a position to support a wife. Embrance liked him, but she did not like
him well enough to consent to this arrangement; she therefore decided
to remain in London, and Mrs. Clemon, after some fretting, had been
induced to look upon the plan with approval.

The years of work in the smoke and fog had not done more than tone down
the roses in Embrance’s cheeks; her hair, simply drawn back and plaited
to her head, was that shade of brown that most people call black; she
had kindly brown eyes, a large mouth, and a smile that won the hearts
of her pupils at once, and caused their elder sisters to say that,
after all, Miss Clemon was not so plain when you came to talk to her.
Certainly, Miss Clemon was very little given to thinking about her
appearance. It was, as Mrs. Clemon had always maintained, a pity. The
grey gown that she wore, with a stiff collar, was singularly unbecoming
to her; it was, indeed, warm and scrupulously neat, but when you had
said that, you had come to an end of its praises. It was hideous.

At last, Embrance put down her pen and looked at the clock; it was
getting late, and the tea-things were still uncleared from one end of
the table. The street was very quiet, and she heard the postman’s knock
next door.

“I wish somebody would write to me,” she said, aloud.

It was not the mail day, but there were friends in the country who
corresponded with her from time to time, and to-night she would have
rejoiced over the arrival of any letter. “I almost think,” she said,
looking round her little domain with a half-stifled sigh, “that it was
a pity that I refused to go to that concert, but if I had gone”—with
a glance at a thick book—“I shouldn’t have got through my reading.
By-and-by, when I’m an old lady, perhaps I shall have time to enjoy
myself!” The gratification that she derived from this reflection was
considerably damped by the after-thought, “and then I shan’t care about
it!”

Her meditations were interrupted at this stage by a sound of stumbling
footsteps on the staircase. It was Annie, the maid, panting and out of
breath; there was a lady just come, who wanted to see Miss Clemon.

“A lady!” repeated Embrance. “What is her name?”

“She didn’t say, miss; she is coming up.”

A sharp ring of a bell sent Annie hurrying down stairs again; the lady,
whoever she was, would have to find her way unassisted.

Embrance went out on to the landing. “The stairs are very steep,” she
said, “please take care.”

“Embrance, oh, dear Embrance! is that you at last?” said a voice from
below. “I thought I should never find you in this horrible dark place;
how can you bear it?”

“Hush! Come up; I am glad to see you, Joan. Come into my room.”

The new-comer ran up the last few steps, and flung her arms vehemently
round Embrance, who led her into her sitting-room, and then drew back
to look at her.

“Oh, Embrance,” gasped Joan, fairly breaking down now that the door was
shut behind her, “do be glad to see me! I have taken you by surprise,
haven’t I? But you said you would always help me, so I’ve come.”

She took off her hat, and sat down on the sofa, dragging Embrance with
her. She was a young, fair girl, graceful in every movement, with a
small, delicate face, surrounded by masses of yellow hair. Her blue
eyes were full of tears, and her pretty lips quivered.

“My darling,” said Embrance, tenderly, holding her by both hands, “of
course you came if you wanted me; but you are so tired and cold, I will
ring for some hot water and make you fresh tea, and when you are rested
you shall tell me all about it.”

“Let me tell you now,” said Joan, excitedly. “Oh, Embrance! it is
so dull at home now that you are gone, and Mrs. Clemon is gone, and
everybody I care for! And I don’t get on with my painting, and they
cracked my best plate just when I wanted to send it to the Exhibition
at Exeter.”

“Well, never mind. You must begin another one,” said Embrance,
coaxingly, almost as if she had been speaking to a child, while she cut
thin slices of bread-and-butter, and produced cake from the recesses of
a cupboard. “Tell me, is your grandfather in London?”

“No; he’s at home, and Emily, too. I said that I should like to come
to you, and they said very well—I must write and ask you if it would
be convenient. And then I packed a bag, and just came up by the next
train.”

“My dear Joan, they will think that you are lost.”

“No they won’t. I wrote a letter to grandpapa before I came away, and
he had given his consent, you know. Are you shocked, Embrance?”

“Not in the least.” Embrance’s dark eyes rested on her friend with a
look that showed how completely she meant what she said. “But I should
like to hear the rest of the story, Joan. There is something more than
a cracked plate.”

“You are a real conjuror. I believe you know all about it without my
telling you.” Joan hung her head, and went on pathetically, “Alfred
Brownhill has been tiresome again, and grandpapa is bent upon my
accepting him, and Emily keeps on trying to persuade me. She says that
it is ridiculous for a girl in my position to throw away such a good
chance. I am tired of being told so often that I’m dependent; so——”

“You came to me to learn to do for your self, you poor child! You know
how glad I shall be to help you, if I can.”

“Embrance, you’re the kindest person in the world!” was all Joan said;
but she slipped her hand into her friend’s slim fingers caressingly.

They had been friends from childhood. Embrance had often helped
little Joan Fulloch with her lessons, or coaxed her grandfather into
overlooking some escapade that was against his notions of propriety.
She knew well that it was a dreary home for an imaginative girl down at
Doveton, and that Emily (another granddaughter of the old man’s) was as
unsympathetic as she could be, looking upon Joan’s wish to become an
artist as the wildest of wild schemes. Embrance had vague recollections
of Mr. Brownhill (a flourishing county town solicitor) as a dull man,
who played lawn tennis. She did not believe that Joan liked him, and
as the child was harshly treated at home, she was doubly welcome here.
At any rate, if the worst came to the worst, there was a small sum in
the savings bank that would pay extra expenses for a year to come—and a
year was a long time to look forward in Embrance’s eyes.

Joan soon regained her spirits, and forgot her fatigue in the novelty
of the situation. It was like a fairy tale, living up here at the top
of that corkscrew staircase; and what a pretty flower! and might she
paint here when Embrance was out? She had her own notions, though they
were somewhat erratic, about making money.

To-morrow she would write to her cousin, Horace Meade, and he would
help her to get something to do; and she began making calculations as
to the number of people who required dinner services in the course of
a year. If Horace could once get orders for her, her fortune was made,
and in her spare time, she would paint landscapes for exhibitions.
“Then, you must give up these rooms,” exclaimed Joan, eagerly, “and we
can go and live somewhere where there is a garden. And, dear Embrance,
you’ll let me buy you another dress. You ought really never to wear
that cold colour.”

Joan’s own dress was of a delicate blue shade, hanging in artistic
folds about her pretty figure.

Embrance heaved a little sigh; she was accustomed of old to her
friend’s castle-building, but she would not say a word to damp her
ardour on this first night. She arranged her books and papers ready for
the morning’s work (her special reading must, of course, be put aside
now), then she came and sat by Joan, and listened to her long account
of home troubles, till the clock struck eleven, and the lamp began to
burn low.

The days passed on; the winter was at hand. In spite of Joan Fulloch’s
good resolutions, in spite of her hostess’s kindness, she was far
from content in her new surroundings. Her grandfather had sent a box
containing clothes and painting materials; he had enclosed a brief note
in which he foretold that she would soon wish to return to Doveton.
Perhaps, if it had not been for this note, Joan would have said
good-bye to Embrance and the second floor parlour some weeks ago. As
it was she stayed on, always looking out for commissions that never
came, and making plans to paint pictures that she never began. Either
the light was too bad, or she had a headache; there was always an
excuse, and Embrance returned night after night, to find her visitor
plunged in the depths of despair. She would straightway set to work
to cheer her up, and before tea was over, Joan was invariably sure
of success—to-morrow or the next day. At last she heard of a pupil,
but, unfortunately, she did not take kindly to teaching; she was very
unpunctual, and it did not seem likely that her connection would
increase with rapidity. In the meantime, Embrance had begun to draw
upon her savings, for the expenses had increased marvellously since the
autumn. There were so many little luxuries that Joan, poor child, could
not possibly do without.

“Embrance,” said Joan, one evening. She was sitting over the fire with
a novel, her face was flushed, and her hair was disordered; “I do want
so many things. I wish I could earn some money.”

“You have got your pupil,” said Embrance, looking up from her book.
She was translating Schiller, and it was the third time that Joan had
interrupted her.

“Five shillings an hour!” exclaimed Joan, kicking the fireirons down
with a clatter. “It’s so little; I shan’t have earned enough by
Christmas to buy a winter jacket, and besides, I owe you so much,
Embrance!”

“Never mind about that, Joanie; I have enough for the present, if we
are careful.”

“It is so tiresome of Horace to be away just when I want him most,”
continued Joan, “but he’ll come to-morrow; he has enough to do; he
ought to be able to help me. Do try and be in early to-morrow.”

Embrance shook her head. “I can’t be home till seven o’clock.”

“Put off that stupid lesson.”

“I’m afraid it is impossible.”

“I want you to see Horace. You never do anything I ask you!”

“I am very sorry, Joan.”

“What’s the good of being sorry?” asked Joan, pettishly. “No, no! I
don’t mean it!” She turned round sharply and saw that her friend’s eyes
were full of tears. In a second, she had flung down her book and was
kneeling at Embrance’s chair: “Do forgive me, it isn’t true. You are
the only person in the world who has real patience with me. Don’t mind
what I said; I didn’t mean it.”

It took some time to calm Joan down after her fit of penitence, but at
last she went back to her novel.

Embrance sat with both arms on the table; the translation got no
farther. Her heart was full of love for her friend, and yet—she had
her fair share of common sense—she could not but see that Joan was
thoroughly unfit for her present mode of life. She was just one of
those girls who would be happiest in a home of her own. Here, for once,
Embrance found herself cordially agreeing with Emily Fulloch, who was
as old-fashioned in her notions as it was possible for a narrow-minded
spinster to be.

Perhaps a “brain-wave” of sympathy passed from one friend to another at
that moment, for Joan looked up from her book:

“Darling, I think you will like Horace better than Mr. Brownhill,
though he is not so good-looking. I hope you will!”

“I will try,” said Embrance, jumping up to kiss Joan; “I will try my
hardest, for your sake.”

Joan blushed, and Embrance began talking of other matters.

A week later, Mrs. Rakely (a friend of the Fullochs) came to London.
She stayed at an hotel close by, and was glad of Joan’s company, as
she wished to get through as much sight-seeing as she conveniently—or
inconveniently—could in the space of a fortnight.

One Saturday afternoon Embrance had come home early (Joan had gone to
luncheon with Mrs. Rakely); she was tired, it had been a warm, rainy
day; her boots were muddy and her dress was damp. The armchair by the
fire looked very tempting; she sat down, and in a few seconds was fast
asleep, dreaming of a magnificent abode in New Zealand, where Joan, in
a white satin gown and a diamond necklace, was blissfully wedded to an
emperor with flowing ringlets and bright grey eyes. The emperor had
very bright eyes, indeed, and a habit of knocking on the ground with
his sceptre; he was also afflicted with a curious kind of cough that
did not sound natural—and yet it was natural, appallingly so. With a
start and a jerk, Embrance sat up in her chair wide awake, and met the
gaze of a real pair of grey eyes (brimming over with fun) that belonged
to a gentleman, who stood, hat in hand, at the open door.

“I really apologise humbly,” he said, without venturing to approach;
“but I was told to walk up, and I knocked several times, and someone
said ‘Come in.’”

Embrance had recovered her presence of mind. “Please do come in,” she
said. “I am very sorry that I was asleep; but I was so tired. I think
you are Mr. Meade?”

“That is my name,” said the visitor, looking across the room from the
smoky fire to the rows of books with a quick glance; “and I have the
pleasure of speaking to Miss Clemon.”

“Yes,” said Embrance, holding out her hand. “Joan will be so
disappointed to miss you. She is not in.”

The recollection of her plans for Joan’s future happiness brought the
blood to her cheeks. She stooped over the fire to hide her confusion.
Yes, she liked the look of him. He had a clever, kindly face, much
bronzed by the sun; he wore a short beard and a turned-down collar; he
had no gloves, and his hands were long and thin.

“Do let me do that for you,” said Mr. Meade, putting down his hat and
umbrella. “I am exceedingly skilful at managing fires and chimneys; in
fact, I have occasionally regretted not having been brought up to it
professionally.”

“As a chimney-sweep?” inquired Embrance.

“No, I think not,” said Mr. Meade, gravely, as he inserted the poker
between the bars, “but there might have been an opening as stoker or
master of the bellows in some grand family. There, now, if you will
allow me to have a sheet of newspaper, I think I shall succeed to
perfection.”

Embrance fetched the newspaper, and in a few minutes the crimson flames
were leaping up the chimney.

(_To be continued._)




THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.


CHAPTER IX.

The following Saturday turned out to be a misty November morning.
Towards noon the fog lifted, and at half-past one, when Dame Hursey
prepared to start to keep her appointment with her son, it was
tolerably clear, but the old wool-gatherer, who was as weather-wise as
John Shelley himself, shook her head as she scanned the horizon from
the door of her miserable cottage, and muttered to herself she doubted
the fog would come on worse than ever at sunset.

As this was the first time she had seen her son for twelve or thirteen
years, and would probably be the last, seeing that he was going back
to Australia, probably never to return, at least in her lifetime, Dame
Hursey regarded the occasion as a festive one, and had taken a holiday
in honour of it. Her morning had been spent in cleaning her miserable
cottage, in the faint hope that her son might be persuaded to come home
and spend the evening with her. In this hope all her wool-gatherings
had been taken upstairs instead of lying about the floor and corners
of the kitchen, as they usually did; the floor had been scrubbed, a
fire was lighted, two rickety armchairs drawn up to it, and a cup
and saucer, a mug, and two or three plates—Dame Hursey’s stock of
crockery—placed on the table. She dispensed with dinner, and contenting
herself with a piece of bread and cheese, reserved two red herrings for
her tea on her return with her son.

Then she dressed herself in her Sunday dress, not without some qualms
lest the fog should turn to rain. Even if it did, on such an occasion
as this she must wear her best things, so she put on her black stuff
dress, a black and white plaid shawl, and a bonnet that might have come
out of the ark, judging from its antique shape, and which, to Dame
Hursey’s pride, was ornamented with some dirty old artificial flowers.
Thus attired, and having made up the fire and left the kettle on the
hob, she locked up her hut, put the key in her pocket, and providing
herself with a gigantic cotton umbrella, to answer the purpose of a
walking-stick as well as in case of rain, she set out for Mount Harry.

Though Dame Hursey knew all the short cuts, it was more than an hour’s
walk from her house to the top of Mount Harry, but the old woman was
longing to see her son again, so she started in good time, and reached
the spot a quarter of an hour before he did, though he was punctual.
The fog was rolling up again, as the old wool-gatherer had predicted,
and, accustomed as her black eyes were to piercing the mists which so
often wrap those rounded hills like a damp clinging garment, her son
was close upon her before she saw his form, looming like a gigantic
grey figure close beside her. It was twelve years and a half since
they had met, and George Hursey was very much altered in appearance
since, in the character of John Smith, carpenter on board the French
yacht Hirondelle, he had laid the baron’s little daughter on John
Shelley’s doorstep; but for all that his mother declared she would have
recognised him in a crowd.

“You’ll come home and have a cup of tea and a chat, George, after all
these years, won’t you?” said the old dame, gazing with pride and
affection on her ne’er-do-well son.

“No, mother, no; I might be recognised, and I don’t want to be arrested
for making off with a child, before I go back to my own wife and
children.”

“The child is safe enough, if you mean the child you left on John
Shelley’s doorstep thirteen years ago come next June.”

George Hursey gave a sigh of relief, for many a nightmare had that
innocent baby, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might have
perished from cold or exposure through his fault, given him.

“John Shelley took it in then, as I thought he would?”

“Yes, and a beauty she is, and no mistake. George, tell me who the
child is, will you, honey?” said Dame Hursey, in a wheedling tone.

“That’s what I have come here for chiefly, that and to see you once
again, for when I say good-bye to England to-morrow it will be for good
this time; I am going to give up the sea, and live at home now.”

“Well, you know your own affairs best; but about the lassie, George;
whose child is she? No poor person’s, I’ll be bound,” said Dame Hursey,
whose curiosity about Fairy exceeded even her interest in her son’s
family affairs.

“She is the niece of my late master, a French gentleman, and it was
by his wish I took her to John Shelley, only instead of going in as I
pretended I had done, I left her on the doorstep, and went off with the
purse; and if ever I cursed in my life I have cursed that money, which,
for aught I knew till a few minutes ago, had made me a murderer, though
for that matter I may be one still, for the baroness may have fretted
herself into her grave for her baby.”

“The baroness, did you say, George? Sure, I was right, she is no common
child, no fit wife even for gentleman Jack,” exclaimed the old woman,
opening her umbrella, partly to keep the fog off, partly as a sort of
screen to shut in the secret she had yearned so long to learn. But
George was following up his own train of thought, and went on, heedless
of her interruption—

“Though, as true as I stand here, I never knew till last week that
Monsieur Léon was drowned, and the Hirondelle lost a day or two after
I left her. Likely as not the baron thinks the child was drowned too,
since they have never found her. I might never have known, only I
happened to ask at Yarmouth if they had ever had a French yacht named
Hirondelle over there, and some of the fishermen remembered all about
the wreck. When I heard that I determined to come and see if the child
was safe, and now I know it is, I want to do the rest, mother.”

“Yes, honey, what is it? You may trust me. I guessed the night I met
you you knew all about the fairies’ child, and I have kept your secret
and watched the child ever since, for your sake, George.”

“Well, I want you to go to John Shelley, or to the parson if you like,
or both, and tell them the child belongs to the Baron de Thorens, of
Château de Thorens, near Carolles, in Normandy. Shall I write it down
for you?”

“No, no, I can’t read it if you do; I shall remember fast enough—Baron
de Thorens, Château de Thorens, near Carolles, Normandy. I shall think
of Christmas carols, De Thorens, Château de Thorens,” repeated Dame
Hursey.

“Never mind château, it only means castle, but don’t forget the name,
De Thorens. Here, I’ll cut that word on your umbrella handle with my
knife in printed letters. You can read print, I know.”

“All right; and what else am I to tell them?”

“Why, that my master and the baron gave me the child twelve years and
a half ago to put out to nurse with an Englishwoman. I went ashore at
Brighton in a little boat with Pierre Legros, one of the sailors, and I
walked across the downs with the child, and left it on John Shelley’s
doorstep; then I told Monsieur Léon John had taken it in and promised
to look after it. He took the address, and the only person I thought I
had robbed was John Shelley, though I knew the baron would make it up
to him when he heard of it.”

“Are they rich, George?” asked the old woman, taking a pinch of snuff
as she peered at her son through the fog.

“Yes, I think so. The château is a beautiful place, and stands in a
park.”

“Is that all I am to say?”

“Yes, leave the rest to the parson to decide; he will write to the
baron in French very likely. You may tell them as soon as you like, for
I shall be out of the country to-morrow.”

“I shall wait till you are gone; one day more can’t make any
difference, and it is best to be on the safe side, then if they want
to know where you are, I can say on your way to Australia, so there’ll
be no fear of their catching you, though it is so long ago there isn’t
much danger of that now.”

“Please yourself, and now I must be off. Here are five sovereigns for
you, mother; they are honestly earned, so you need not be afraid to
take them, and now I must say good-bye. How thick the fog is; there is
no danger of anyone seeing me this evening; it is as much as I shall do
to find my way down to the Brighton Road without breaking my neck in
a chalk pie. Take care of yourself, mother; but you know these downs
better than I do,” said George Hursey, kissing his mother.

“Ay, ay, lad, never fear for me; I have been out in worse fogs than
this. Good-bye, God bless you,” and the old wool-gatherer strained her
eyes till her son’s figure disappeared, as it very quickly did, in the
fog.

She stood still for a minute or two after he had gone, gloating over
the secret she had at last discovered, and muttering to herself again
and again, “Baron de Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and then she too
turned and walked slowly off through the fog in a different direction.

It was quite true she had been out in worse fogs than this, but whether
it was that she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to think
of where she was going, or whether the fog, which gradually increased,
was worse than she fancied, she suddenly, after wandering about for
half-an-hour, awoke to the conclusion that she did not know where she
was. If she had come right she ought to have been at the bottom of the
hill by now, whereas she was still on flat ground, and had not begun
the descent.

She had been so absorbed in wondering what the Shelleys, particularly
“gentleman Jack,” as she always called Jack, would say to her news,
and in picturing to herself the amazement on learning that Fairy was
the daughter of a French nobleman, perhaps a baroness herself or a
countess, for Dame Hursey had very vague ideas on the subject of
French titles; and in thinking how pleased Fairy would be to hear she
was a rich lady, that she forgot all about the fog and where she was
going. Loving gossip as she did, the secret George had put in her
power was dearer to her than the five sovereigns tied up in the corner
of her pocket-handkerchief; it would add to her importance in the
neighbourhood more than the gold. Moreover, it might lead to a reward
for her, since she had had no part in leaving the child to the care
of the shepherd, and Fairy she was sure would not suffer her to be
forgotten when the Shelleys came to be rewarded.

“Why, but for me Fairy might never find her parents after all; if I
were to keep this secret to myself she would never know for certain she
was a lady born, perhaps a countess. I shall make them understand that
before I tell them. Or, if anything was to happen to me now before I
have told them, why they’d like to never know it. Bless me, where am
I? This fog is worse than I thought; I ought to have been home by now,
and here I am still on the top. De Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and so
muttering to herself Dame Hursey disappeared in the fog.

That same afternoon, Fairy, little thinking her name and birth were
so soon to be revealed, and her happy life in the shepherd’s cottage
exchanged for a very different one in a French château, had gone for a
walk with Charlie, and, to Mrs. Shelley’s great anxiety, at half-past
five o’clock, when her husband and Jack came in to tea, they were not
home. The fog now was so dense that you could hardly see your hand
before you, and even with a lantern you could not discern anything a
yard or two in advance of you, and Mrs. Shelley was intensely relieved
when John and Jack came home safe.

“Thank God you are both back safely; it is an awful fog, isn’t it,
John?” asked Mrs. Shelley, as John stood wiping the fog from his beard
and face.

“Yes, it is a bad one; luckily both Jack and I saw it was coming on and
got the sheep home before dark, or we might have been half the night on
the downs.”

“Isn’t it tiresome? Charlie and Fairy went out for a walk soon after
dinner, and they are not back now; I have been in such a fright about
them,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“What, mother? Fairy out in this fog? Good heavens! the child may be
killed! What on earth does that little idiot mean by taking her out in
a fog? He deserves a sound thrashing,” burst out Jack.

“Hush, Jack; Charlie may be in danger as well,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“Serve him right too,” muttered Jack, as he went in search of a lantern
without another word.

“Fairy and Charlie out, wife? Dear me, we shall have to go and look for
them; why, they may fall into a chalkpit and break their necks. Where
have they gone?” asked John, leisurely putting on his hat and scarf.

“I don’t know, but I fancy to Mount Harry; I heard Fairy talking about
it.”

“Here, Jack, we shall have to go and look for them children, I think,”
called out the shepherd to Jack.

“Of course we shall; I am lighting the lantern; let’s be off at once,
father,” said Jack, who had made the necessary preparations for the
search while his father was taking in the fact that the children were
lost, and now stood with the lantern in his hand and his dog by his
side at the open door.

“Where are we to go, father?” said Jack as they started.

“Well, your mother says they are gone to Mount Harry, so if we were to
go along the Oatham-road and search those chalkpits as we go, that is
the only place they are likely to have fallen down. If they are not
there, and God forbid they should be, we shall know they have not come
to much harm beyond a fright. When we have passed the chalkpits we can
climb up Mount Harry and come back by the jail; I have my compass, we
can’t go far wrong with that.”

Jack fell in with this plan at once; it was by far the best thing
they could do; but then John Shelley, in his slow, methodical way,
invariably hit upon the wisest plan of action in an emergency, as Jack
very well knew. Accordingly, off they started, each with a lantern and
the shepherd’s dog leading the way. Jack’s own dog was younger and not
so steady as Rover, so he kept him at home. This Rover was a son of
the Rover who had first discovered the fairies’ baby on his master’s
doorstep that midsummer evening, but John Shelley called all his dogs
Rover, and was rather scandalised when Jack insisted on naming his dog
Bruce; it was an innovation, and the shepherd disliked anything new;
however, in this he was persuaded to yield, Mrs. Shelley and Fairy
taking Jack’s part, and saying two Rovers in one family at the same
time would never do.

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration: MILAN CATHEDRAL.]




OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.

BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.


After leaving Lugano, the train enters two tunnels, shortly after
which it crosses the Lake at Bissone, by means of a most hideous stone
bridge. Bissone is a very picturesque village. The little steeple of
the church rises romantically from the luxuriant foliage, and numerous
cottages are scattered on the side of the lake. The charm of the scene,
however, is much marred by the aforementioned bridge.

After leaving Bissone, the train goes directly south to Mendrisio, the
station for Monte Generoso, the view from which is said to be equal (if
not superior) to that from the Rigi. We had intended to climb Monte
Generoso, but it being a very misty day, there would, of course, have
been no view, so we continued our journey, passing Chiasso and Como. At
Chiasso the luggage is examined, for, strange to say, one is in Swiss
territory until arriving at Como.

We did not stay at Como, as we had decided to see that city and its
beautiful lake on our return journey. The route from Como to Milan
interested us, from the variety it afforded to the mountainous
districts we had recently visited. There is, indeed, a great charm in
the dead level of this huge Lombard plain; for apart from its cities,
so interesting, historically and archæologically, we felt a certain
sense of relief in getting again into a flat country, luxuriantly
fertile and productive.

We made a mistake in not staying at Monza, a very ancient city
containing, amongst other interesting buildings, a cathedral, founded
by Queen Teodolinda in the sixth century, and a Broletto, or town
hall, attributed to Frederic Barbarossa. We arrived at Milan early in
the afternoon, and immediately drove to our hotel, through one of the
magnificent gates which guard the approaches to the city.

On entering this, the first great Italian city which we had seen, many
thoughts crowded into our minds. Here we were in a country the very
cradle of European art, where through all times, even down to the
present, art seems a vital necessity to the people. In other lands art
has been an ornament or a luxury, but in Italy it seems to enter into
the very life of the inhabitants, and nothing seems to have been able
to wean them from their devotion to the beautiful creations of the
hand of man. We find them revelling in art when foreign armies were
overunning the country and decimating the population. We find it under
tyranny and oppression of the most galling description—surrounded by
acts of horror and infamy of the most despicable kind. We find it often
in combination with ignorance and folly that are simply contemptible.
We find it existing when liberty was utterly suppressed. Thus during
all the Middle Ages and the period of the Renaissance, whether
the Italians were slaves or free, whether they were conquered or
victorious, whether they were united or divided, still this marvellous
spirit of art seems to have pervaded everything from their religion
down to the most ordinary acts of everyday life.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF MILAN CATHEDRAL.]

Another thought which naturally suggests itself on entering Milan is
that of the two noble characters whose lives stand out like brilliant
meteors amongst the gloom, horror, wickedness, and folly, which stain
so much of her history. We refer to her two Archbishops—St. Ambrose,
the light and glory of her early history; and Charles Borromeo, the
bright star which illumined her deepest gloom. And one cannot help
thinking of the good and great man pursuing his mission of charity
amongst the sick and dying of the plague-stricken city.

Our first thought was to find our way to the cathedral, the second
largest Gothic church in Europe, about which probably more has been
written, and a greater number of conflicting opinions as to its merit
expressed, than about any building in the world, with the exception of
St. Peter’s, Rome. As it is impossible to say anything new about this
wonderful cathedral, we shall principally confine our remarks to our
own individual impressions and opinions.

To commence with, the first view of the interior struck us as far finer
than the more popular exterior. Indeed, so great an effect had it
upon No. 2, that he turned as white as a sheet, and seemed completely
overcome with the wonder of the buildings. The enormous proportions
of the church, the great height of the pillars, with their canopied
niches over the capitals, and the rich religious effect of the whole,
formed a picture, in comparison to which (in our eyes) the blazing but
meretricious glory of the exterior, with its 4,000 or so niches and
vast masses of carving, was not to be compared. It is said that an
intimate acquaintance with both exterior and interior will fall far
short of one’s first impressions.

Now this did not strike us with regard to the interior. No, not even
after we realised the tracery of the roof to be painted, and the
tracery of the windows to be somewhat straggling and unmeaning. But it
is a different matter from the exterior; after the first astonishment
is over, one sees at once the great over-elaboration and the general
“spikiness” of the effect, though No. 1 thought the admixture of the
Renaissance style in the façade saved this portion of the cathedral
by supplying that solidity and “sobriety of line” which the building
otherwise so painfully lacks.

Even before we heard that the architect was supposed to have been
a German, we recognised the Teutonic character of the cathedral,
especially of the interior, which seemed to be not entirely unlike that
of Cologne.

To enter more into detail, the plan is a Latin Cross, terminated by
an apse, and divided into a nave and four aisles. The interior is 477
feet in length, by 183 in breadth, exclusive of the transepts, and is
supported by fifty-two pillars, which are eighty feet in height and
twelve feet in diameter. The before-mentioned niches, which crown the
pillars, are a great feature, each niche being of different design,
and all remarkably beautiful. The roof is elaborately painted in
imitation (so it is said) of tracery. Street calls this an “abominable
device, which never ceases to offend and annoy the eye more and more
every time it is observed.” The effect did not seem to No. 1 at all
disagreeable; quite the contrary. He thought it added great beauty and
richness to the design, and does not believe that it was ever intended
to deceive the beholder into the idea that it is real tracery. “Why
not believe it to be mere decorative painting, and beautiful art as
such?” he asked. But No. 2 was really deceived into believing that the
imitation of tracery was actually what it represented, particularly
as the design, which is in dark-brown colouring upon a light ceiling,
represents carvings of beautiful patterns and filigree work, very much
like the Gothic screens of some of our English cathedrals, only fixed
upon the ceiling instead of being on the line of sight. But when, after
investigation, he found the paint obliterated here and there by damp
and other causes, showing blotches of brown and white, he was disgusted
beyond measure, and began to look upon other work with suspicion.
“Why,” cried he, “should a Christian church impose on the unwary, or to
the wary preach affectation and artifice?”

There is no triforium, and the pavement is a mosaic of various coloured
marbles. There is a great quantity of old stained glass in the windows,
which, though not equal to our old English glass, yet gives the
building a very religious effect, which is still more enhanced by the
colour of the stonework, which has the appearance of old ivory. The
interior is well filled with ancient monuments; but we have no space
to describe them, and will simply add that the most remarkable are
those of Gian Giacomo and Gabriele de Medici, attributed to Michael
Angelo; of Cardinal Caracciolo, in black marble, by Bambaja; and of
Ottone Visconti, Archbishop of Milan, which is earlier in date than
any portion of the cathedral. In the north transept is the bronze
candelabrum for holding seven lamps, constructed in imitation of that
which existed in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem—a magnificent work
erected in the thirteenth century. And in the south transept is a
famous statue of St. Bartholomew being flayed alive.

St. Charles Borromeo, the great Archbishop of Milan, is buried below
the dome in a subterranean chapel. It may interest our girls to know
that he was the originator of Sunday-schools in Europe.

The Duomo of Milan is like no other building in the world, it belongs
to no distinct style of architecture, and in art it had neither parents
nor children. Nothing was ever built like it before, and nothing
will ever be built like it again. We do not say that it is the most
beautiful church ever built, nor do we deny that, architecturally
speaking, it possesses many grave faults, but what we mean is this:
Of all other churches we say they are built in such and such a style,
or are of such and such an order of architecture. But of this we say
simply, it is the Duomo of Milan.

When this vast structure, with its countless pinnacles of pure white
marble glittering in the sun, and backed-up by a dark blue sky, breaks
upon our astonished gaze, the mind is absorbed with wonder.

Is it a vision? What have we seen before like it—possibly only one
thing—the snow-clad peaks of the Alps. One cannot get rid of the notion
that some kind of relationship exists between the two. We begin almost
to suspect that some mighty Alp, with its snow-clad peaks, must have
been its mother—so much is it like the kind of architecture that would
have sprung from the mountains.

It was after leaving the Duomo that the two bachelors had their
first quarrel. This is how it came about:—The older bachelor, who is
impressionable and of a poetical and non-technical turn of mind, enjoys
an undisturbed first sight of a magnificent building, without first of
all inquiring into its structural and architectural details; and if
there is one thing more than another which annoys him, it is to have
the “dry bones” of workmanship dinned into his ears and thrust before
his mental vision when the complete building should rather impress on
him all that it has to say of great achievement and power.

Now the younger bachelor is technical and fond of dates, so seized the
opportunity of showing off his knowledge of history and archæology
at the very moment when his friend was first gazing at the religious
splendour of the interior of the cathedral. This made No. 2 insist
on a judicial separation, at any rate for the first hour, so the
greater part of the building was explored in “single blessedness.”
The quarrel, postponed, of course, until we had left the Duomo, was
happily of short duration, and the two bachelors compared notes, and
came to the conclusion that, after all, more permanent unity is created
by contradictory temperaments. Whether this would apply in the case
of man and wife they unfortunately could offer no opinion founded
on experience, so they wended their way through some very narrow,
uninteresting streets to the church of St. Ambrose, at the west of the
city.

St. Ambrogio, founded in the fourth century, is full of ancient
epitaphs and early Christian antiquities, notwithstanding that it
was very much repaired in the seventeenth century. The walls of the
“atrium,” or open court, in front of it, contain fragments of frescoes,
ancient inscriptions, etc., which, backed up by the Romanesque red
brick church (dating from the ninth century), form one of the most
picturesque scenes in North Italy.

The interior of St. Ambrogio is, if possible, more interesting than
the exterior; it is of grey stone, with arches of red brick, a quaint
effect of colour. There are no transepts, and the building terminates
in an apse.

It would take pages to describe all that is remarkable in the interior
of St. Ambrogio, so we shall only mention some of the interesting
features. On first entering the nave we noticed two pillars, on one of
which is a brazen serpent, said to be the brazen serpent of Exodus. The
vaulting of the apse is very ancient, and is covered with mosaic work
as fine as anything in St. Mark’s, Venice. Below we noticed the old
chair of St. Ambrose. The high altar is interesting, as being the place
where some of the German emperors received the iron crown of Lombardy;
a baldachino or ciborium covers it.

On the front of the high altar (itself a blaze of glory) are depicted
scenes from the life of Christ, while on the back are represented
incidents in the life of St. Ambrose, the former in plates of gold and
the latter silver-gilt.

St. Ambrogio contains several frescoes. The finest are “Legend of St.
George,” by Bernardino; and “Ecce Homo,” by Luini. In it also are the
shrines of Saints Gervasius and Protasius—very popular saints in Italy.

On leaving St. Ambrogio we wished to get straight back to our hotel;
but we unfortunately lost our way, and were obliged to ask an Italian
gentleman to direct us. He not only put us on the right road, but
actually went out of his way to ensure our not losing ourselves again.
This is characteristic of the North Italians. They are really polite,
and, according to the elder bachelor, the most gentlemanly people he
has visited.

After _table d’hôte_ we strolled out of the hotel, and walked through
the magnificent Galleria Vittorio Emmanuel (containing some of the best
shops in Milan) into the Piazza del Duomo. It was a beautiful moonlight
night, and the cathedral looked simply glorious—its dazzling whiteness
almost frightening us as it suddenly burst on our view. After due
deliberation No. 2 irreverently said that the appearance was similar to
that of a colossal wedding-cake, with its sugary-looking ornamentations
under a strong light. The Duomo, though not a very pure example of
Gothic, possibly over-ornamented, and its detail not always in the
best taste, is certainly one of the most extraordinary examples of
man’s industry, perseverance, and wealth to be found in the whole realm
of art.

It was about 9 o’clock p.m. that the first scene was enacted of what
might have completely wrecked our holiday, viz., the longing of the
younger bachelor to smoke one of the long cigars, with straws in them
at either end, which foreigners, especially Italians, seem so to enjoy.
No. 2 (the older) bachelor being the better linguist, went into a
tobacco shop and ordered one of these cigars. It was in vain that the
shopman declared they were never bought by English; it was of no use
his repeating that they were so inferior—No, No. 1 had set his heart on
possessing one of them, and have one he would.

We bought two, one of which the younger bachelor immediately smoked,
having first carefully extracted the straws. The other was given to the
waiter, and it is safe to predict that neither of us will ever be seen
with one of those terrible cigars again. About 10 p.m. No. 1 began to
show signs of a violent bilious attack, which grew worse as the night
came on. This was the commencement of an ailment which afterwards
turned out to be “gastric fever.” There was little sleep that night for
either of the bachelors, as No. 2 sat up by his friend during a great
part of the night. The next morning, however, though still unwell, No. 1
insisted on going to church. On returning hotel-ward the younger felt
alarmingly ill, and could not walk further without help.

When we got to the hotel, No. 2 determined to send for a doctor,
and, looking into his Baedeker, chose one of those recommended. Our
girls must not think it was entirely the horrible cigar that made No. 1
so ill. They must remember he was described as having a shocking
digestion, which had been “upset” by the continual travelling and the
change of food; also, the sudden change from the bracing mountain air
to the comparatively enervating climate of Milan, no doubt accelerated
the illness. The doctor came about four hours after he was sent
for, and, after asking innumerable questions as to the occupation,
rule of life, etc., of the bachelor, seemingly unnecessary—not to
say impertinent—prescribed an alarming amount of medicine. We shall
remember that doctor, with his important manner and soft, deep voice.
He was a smart, healthy-looking man, with an imposing moustache and
short black hair. We shall also remember the answer he gave to the
older bachelor, who had inquired how long it would be before his friend
would be well enough to resume his travels—“Maybe in two or three
weeks,” being the encouraging reply.

The younger bachelor is here reminded of the interesting view of
chimney-pots and house-roof visible from his bedroom window, which it
was his fate to watch incessantly for two whole days, miserably ill,
with one longing in life, viz., to quench his burning thirst with “a
lemon squash.”

As it seemed the less expensive method, No. 2 shopped for the lemons,
bringing in a dozen at a time, and squeezing them with his fingers into
a water-bottle glass. The sugar was purloined from the _salle-à-manger_
(as we wish this narrative of ours to be a strictly truthful one,
we resolutely admit our guilt, but hope the Italian Government will
not be too hard on us), for we preferred the charge of one halfpenny
per “squash,” instead of one franc, the probable price of one bought
at the hotel. If any one of our readers has had a brother to supply
incessantly with “lemon squash” for two days and one night, without
the use of a proper lemon-squeezer, she will appreciate the sad
intelligence that No. 2’s finger joints are now less supple and
powerful than before this Italian tour.

_La femme de chambre_ was, as most young women are to forlorn and
helpless bachelors, tender and kind. In fact, at the end of two days
she quietly suggested that a lemon squash was the worst drink for the
poor patient, and actually the dear thing made for him some oatmeal,
bringing into the room a sieve, a basin, some warm water, and a screw
of paper containing oatmeal. Then (_à la_ Useful Hints in the G. O. P.)
the recipe was as follows:—A little oatmeal in the strainer, hold over
the empty basin, and with the warm water (by this time very lukewarm),
percolate through the sieve, and behold a dish of Scotch oatmeal!

That preparation did not seem to improve the condition of the poor
patient.

“Oh, that we had some English lady with us,” cried No. 2.

“Never no more,” groaned No. 1, with his face to the wall, though
whether this depressing remark had a reference to the oatmeal, the
gentler sex, or the “holiday” (save the mark!), No. 2 has not yet been
able to determine.

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

[Illustration]


MISCELLANEOUS.

GUINEVERE must take her money to the nearest post-office, and say she
wishes to have a book and become a depositor. There is no difficulty
about so doing.

EMMY.—“They also serve,” etc., is from Milton’s poem on his blindness.
The 7th April, 1868, was a Tuesday.

ENID.—Ithuriel, the angel sent by Gabriel to find Satan. He finds him
squatting like a toad beside Eve, as she lies asleep, and brings him to
Gabriel. Ithuriel is armed with a spear, which by its touch discovered
falsehood at once. You will find all this in Milton’s “Paradise Lost,”
which you ought to have read.

LILITH A.—“In Memoriam” was written in memory of Tennyson’s friend,
Arthur Henry Hallam, who died in 1833.

GRACE.—The beer made with the ginger-beer plant is quite wholesome, we
believe.

VIRAGO.—“A young lady, who is nine years old and two months over,” is
certainly not old enough to choose her books, nor must she think just
yet of being guided by her own judgment in any way, except in obeying
others older than herself, and should be punished if she do not.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.—The address of the secretary of the Princess
Louise Home is 54, New Broad-street, E.C. Write to the secretary. Young
ladies should have their names on their mother’s card.

E. AUSTILL.—The first two chapters of “A Lady’s Journey to Texas” will
be found in vol. iv., pages 362 and 713.

PHISIEGIG.—The real name of “George Sand” was Aurore Lucille Amantine
Dudevant. Henry M. Stanley, the African explorer, was born at Denbigh,
Wales, in 1840.

C. H. S.—The answer to the riddle, “Man cannot live without my first,”
is _Ignis fatuus_, otherwise called “will o’ the wisp,” or “corpse
candle.”

VIOLET.—The lines do much credit to your tenderness of heart and love
for your parents, but as poetry they are not worth much, and are full
of faults.

CONSUMPTION.—We regret that we cannot give you any information, as we
do not know the medicine by name, and we could not advise anyone to use
it without the consent of a doctor. We should think a change of climate
would be advisable. Cold, dry climates are apparently more recommended
now than warm ones.

DIE LORELEI.—The lines you send have some power about them, but they
are not correct in rhythm nor in construction. Count the feet and
position of the beats in each line carefully while composing.

MARION MOSS.—Seals are found in the Arctic seas. Dundee and Hull are
the principal British ports whence the seal-fishers sail. They are also
found in Russian America, now called Alaska.

PERPLEXED ONE.—Why not try to obtain a good situation as nurse—head
nurse, with a junior under you?

MAGGIE might obtain the first volume by means of an advertisement in
the _Exchange and Mart_.

WATER LILY.—Mr. Herbert John Gladstone, M.P., is the youngest son of
the Prime Minister, and was born 1854.

SEVEN YEARS FOR RACHEL must get her sister to read aloud, alone, and
with someone slowly and carefully, being particularly careful to take
her breath regularly, easily, and deeply when reading or speaking. The
lungs must be well filled.

A CHRISTIAN.—We agree with your mother that you are both very young,
and had better wait till you be older. Then we should repeat to you the
saying of Christ, “Have salt in yourselves,” which means that you must
form your opinions and actions on eternal principles, which are the
salt which should savour our lives.

TILDA.—We quite agree with you that the manners of lady district
visitors should be very courteous, and that they should certainly knock
at people’s doors, and not go in until they be asked, nor should they
go at the dinner hour. Alas! good breeding and sound common-sense seem
both rare qualities everywhere. Either of them would have made your
visitors behave differently.

GIPSY.—You should say, “Lady So-and-so,” and write it with a capital
“L.”

ETHEL.—Show your teeth to a dentist. We regret that we could not give
you a recommendation of the kind. Your medical man would do so. The
loss of an eye-tooth does not affect the sight. It is believed that
eating very fine white bread has tended to injure the teeth. Wholemeal
bread is the best for producing good bone.

SARAH BROWN.—You cannot re-silver a good looking-glass yourself.
You must send it to a manufactory for the purpose. Any furnishing
upholsterer or looking-glass seller would undertake to do that for you;
but you must make a bargain before you send it, and you might obtain a
good secondhand glass at less cost.

DICK.—Dentists usually have a medical man to see and attend to the
patient when gas is employed. It is not dangerous to take it.

“IN GREAT TROUBLE.”—Yours seems a case for a doctor’s advice. You
had better consult one. The word “silly” is not spelt “scilly,” like
the islands of that name, and “disappointed” should not be written
“dissapointed.”

DOROTHY DRAKE.—You will find the answer to your question several times
repeated in our correspondence columns.

EVELYN.—We do not place ourselves between our young readers and
their parents, by expressing an opinion respecting the punishments
they inflict. If severe, we imagine that their statement of the case
you describe would be of a different character from yours. Probably
there were attendant circumstances which aggravated the misdoing on
your part. What business had you to go out without leave, and not
fully dressed for so doing? Besides, you may have been disobedient or
impertinent.

DITTO.—You will find instructions in riding in the monthly part for
October 1st, 1881, page 3, vol. iii., and, as we told you before,
at page 131 in the same volume. You cannot read figures, one would
suppose. There is a picture of a girl on horseback on the same page.
Look again.

JO.—Perhaps you could receive some little pupils daily for two or
three hours at your own home, and teach them the rudiments of an
English education—reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar, geography, and
needlework.

MOTHER OF SIX.—The Paddington Green Children’s Hospital might suit
you, boys under twelve years of age and girls under fourteen being
eligible, and no letters of recommendation being required. Write to
the treasurer, George Hanbury, Esq. 21, Portman-square, W. There are
also the Belgrave Hospital for Children, 77 and 79, Gloucester-street,
S.W.—lady superintendent, Miss Munro; The Eveline Hospital for Sick
Children, Southwark Bridge-road, S.E.;—secretary, T. H. Chapman, Esq.
All three are free.

SOPHIA FALCONER.—Cod-liver oil is specially beneficial to consumptive
persons or those suffering from a severe cough, not from the stomach.
In cases of atrophy we should think it would be of service. Many
persons, strong or delicate, find a plunge or two in the sea of much
benefit; but few comparatively could go into still, cold, fresh water.
A cold sponge bath is quite a different thing, and cold salt-water
sponging of the spine, throat, and chest is much to be recommended, or
a good quick rubbing with a wet towel half wrung out, and drying with a
rough one.

CURLY and FLUFFY.—Avoid meeting the men who try to force unwelcome
attentions upon you. Speak to your mother about it, and let her direct
you. She can put a stop to the persecution with authority. If she were
to go out with you a few times she could dismiss them at once. Avoid
seeing them, and go into a shop or turn a different way if they try to
join you. It is an important part of her duty to protect and chaperone
you.

AN OLD GIRL OF POLAND.—In adopting a new country it is always wise to
be provided with a passport, a copy of your certificate of baptism,
and letters from your clergyman, and any leading men, magistrates or
others; also your banker, if you have one. Such papers might prove very
valuable as introductions into society, or to facilitate your obtaining
employment. Besides this, they would be very essential in case of
mistaken identity. No passport is needed in coming to England, yet it
is wise to have one.

J. B.—To know the colour called primrose, you have only to look at
the flower and at the enamelled or painted representations of it. Why
ask anyone else when your own eyes could act better for you than any
description by another person?

CLANSMAN.—We should like to encourage you to write, as the lines speak
well of the mind and the heart; but we think you would succeed better
in prose than poetry.

“EUCHARIS LILY.”—We have no recollection of the MS. of which you speak,
and regret you have waited so long for an opinion. The lines you
enclose show good feeling, but lack originality. We thank you for your
kind letter.

F. A. B.—We feel sincere sympathy for you, and scarcely know how to
advise you. At your early age you are only eligible for the Children’s
Hospital, Great Ormond Street, W.C. You might write for particulars to
the lady superintendent. You would have to supply certificates both as
to character and health.

GERTRUDE MCKENZIE.—No licence is required to enable you to keep a
registry office for servants.

SNOWDROPS.—Certainly, wear your gloves in church. Why not? A
correspondent some time ago advised that maidenhair ferns should be
watered with tea, and tea-leaves from the tea-pot should be put round
them.

INEZ and PHILIP.—We are of opinion that the amount allowed by your
brother for his dinner is much in excess of what is needed, and may
prove a temptation to him if continued. We were interested in your
letter, and we hope your mutual happiness will long be continued.

ONE YOU HAVE BENEFITED.—Many thanks for your kind letter. We quite see
all your difficulties, but we think you must not make too much of them.
The real use of all training at home is to help young people to stand
alone some day, and act in the fear of God, for themselves; they cannot
be always children, nor in leading strings, so you must excite in
them conscientiousness and a constant desire to do right. The conduct
they propose, _i.e._, of going out and in, of accepting invitations as
they please, without consulting you, is, in the first place, ill-bred
and unladylike. No one treats the lady of the house, be she mother
or step-mother, in that manner, and even in society they would not
be guests a second time in any house where they ignored the lady who
invited them.

ALEA EUROPEA.—In the “Chapel in the Tower,” by Mr. Bell, we find the
following notice of Arthur Pole, who, with his brother Edmund, was
imprisoned for life, and died in the Tower—They were the sons of Sir
Geoffrey Pole, and grandsons of Margaret of Clarence, Countess of
Salisbury. Cardinal Pole was, therefore, their uncle. In 1562 they were
implicated in a conspiracy to depose Queen Elizabeth, and place Mary
Queen of Scots on the throne. It was also alleged that one of them
designed to marry her. They were tried for high treason at Westminster
Hall, 26th February, 1562, and sentenced to be executed as traitors at
Tyburn. The sentence was commuted by Queen Elizabeth to imprisonment
for life in the Tower, and on the walls of the Beauchamp Tower, which
was their prison, their names will be found carved several times.
The last written was as follows:—“A passage perillous makethe a port
pleasante, I. H. S., 1568, Arthur Pole, aged 37.” The date of his death
and that of his brother seems not to be known, but both were dead in
1578, and buried in the chapel in the Tower.

DAISY.—Take no notice of the matter, unless you are directly charged,
when you can deny truthfully the authorship of such an unmaidenly
epistle.

ALICIA.—If the jewellery be good and old, it is better to employ a
jeweller to clean it.

SNOWSTORM.—We think you should go to New Zealand to your affianced
husband, and keep your promise, especially as you leave a sister at
home to take care of your mother. It would indeed be foolish to bring
him to England if he be doing well out there, and is able to marry and
give you a comfortable home.

SYBIL.—We think you may need a tonic of some kind. A little alum and
water is sometimes good for moist hands, but it is never safe to check
perspirations, unless under a doctor’s orders.

BUTTERCUP.—We know of no situation easier than a nurse’s, where there
are only one or two children, unless, perhaps, you could manage to get
one as parlour-maid only.

A. S. F. T. F. (New South Wales).—There would be no value if the dates
of the half-crowns were erased, because coins of the House of Brunswick
are only valuable when in perfect order.

MIZPAH.—The word “Mizpah” means a watch-tower. On a ring it would
mean, “The Lord watch between thee and me, when we are absent from
each other,” a solemn pledge of faithfulness and truth in a betrothal.
It was used as a solemn warning to one suspected, not trusted, in the
original case.

I. H. B.—“Ban” is an Irish prefix, and means “white.” We cannot find
any other clue to the word, and we think you should have written
“Wenham,” which is the name of a lake near Boston, U.S.A., from which
the ice derives its name.

OMEGA.—The only way to be comfortable is to prevent the chilblains
from coming at first, by rubbing the place you feel affected with a
little dry mustard and flour very gently, which will generally put
the chilblains back. When a chilblain has broken, a decoction of
poppy-heads with hot water may be soothing, and bread poultices are
used by many people, but we are doubtful of their expediency. When the
inflammation has subsided, a little creosote ointment may be used, but
when so bad it would be well to consult a doctor.

R. A. A.—The editor declines, with thanks.

DUM SPIRO SPERO.—The words are French, and are used when picking
the leaves from a daisy. They mean, “He loves me a little, much,
passionately, not at all.” This is one of the many ancient charms, or
really auguries, which we have obtained from unknown ancestry.

F. A. H. B.—We regret that we can make no use of your essay.

DADDY LONGLEGS should send her locket to a jeweller’s to be cleaned and
repolished.

LADY GODIVA.—Probably digestion. Ask your doctor about it.

ESTHER BLACK.—The notice of the marriage in the different newspapers is
a sufficient announcement to friends at a distance. Neither cards nor
wedding-cake are sent now.

FLORENCE MOORE.—Does your sister wish to look like a balloon, tied in
at the middle with a string? or, still worse, does she wish to cut her
liver in two? Her other plan, “to drink vinegar,” would so thin her
blood that she would exchange her wholesome fat for dropsy, and become
blown out like a skin-bag used for water in the deserts. For your own
infirmity you should wear a backboard and faceboard daily while at your
studies. We have often described and prescribed them already.

CURIOUS.—The origin of the name given by Handel to his composition
called “The Harmonious Blacksmith” was a very natural one. He was on
a visit to the Duke of Chandos, at Edgware, and, overtaken by heavy
rain, he took shelter in a smith’s forge. The ringing strokes of the
hammer, combined with the song of the smith, told a story to the lively
imagination of the composer, and gave birth to the piece in question.

LAURA.—It is not very evident as to when the Manx House of Keys was
first established, but it existed in the time of the Dane King, Orry,
at the beginning of the tenth century. This sovereign established an
independent throne in Mona. The term “Keys” is derived from _Kiare
es feed_, “twenty-four,” and applied to that number of men of the
island who form the Lower House, while the Upper House, or Council, is
appointed by the crown, and consists of the bishop, archdeacon, clerk
of the rolls, and some civil officials.

STRAWBERRY CREAM.—Have you learnt any branch of domestic service? If
so, make use of it. Better trained servants are much required. You
might, at least, look for a situation as schoolroom maid, under nurse,
or mother’s help. These would serve to give you practical training.

LOLLY.—It is for ladies to recognise gentlemen, if acquaintances, not
the reverse. This being the case, we do not see what your bowing to
your clergyman can have to do with “fastness.” Of course, the character
of the recognition must depend on your position in life. Good Friday is
a fast, not a feast day. That is the reason, as you will perceive.

ADMIRER OF THE G.O.P.—Why should you ask your clergyman to give you a
severe talking to? If you know you deserve it, why not administer it to
yourself? Tell your mother that you lament your want of self-control
and respect in giving way to unseemly ill-temper, and ask her to help
you by a timely check and reproof, and by her prayers to rule your
spirit. “He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a
city.” Leaving off your spectacles will not only make your eyes ache,
but injure them, by overstraining the nerves.

ENID.—If the ends of your hair split, you should have them carefully
singed by a hairdresser accustomed to do so. You might set all on fire
if you attempted to do so yourself. Improve your handwriting by writing
copies daily, and perfect your acquaintance with the first three or
more rules in arithmetic, and then you will be eligible for a situation
as shop assistant.

GRETTA’S SISTER.—A surgeon should examine your sister’s tongue to see
whether it be paralysed. If she can hear, then no other alphabet is
needed for her than ours.

YOUNG STEPMOTHER.—The advice of your governess is good. As you have
so high an opinion of her discretion, as well as amiability and
experience, you had better give her the due authority to act for you.
In a month’s time, or during the first quarter, you will see with
what success it is attended. One thing is certain, obedience must be
enforced.

HOPE has some poetic feeling, but whether she will rise to the level
of “poetry” in future we could not say, nor could we recommend
any magazine or publisher likely to take literary and poetical
compositions. That is a question for the industry and perseverance of
the writer to solve.

DOROTHY FORSTER.—The lines you send us are very halting, both as to
rhyme and reason.

CHERRY RIPE.—The word “fiat” means an order or decree. We thank you for
your good wishes and praise of our paper.

J. F. C.—We have pleasure in giving out readers the address of the
Santa Claus Society, for providing toys and dolls for children in
hospitals. To make them during leisure hours would be a nice occupation
for young people. For the benefit of those who would like to aid in a
truly charitable and Christian work, as well as for the sake of the
poor children, we copy your address, as one of the managers of the
society—Miss J. F. Charles, Hillside, Southwood-lane, Highgate, N.

A. M. C.—There is a home of rest at 9, Albion-place, Ramsgate. Apply to
Miss Bennett. You may be taken in for three weeks, and the lowest terms
for board, lodging, and attendance are 10s. a week.

POMME DE TERRE.—We have seen the grave of the late novelist, Charles
Reade, to which you refer, and the outside public knows no more than
just what the inscription states. This is all we can say in reply.

WHITE HEATHER.—The falling of the hair is often due to a condition of
the general health and failure of nerve power, and the remedies need to
be internally administered, as well as externally. Go to a skin doctor,
and obtain his advice.

MARY LEEMING and ALICE HAUGHTON.—Some collectors of insects use the
fumes of chloroform or brimstone. Where there are many wild flowers you
will find butterflies.

PROGRESS.—Yes, women have been returned to Parliament in past times. In
1360 writs were issued, to four abbesses, requiring their attendance at
Westminster, and the year following five ladies of the nobility were
likewise returned (35th Edward III.)—viz., Marie Countesse de Norff,
Alianor Countesse de Ormand. Agnes Countesse de Pembrook, Philippa
Countess March, and Catherine Countesse de Atholl. Whether they
actually took their seats, we do not say positively. The only woman
ever made a Freemason was Miss St. Leger, a daughter of Lord Doneraile,
about the year 1739.

NIL DESPERANDUM.—You may say “intreat,” but “entreat” is more correct.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65358 ***