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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1000.] FEBRUARY 25, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.
[Illustration: “‘BUT OH, HAVE YOU GOT ANY BOOT POLISH?’”]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER XXI.
Dinner was served unusually early that evening, and was an embarrassing
ordeal from which Peggy was thankful to escape. On her way upstairs,
however, Rosalind called her back with an eager petition.
“Oh, Peggy! would you mind awwanging some flowers? A big hamper has
just awwived from town, and the servants are all so dweadfully busy.
I must get dwessed in time to help mother to weceive, but it wouldn’t
matter if you were a few minutes late. Thanks so much! Awfully obliged.”
She gave her thanks before an assent had been spoken, and tripped
smilingly away, while Peggy went back to the big room to find a
great tray full of hothouse treasures waiting to be arranged, and no
availing vases in which to place them. The flowers, however, were so
beautiful, and the fronds of maidenhair so green and graceful, that
the work was a pleasure; she enjoyed discovering unlikely places in
which to group them, and lingered so long over her arrangements that
the sudden striking of the clock sent her flying upstairs in a panic of
consternation. Another quarter of an hour and the Vicarage party would
arrive, for they had been bidden a little in advance of the rest, so
that Robert might help his mother and sister in receiving their guests.
Peggy tore off dress and apron, and made all the speed she could, but
she was still standing in dressing-jacket and frilled white petticoat,
brushing out her long waves of hair when the door opened and Esther and
Mellicent entered. They had begged to be shown to Miss Saville’s room
and came rustling in, smiling and beaming, with woollen caps over their
heads, snow shoes on their feet, and big fleecy shawls swathed round
and round their figures, fastened with a hairpin on the left shoulder,
in secure and elegant fashion. Peggy stood brush in hand, staring at
them and shaking with laughter.
“Ho! ho! ho! I hope you are warm enough! Esther looks like a sausage,
and Mellicent looks like a dumpling. Come here, and I’ll unwind you.
You look as if you could not move an inch, hand or foot.”
“It was mother,” Mellicent explained. “She was so afraid we would catch
cold. Oh, Peggy, you are not half dressed. You will be late! Whatever
have you been doing? Have you had a nice day? Did you enjoy it? What
did you have for dinner?”
Peggy waved her brush towards the door in dramatic warning.
“Rosalind’s room!” she whispered. “Don’t yell, my love, unless you wish
every word to be overheard. This is her dressing-room which she lent to
me for the occasion, so there’s only a door between us.—There, now, you
are free. Oh, dear me, how you have squashed your sash! You really must
remember to lift it up when you sit down. You had better stand with
your back to the fire to take out the creases.”
Mellicent’s face clouded for a moment but brightened again as she
caught sight of her reflection in the swing glass. Crumples or no
crumples, there was no denying that blue was a becoming colour. The
plump, rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction, and the flaxen head was
twisted to and fro to survey herself in every possible position.
“Is my hair right at the back? How does the bow look? I haven’t burst,
have I? I thought I heard something crack in the cab. Do you think I
will do?”
“Put on your slippers and I’ll tell you. Anyone would look a fright in
evening dress and snow shoes.”
Peggy’s answer was given with a severity which sent Mellicent waddling
across the room to turn out the contents of the bag which lay on the
couch, but the next moment came a squeal of consternation, and there
she stood in the attitude of a tragedy queen, with staring eyes, parted
lips, and two shabby black slippers grasped in either hand.
“M—m—m—my old ones!” she gasped in horror-stricken accents.
“B—b—b—brought them by mistake!” It was some moments before her
companions fully grasped the situation, for the new slippers had been
black too, and of much the same make as those now exhibited. Mrs.
Asplin had had many yearnings over white shoes and stockings, all
silk and satin, and tinkling diamond buckles like those which had been
displayed in Peggy’s dress-box. Why should not her darlings have dainty
possessions like other girls? It went to her heart to think what an
improvement these two articles would make in the simple costumes, then
she remembered her husband’s delicate health, his exhaustion at the
end of the day, and the painful effort with which he nerved himself to
fresh exertions, and felt a bigger pang at the thought of wasting money
so hardly earned. As her custom was on such occasions she put the whole
matter before the girls, talking to them as friends, and asking their
help in her decision.
“You see, darlings,” she said, “I want to do my very best for you, and
if it would be a real disappointment not to have these things, I’ll
manage it somehow, for once in a way. But it’s a question whether you
would have another chance of wearing them, and it seems a great deal of
money to spend for just one evening, when poor dear father——”
“Oh, mother, no, don’t think of it! Black ones will do perfectly well.
What can it matter what sort of shoes and stockings we wear? It won’t
make the least difference in our enjoyment,” said Esther the sensible,
but Mellicent was by no means of this opinion.
“I don’t know about that! I love white legs!” she sighed dolefully.
“All my life long it has been my ambition to have white legs. Silk
ones with little bits of lace let in down the front, like Peggy’s.
They’re so beautiful! It doesn’t seem a bit like a party to wear black
stockings, only of course I know I must, for I’d hate to waste father’s
money. When I grow up I shall marry a rich man and have everything I
want. It’s disgusting to be poor. Will they be nice black slippers,
mother, with buckles on them?”
“Yes, dearie. Beauties! Great big buckles!” said Mrs. Asplin lovingly,
and a few days later a box had come down from London, and the slippers
had been chosen out of a selection of “leading novelties”; worn with
care and reverence the previous evening “to take off the stiffness,”
and then after all—oh, the awfulness of it!—had been replaced by an old
pair in the bustle of departure.
The three girls stared at one another in consternation. Here was a
catastrophe to happen just at the last moment, when everyone was so
happy and well satisfied! The dismay on the chubby face was so pitiful
that neither of Mellicent’s companions could find it in her heart to
speak a word of reproof. They rather set to work to propose different
ways out of the difficulty.
“Get hold of Max, and coax him to go back for them!”
“He wouldn’t, it’s no use. It’s raining like anything, and it would
take him an hour to go there and come back.”
“Ask Lady Darcy to send one of the servants——”
“No use, my dear. They are scampering up and down like mice, and
haven’t a moment to spare from their own work.”
“See if Rosalind would lend me a pair!”
“Silly goose! Look at your foot. It is three times the size of hers.
You will just have to wear them, I’m afraid. Give them to me and let me
see what can be done.” Peggy took the slippers in her hands and studied
them critically. They were certainly not new, but then they were by no
means old; just respectable, middle-aged creatures, slightly rubbed on
the heel and white at the toes, but with many a day of good hard wear
still before them.
“Oh, come,” she said reassuringly, “they are not so bad, Mellicent!
With a little polish they would look quite presentable. I’ll tap at the
door and ask Rosalind if she has some that she can lend us. She is sure
to have it. There are about fifty thousand bottles on her table.”
Peggy crossed the room as she spoke, tapped on the panel and received
an immediate answer in a high complacent treble.
“Coming! Coming! I’m weady.” Then the door flew open; a tiny pink silk
shoe stepped daintily over the mat, and Rosalind stood before them
in all the glory of a new Parisian dress. Three separate gasps of
admiration greeted her appearance, and she stood smiling and dimpling
while the girls took in the fascinating details—the satin frock of
palest imaginable pink, the white chiffon over dress which fell from
shoulder to hem in graceful freedom, sprinkled over with exquisite
rose-leaves—it was all wonderful—fantastic—as far removed from Peggy’s
muslin as from the homely crepon of the Vicar’s daughters.
“Rosalind! what a perfect _angel_ you look!” gasped Mellicent, her
own dilemma forgotten in her whole-hearted admiration, but the next
moment memory came back and her expression changed to one of pitiful
appeal. “But oh, have you got any boot polish? The most awful thing has
happened. I’ve brought my old shoes by mistake! Look! I don’t know what
on earth I shall do if you can’t give me something to black the toes.”
She held out the shoes as she spoke, and Rosalind gave a shrill scream
of laughter.
“Oh! oh! Those things! How fwightfully funny; what a fwightful joke!
You will look like Cinderwella, when she wan away and the glass
slippers changed back to her dweadful old clogs. It is too scweamingly
funny, I do declare!”
“Oh, never mind what you declare! Can you lend us some boot polish,
that’s the question!” cried Peggy sharply. She knew Mellicent’s horror
of ridicule, and felt indignant with the girl who could stand by secure
in her own beauty and elegance, and have no sympathy for the misfortune
of a friend. “If you have a bottle of Peerless Gloss or any of those
shiny things with a sponge fastened on the cork, I can make them look
quite respectable, and no one will have any cause to laugh.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” trilled Rosalind once more, “Peggy is cwoss! I never
knew such a girl for flying into tantwums at a moment’s notice! Yes,
of course, I’ll lend you the polish. There is some in this little
cupboard—there! I won’t touch it in case it soils my gloves. Shall I
call Marie to put it on for you?”
“Thank you; there’s no need—I can do it! I would rather do it myself!”
“Oh—oh, isn’t she cwoss! You will bweak the cork if you scwew it about
like that, and then you’ll never be able to get it out. Why don’t you
pull it pwoperly?”
“I know how to pull out a cork, thank you; I’ve done it before!”
Peggy shot an angry glance at her hostess, and set to work again with
doubled energy. Now that Rosalind had laughed at her inability, it
would be misery to fail; but the bottle had evidently lain aside for
some time, and a stiff black crust had formed round the cork which
made it difficult to move. Peggy pulled and tugged, while Rosalind
stood watching, laughing her aggravating, patronising little laugh,
and dropping a word of instruction from time to time. And then,
quite suddenly, a dreadful thing happened. In the flash of an eye—so
quickly and unexpectedly, that, looking back upon it, it seemed like a
nightmare which could not possibly have taken place in real life—the
cork jerked out in Peggy’s hand, in response to a savage tug, and with
it out flew an inky jet, which rose straight up in the air, separated
into a multitude of tiny drops and descended in a flood—oh, the horror
of that moment!—over Rosalind’s face, neck and dress.
One moment a fairy princess, a goddess of summer, the next a figure
of fun with black spots scattered thickly over cheeks and nose, a big
splash on the white shoulder, and inky daubs dotted here and there
between the rose leaves. What a transformation! What a spectacle of
horror! Peggy stood transfixed; Mellicent screamed in terror, and
Esther ran forward, handkerchief in hand, only to be waved aside with
angry vehemence. Rosalind’s face was convulsed with anger; she stamped
her foot and spoke at the pitch of her voice, as if she had no control
over her feelings.
“Oh, oh, oh! You wicked girl; you hateful, detestable girl! You did it
on purpose because you were in a temper! You have been in a temper all
the afternoon! You have spoiled my dress! I was ready to go downstairs.
It is eight o’clock. In a few minutes everyone will all be here, and
oh, what shall I do—what shall I do! Whatever will mother say when she
sees me?”
As if to give a practical answer to this inquiry, there came a sound
of hasty footsteps in the corridor, the door flew open, and Lady Darcy
rushed in, followed by the French maid.
“My darling, what is it? I heard your voice. Has something happened?
Oh-h!” She stopped short, paralysed with consternation, while the
maid wrung her hands in despair. “Rosalind, what _have_ you done to
yourself?”
“Nothing, nothing! It was Peggy Saville; she splashed me with her
horrid boot-polish—I gave it to her for her shoes. It is on my face,
my neck, in my mouth——”
“I was pulling the cork. It came out with a jerk. I didn’t know; I
didn’t see!”
Lady Darcy’s face stiffened with an expression of icy displeasure.
“It is too annoying! Your dress spoiled at the last moment! Inexcusable
carelessness! What is to be done, Marie? I am in despair!”
The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with an indignant glance in
Peggy’s direction.
“There is nothing to do. Put on another dress, that is all.
Mademoiselle must change as quick as she can. If I sponge the spots, I
spoil the whole thing at once.”
“But you could cut them out, couldn’t you?” cried Peggy, the picture of
woe, yet miserably eager to make what amends she could. “You could cut
out the spots with sharp scissors, and the holes would not show, for
the chiffon is so full and loose. I—I think I could do it, if you would
let me try!”
Mistress and maid exchanged a sharp, mutual glance, and the Frenchwoman
nodded slowly.
“Yes, it is true; I could rearrange the folds. It will take some time,
but still, it can be done. It is the best plan.”
“Go then, Rosalind, go with Marie; there is not a moment to spare, and
for pity’s sake, don’t cry! Your eyes will be red, and at any moment
now the people may begin to arrive. I wanted you to be with me to
receive your guests. It will be most awkward being without you, but
there is no help for it, I suppose. The whole thing is too annoying for
words!”
Lady Darcy swept out of the room, and the three girls were once more
left alone, but how changed were their feelings in those few short
moments! There was not the shadow of a smile between them; they
looked more as if they were about to attend a funeral than a scene
of festivity, and for several moments no one had the heart to speak.
Peggy still held the fatal cork in her hand, and went through the
work of polishing Mellicent’s slippers with an air of the profoundest
dejection. When they were finished she handed them over in dreary
silence, and was recommencing the brushing of her hair, when something
in the expression of the chubby face arrested her attention. Her eyes
flashed; she faced round with a frown and a quick “Well, what is it?
What are you thinking now?”
“I—I wondered,” whispered Mellicent breathlessly, “if you did it on
purpose! Did you _mean_ to spoil her dress and make her change it?”
Peggy’s hands dropped to her side, her back straightened until she
stood stiff and straight as a poker. Every atom of expression seemed to
die out of her face. Her voice had a deadly quiet in its intonation.
“What do you think about it yourself?”
“I—I thought perhaps you did! She teased you, and you were so cross.
You seemed to be standing so very near her, and you are jealous of
her—and she looked so lovely! I thought perhaps you did....”
“Mellicent Asplin,” said Peggy quietly, and her voice was like the keen
east wind that blows from the icy-covered mountains, “Mellicent Asplin,
my name is Saville, and in my family we don’t condescend to mean and
dishonourable tricks. I may not like Rosalind, but I would have given
all I have in the world sooner than this should have happened. I was
trying to do you a service, but you forget that. You forget many
things! I have been jealous of Rosalind, because when she arrived, you
and your sister forgot that I was alone and far away from everyone
belonging to me, and were so much engrossed with her that you left
me alone to amuse myself as best I might. You were pleased enough to
have me when no one else was there, but you left me the moment someone
appeared who was richer and grander than I. I wouldn’t have treated
_you_ like that if our positions had been reversed. If I dislike
Rosalind, it is your fault as much as hers; more than hers, for it was
you who made me dread her coming!”
Peggy stopped, trembling and breathless. There was a moment’s silence
in the room, and then Esther spoke in a slow, meditative fashion.
“It is quite true!” she said. “We _have_ left you alone, Peggy; but it
is not quite so bad as you think. Really and truly we like you far the
best, but—but Rosalind is such a change to us. Everything about her is
so beautiful and so different, that she has always seemed the great
excitement of our lives. I don’t know that I’m exactly fond of her,
but I want to see her, and talk to her, and hear her speak; and she is
only here for a short time in the year. It was because we looked upon
you as really one of ourselves that we seemed to neglect you, but it
was wrong all the same. As for your spoiling her dress on purpose, it’s
ridiculous to think of it. How could you say such a thing, Mellicent,
when Peggy was trying to help you, too? How _could_ you be so mean and
horrid?”
“Oh, well, I’m sure I wish I were dead,” wailed Mellicent promptly.
“Nothing but fusses and bothers, and just when I thought I was going to
be so happy! If I’d had white shoes, this would never have happened.
Always the same thing! When you look forward to a treat, everything is
as piggy and nasty as it can be! Wish I’d never come! Wish I’d stayed
at home, and let the horrid old party go to Jericho! Rosalind’s crying,
Peggy’s cross, you are preaching! This is a nice way to enjoy yourself,
I must say!”
Nothing is more hopeless than to reason with a placid person who has
lapsed into a fit of ill-temper. The two elder girls realised this,
and remained perfectly silent while Mellicent continued to wish for
death, to lament the general misery of life, and the bad fortune which
attended the wearers of black slippers. So incessant was the stream of
her repinings, that it seemed as if it might have gone on for ever, had
not a servant entered at last with the information that the guests
were beginning to arrive, and that Lady Darcy would be glad to see the
young ladies without delay. Esther was anxious to wait and help Peggy
with her toilette, but that young lady was still on her dignity and
by no means anxious to descend to a scene of gaiety for which she had
little heart. She refused the offer, therefore, in Mariquita fashion,
and the sisters walked dejectedly along the brightly-lit corridors,
Mellicent still continuing her melancholy wail, and Esther reflecting
sadly that all was vanity, and devoutly wishing herself back in the
peaceful atmosphere of the vicarage.
(_To be continued._)
LOOKING BACK:
A RETROSPECT, WITH SOME SURPRISING FIGURES AND A PRESENTATION TO THE
EDITOR.
BY JAMES MASON.
Excuse me if I indulge in a personal reminiscence. It is in every way a
pleasant incident to recall:—
Between nineteen and twenty years ago, in the Dark Ages, when as yet
there was no GIRL’S OWN PAPER, I remember a quite accidental meeting at
luncheon in a London restaurant with the present Editor. We had become
well acquainted before that, in connection with a magazine of which he
was sub-editor and to which I then played the part of contributor.
[Illustration: THE AUTOGRAPH TEA-TABLE CLOTH.]
I found him full of a scheme he had in view, a paper which he
anticipated would be a lasting success, for it was going to appeal to
and cater for those sensible girls who are always in fashion and who
hitherto had possessed no magazine which they could call their very own.
From the restaurant we adjourned to the Editor’s chambers, and there he
read to me the proof of the prospectus about to be issued, announcing
the publication of the first number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. At this
distance of time I cannot recollect the terms of that document, but, as
it is not every day that editors write prospectuses, we may take it for
granted that it was a very moving discourse which no girl could read
without wishing at the very least to see Number One.
The confidence of the Editor in his project was infectious. Confident
he was, and confident he deserved to be, for he had had considerable
experience and, it was clear, knew well what he was about. From that
day I believed in the fortunes of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. It is true
that we might have paused to consider how it is impossible to tell
beforehand what will hit the public taste, but to the enthusiasm of so
long ago that fact was only a sort of bogey to frighten enterprising
spirits from starting anything new.
Beginning with that interview it is pleasant to follow the career of
THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, leading up to its present flourishing fortunes.
As the day is judged by its dawn, so girls apparently made up their
minds about the aims, quality, and character of their special organ
from the very first number. When it came out, “You are a treasure!” was
uttered in every tone of voice, and with every inflection of enthusiasm.
The sunshine of that time has lasted up till now. From being a new
serial THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER has become a well-established favourite,
with an influence for good in the community to which an outsider to the
editorial office like myself may with propriety call attention. It is a
paper which has been always in the front in advocating what is best for
girlhood; always up-to-date; always interesting; always, one can see,
trying to be sensible, and—without forcing its recognition—never losing
sight of the highest subject of all.
* * * * *
A few figures relating to the publication will no doubt be found of
interest, showing, as they do, what a considerable enterprise the
Editor entered upon when he launched his first number on the sea of
public favour.
The thousand numbers now completed have endeavoured to bring their
influence to bear by means of about ten thousand articles on subjects
of all kinds interesting to girls. This is not counting fiction. When
we come to fiction, we find that THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER has aided in the
innocent amusement of its readers by the publication up to the present
time of close on a hundred serial stories, and five times as many short
stories and stories completed within the limits of a monthly part.
Suppose a girl, a model of perseverance, wanted to read through the
whole thousand numbers aloud without skipping a word, she could not do
it in much less than a year, reading for eight hours a day. She would
have her reward at the end of that time, for she would have stored away
in her head a collection of valuable matter which would make her a
“none-such” for the rest of her life.
The illustrations have been about as many in number as the
articles—excluding fiction. If a girl wanted to go through them all,
giving to each one only half a minute of her time, she would have a
picture-show that would last over ten days, giving to it eight hours a
day.
If all the columns of matter were cut out and pasted in one long strip,
the thousand numbers would stretch out as a narrow pathway over seven
miles.
The figures are more startling when we come from columns to lines. Take
all the lines of printed matter in the thousand numbers and extend
them in one long line. Then whoever wants to run and read at the same
time will have to run over a hundred and forty-five miles before she
gets from the first words of Number One which were “Zara, or, My
Granddaughter’s Money”—that being the title of the first story—down
to the last syllable of the present number. Such is the distance the
editorial eye has had to travel over. It is about thirty miles further
than from London to Bristol, nearly twice as far as from London to
Southampton, about three times as far as from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and
a little less than three times the distance from London to Brighton.
Taking the whole circulation of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER from the issue of
the first number, we arrive at an imposing result. Suppose that instead
of distributing the copies to subscribers, they had been hoarded up
and made to form a tall pillar, one copy being laid flat on the top of
another. And supposing a girl wished to read the topmost number—the
present number, that is to say—without using a ladder, she would have
to wait till she grew to be a hundred and seventy miles high.
It would be a pillar towering into the air to an inconvenient height,
so it might be cut into sections, each of about the height, say, of
Mont Blanc, and there would be about fifty-six of these.
If all the numbers which have been circulated since Number One were
laid end to end, they would make a pathway long enough to go round the
world at the Equator with a bit over. If one could only contrive to
carry it over the sea, girls might in this way ramble round and round
the globe treading on their own paper all the way.
* * * * *
The publication of the thousandth number of a magazine which can
refer to such statistics as these is certainly an event worth taking
note of. Making, as it does, a red-letter day in the history of the
paper, it was resolved, on the kind and thoughtful suggestion of Mrs.
Emma Brewer—whom all our readers know—to signalise it by presenting
the Editor with the autograph cloth shown in the illustration. This
wonderful tea-cloth was presented to him at Christmas, together with a
letter containing the following cheering words:
“We hoped to have made this little gift quite complete; there are
however still some names wanting, not for lack of inclination to write
them, but of time to collect them.
“Imperfect as it is, it is eloquent in its expression of affection and
good-will. As such will you accept it and be cheered by it? It is not
only a tribute to you as a born editor, but as a good sterling friend.
We do not think any other Editor in England will have a like gift
to-day.”
It is a recognition on the part of a hundred contributors—literary,
musical, and artistic—who have served under his flag, of the ability,
friendliness, and discretion which have been all along displayed in
his dealings with his staff. No one can go back, as I do, to the very
beginning of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER without seeing how much it owes of
its best features to his presiding care. Under his capable management
and under that of a long line of successors, to whom he will be able to
transmit the best maxims of editorial success, there seems no reason
why THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER should not go on flourishing till the printers
have to add a fifth figure to the number on the front page—and that
will be a hundred and seventy-three years and four weeks from the
present date!
VARIETIES.
THE PIANO HAS BEEN SOLD.
A Dutch paper, the other day, published the following significant
advertisement from a disconsolate wife—
“Adolphus. Return to your Matilda. The piano has been sold.”
BEAUTY IN UGLINESS.—“Ugliness of the right sort,” says the late Jean
Ingelow, “is a kind of beauty. It has some of the best qualities of
beauty—it attracts observation and fixes the memory.”
TO MAKE AN EGG STAND ON END.—It is not generally known that an egg can
be made to stand on end on any smooth, level surface. The process is
very simple. Take the egg in the right hand and briskly shake it up and
down for a minute or two, when the yolk will separate and sink to the
broad end. If the egg be now properly poised on its broad end, it will
stand perfectly upright even on a piece of glass.
DOGS MADE USEFUL.
The dog in Belgium is universally employed in drawing barrows and
small carts about the streets. In Brussels alone over 5000 dogs are so
engaged, and the total number of draught-dogs in the whole country is
probably not less than 50,000.
Generations of servitude have made the Belgian dog a race apart. For
his size he is said to possess the greatest pulling power of any
animal, four times his own weight being considered a load well within
his power. Taking his average weight as half an hundredweight, this
means that something like 5000 tons are daily dragged about by canine
labour in Belgium.
WELL BALANCED.
“Aunt Emilina, what is it to be well balanced?”
“Well balanced? Why, it is having sense enough to make more friends
than enemies.”
“PLENTY MORE DAYS.”
In Spain, the people take no note of time, not even from its loss.
Everything is to be done _manana_, to-morrow.
A wealthy Englishman, who had long lived in Spain, had a lawsuit. He
pleaded his cause in person, and, knowing the customs of the country,
won his case. The victory cost him three days of trouble and expense,
so that when the judge congratulated him on his success, he replied—
“Yes, that’s all right; but it has cost me three days, and time is
money. I am a busy man, and these three days are lost for ever.”
“Oh, you English!” answered the judge. “You are always saying that time
is money! How are you to get your three days back? I will tell you.
Take them out of next week. Surely there are plenty more days!”
CHARITY.—The highest exercise of charity is charity towards the
uncharitable.
“OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.