CHAPTER XV.

ANOTHER GUEST AT MARSHLANDS.

The following two or three weeks passed rapidly and pleasantly; but for

two serious drawbacks that hindered my thorough enjoyment, I should

have owned myself perfectly happy, but Mrs. Markham and Rolf were

perpetual thorns in my side.

A consciousness of being disliked by any human being, however

uncongenial to us, is always a disagreeable discovery. The cause of

the repellent action of one mind on another may be an interesting

psychological study, but in practice it brings us to a sadder and lower

level. I knew Mrs. Markham honestly disliked me; but the cause of such

marked disfavour utterly baffled me.

Most people found her fascinating; she was intellectual and refined,

and had many good qualities, but she was not essentially womanly.

Troubles and the loss of her children had hardened her; embittered

by disappointment, for her married life, short as it was, had been

singularly unhappy, she had come back to her father’s house a cold,

resentful woman, who masked unhappiness under an air of languid

indifference, and whose strong will and concealed love of power

governed the whole household. “Adelaide manages us all,” Miss Cheriton

would say, laughing, and I used to wonder if she ever rebelled against

her sister’s dictates. I knew the squire was like wax in the hands of

his eldest daughter; he was one of those indolent, peace-loving men who

are always governed by their womankind; his wife had ruled him, and now

his widowed daughter held the reins. I think Gay was like her father;

she went on her own way and shut her eyes to anything disagreeable.

It would never have done for me to quarrel openly with Mrs. Markham;

common sense and respect for my mistress’s sister kept me silent

under great provocation. I controlled my words, and in some measure

I controlled voice and outward manner, but my inward antagonism must

have revealed itself now and then by an unguarded tone.

My chief difficulty was to prevent her spoiling Joyce. After the first,

she had become very fond of the child, and was always sending for her

to the drawing-room, and loading her with toys and sweetmeats. Mr.

Morton’s orders had been very stringent about sweetmeats, and again and

again I was obliged to confiscate poor Joyce’s goodies as she called

them. I had extracted from her a promise that she should eat nothing

out of the nursery, and nothing could induce the child to disobey me.

“Nurse says I mustn’t, Aunt Adda,” was her constant remark, and Mrs.

Markham chose to consider herself aggrieved at this childish obstinacy.

She spoke to me once about it with marked displeasure.

“I have had children of my own, and I suppose I know what is good for

them,” she said, with a touch of scorn in her voice; “you have no right

to enforce such ridiculous rules on Joyce.”

“I have Mrs. Morton’s orders,” I replied, curtly; “Dr. Myrtle told me

to be very careful of Joyce’s diet; I cannot allow her to eat things I

know will hurt her,” and I continued to confiscate the goodies.

But though I was firm in all that concerned the children’s health,

there were many occasions on which I was obliged to submit to Mrs.

Markham’s interference; very often my plans for the day were frustrated

for no legitimate cause. I was disposed to think sometimes that she

acted in this way just to vex me and make me lose my temper. If we

were starting for the beach, Judson would bring us a message that

her mistress would prefer my taking the children into the orchard,

and sometimes on a hot afternoon, when we were comfortably ensconced

on the bench under the apple trees, Judson would inform us that Mrs.

Markham thought we had better go down to the sea. Sometimes I yielded

to these demands, if I thought the children would not suffer by them,

but at other times I would tell Judson that the sun was too hot or

the children too tired, and that we had better remain as we were. If

this was the case, Mrs. Markham would sometimes come out herself and

argue the matter, but I always stood my ground boldly; though I was

perfectly aware that the afternoon’s post would convey a letter to

Prince’s Gate, complaining of my impertinence in disputing her orders.

My mistress’s letters were my chief comfort, and they generally came

on the morning after one of these disputes. She would write to me so

affectionately, and tell me how she missed me as well as the children,

and though she never alluded openly to what had occurred, there was

always a little sentence of half-veiled meaning that set my mind at

rest.

“My sister Gay tells me that the children are getting so brown and

strong with the sea air,” she wrote once, “and that dear little Joyce

has quite a nice colour. Thank you so much for your ceaseless care of

them; you know I trust you implicitly, Merle, and I have no fear that

you will disappoint me; your good sense will carry you safely through

any little difficulty that may arise. Write to me as often as you can;

your letters are so nice. I am very busy and very tired, for this ball

has entailed so much work and fuss, but your letters seem to rest me.”

Rolf was also a serious impediment to my enjoyment. Ever since I had

helped him with his kite, he had attached himself to me, and insisted

on joining us in all our walks, and in spending the greater part of his

day with us. I was tolerably certain in my own mind that this childish

infatuation excited Mrs. Markham’s jealousy. Until we had arrived

she had been Rolf’s sole companion; he had accompanied her in her

drives, harassed her from morning to night with his ceaseless demands

for amusements, and had been the secretly dreaded torment of all the

visitors to Marshlands, except Mr. Hawtry, who was rather good to him.

His precocity, his love of practical jokes, and his rough impertinence,

made him at feud with the whole household; the servants disliked him,

and were always bringing complaints of Master Rolf. I believe Judson

was fond of him in a way, but then she had had charge of him from a

baby.

When Rolf began to desert the drawing-room for the nursery, Mrs.

Markham used all her efforts to coax him back to her side, but she

might as well have spoken to the wind. Rolf played with Joyce on the

beach; he raced her up and down the little hillocks in the orchard,

or hunted with her for wild flowers in the lanes that surrounded

Marshlands. When the children were asleep, he invaded my quiet with

requests to mend his broken toys or join him in some game. I grew quite

expert in rigging his new boat, and dressed toy soldiers and sailors

by the dozen. Sometimes I was inclined to rebel at such waste of time,

but I remembered that Rolf had no playfellows; it was better for him to

be playing spillikins or go-bang with me in the nursery than lounging

listlessly about the drawing-room, listening to grown-up people’s talk;

a natural child’s life was better for his health. Miss Cheriton told me

more than once that people who came to the house thought Rolf so much

improved. Certainly he was not so pale and fretful after a long morning

spent on the beach in wading knee-deep to sail his boat or digging sand

wells which Joyce filled out of her bucket. When he grew too rough or

boisterous I always called Joyce away, and with Hannah and myself to

look after them no harm could come to the children.

I grew rather fond of Rolf, after a time, and his company would not

have been irksome to me, but for his tiresome habit of repeating the

speeches he had heard in the drawing-room. He always checked himself

when he remembered, or when I held up my finger, but the half sentence

would linger in my memory.

But this was not the worst. I soon found out that anything I told him

found its way into the drawing-room; in fact, Rolf was an inveterate

chatterbox. With all his good intentions, he could not hold his tongue,

and mischief was often the result.

It was my habit to teach the children little lessons under the guise

of a story, sometimes true, sometimes a mere invention. Rolf called

them “Fenny’s Anecdotes,” but I had never discovered an anecdote about

crossness.

One day I found myself being severely lectured by Mrs. Markham for

teaching her son the doctrine of works. “As though we should be saved

by our works, Miss Fenton!” she finished, virtuously.

I was too much puzzled to answer; I had no notion what she meant

until I remembered that I had induced Rolf to part with some of his

pocket-money to relieve a poor blind man that we found sitting by the

wayside. Rolf had been sorry for the man, and still more for the gaunt,

miserable-looking woman by his side; but when we had gone on our way,

followed by voluble Irish blessings, Rolf had rather feelingly lamented

his sixpence, and I had told him a little story inculcating the beauty

of almsgiving, which had impressed him considerably, and he had

retailed a garbled version of it to his mother—hence her rebuke to me.

I forget what my defence was, only I remember I repudiated indignantly

any such doctrine; but this sort of misunderstanding was constantly

arising. If only Rolf would have held his tongue!

But these were mere surface troubles, and I often managed to forget

that there was such a person as Mrs. Markham in the world; and, in

spite of a few trifling drawbacks, I look back upon this summer as one

of the happiest in my life.

I was young and healthy, and I perfectly revelled in the country sights

and sounds with which I was surrounded. I hardly knew which I enjoyed

most—the long delicious mornings on the beach, when I sat under the

breakwater taking care of Reggie, or the afternoons in the orchard,

with the brown bees humming round the hives and the children playing

with Fidgets on the grass, while the old white pony looked over the

fence at us, and the sheep nibbled at our side. I used to send Hannah

home for an hour or two while I watched over the children; it was hard

for her to be so near home and not enjoy Molly’s company; and those

summer afternoons were lazy times for all of us.

I think Miss Cheriton added largely to my happiness. I had never had

a friend since my school-days, and it was refreshing to me to come in

contact with this bright young creature. I was a little too grave for

my age, and I felt she did me good.

I soon found she resembled my mistress in one thing: she was very

unselfish, and thought more of other people’s pleasures than her own.

She used to say herself that it was only a sublime sort of selfishness

that she liked to see everyone happy round her. “A gloomy face hinders

all enjoyment,” was her constant remark. But I never knew anyone who

excelled more in little kindly acts. She would bring me fruit or

flowers almost daily; and when she found I was fond of reading, she

selected books for me she thought I should like.

When Mrs. Markham did not use the carriage—a very rare occasion, as

she had almost a monopoly of it—she would take us for long country

drives, and she would contrive all sorts of little surprises for us.

Once when we returned from a saunter in the lanes, we found our tea

table laid in the orchard, and Miss Cheriton presiding, in a gay little

hat trimmed with cornflowers and poppies. There was a basket of flowers

in the centre of the table, and a heap of red and yellow fruit. We had

quite a little feast that evening, and all the time we were sitting

there, there were broods of chickens running over the grass, that Gay

had enticed into the orchard to please the children, and grey rabbits,

and an old lame duck that was her pensioner, and went by the name of

Cackles.

“Oh, auntie, do have another feast,” Joyce would say to her, almost

daily; but Miss Cheriton could not always be with us; visitors were

very plentiful at Marshlands, and Gay’s company was much courted by the

young people of Netherton and Orton-upon-Sea.

I knew Mr. Hawtry was a constant visitor, for we often met him in

our walks; and it seemed to me that his face was always set in the

direction of Marshlands.

When Rolf was with us he was never allowed to pass without notice, and

then he would stop and speak to the children, especially to Joyce, who

soon got over her shyness with him.

“Mother says Mr. Hawtry comes to see Aunt Gay,” Rolf remarked once,

when he was out of hearing; “she told grandpapa so one day, and asked

him if it would not be a good thing; and grandpapa laughed and nodded;

you know his way. What did mother mean?”

“No doubt she meant that Mr. Hawtry was a kind friend,” I returned,

evasively. How is one to silence a precocious child? But of course it

was easy to understand Mrs. Markham’s hint.

I wondered sometimes if Mr. Hawtry were a favoured suitor. He and Miss

Cheriton certainly seemed on the best of terms; she always seemed glad

to see him, but her manner was very frank with him.

I took it into my head that Gay had more than one admirer. I deduced

this inference from a slight occurrence that took place one day.

I was on the terrace with the children one morning, when a young

clergyman in a soft felt hat came up the avenue. I knew him at once as

the boyish-faced curate at Netherton Church, who had read the service

the last two Sundays. I had liked his voice and manner, they were so

reverent, but I remembered that I thought him very young. He was a

tall, broad-shouldered young man, and though not exactly handsome, had

a bright, pleasant-looking face.

Rolf hailed him at once as an old acquaintance. “Holloa, Mr. Rossiter;

it is no use your going on to the house; mother is not well and cannot

see you, and Aunt Gay is with the bees.”

Mr. Rossiter seemed a little confused at this. He stopped and regarded

Rolf with some perplexity.

“I am sorry Mrs. Markham is not well, but perhaps I can see Mr.

Cheriton.”

“Oh, grandpapa has gone to Orton; there is only me at home; you see,

Miss Fenton does not count. If you want Aunt Gay I will show you the

way to the kitchen garden.” And as Mr. Rossiter accepted this offer

with alacrity, they went off together.

We were going down to the beach that morning, and I was only waiting

for Hannah to get the perambulator ready, but as a quarter of an hour

elapsed and Rolf did not make his appearance, Joyce and I went in

search of him.

I found him standing by the beehives, talking to Miss Cheriton and Mr.

Rossiter. They all looked very happy, and Mr. Rossiter was laughing at

something the boy had said; such a ringing, boyish laugh it was.

When I called Rolf they all looked round, and Miss Cheriton came

forward to speak to me. I thought she looked a little uncomfortable,

and I never saw her with such a colour.

“Are you going down to the beach? I wish I could come too, it is such

a lovely morning, but Mr. Rossiter wants me to go to the schools; Miss

Parsons, the schoolmistress, is ill, and they need help. It is so

tiresome,” speaking with a pettish, spoilt-child air, turning to the

young clergyman; “Miss Parsons always does get ill at inconvenient

times.”

“I know you would not fail us if it were ever so inconvenient,”

answered Mr. Rossiter, looking full at her—he had such nice clear

eyes; “you are far too kind to desert us in such a strait.”

But she made no answer to this, and went back to the beehive, and after

a moment’s irresolution Mr. Rossiter followed her.

“Do you like Mr. Rossiter?” asked Rolf, in his blunt way, as we walked

down the avenue. “I do, awfully; he is such a brick. He plays cricket

with me sometimes, and he has promised to teach me to swim, only mother

won’t let him, in spite of all grandpapa says about my being brought up

like a girl. Grandpapa means me to learn to swim and ride, only mother

is so frightened ever since the black pony threw me. I am to have a

quieter one next year.”

“Have you known Mr. Rossiter long?” I asked, carelessly.

“Oh, pretty long. Mother can’t bear him coming so often to the house;

she says he is so awkward, and then he is poor. Mother doesn’t like

poor people; she always says it is their own fault; that they might get

on better. Do you know, Fenny, Mr. Rossiter has only two little rooms

at Mrs. Saunders’, you know that low house looking on the cornfields;

quite poky little rooms they are, because mother and I went there.

Mother asked him if he did not find it dreadfully dull at Netherton,

and he laughed and said, ‘Oh, dear no;’ he had never been more

comfortable; the people at Netherton were so kind and hospitable; and

though mother does not like him, he comes just as often as though she

did.” And I soon verified Rolf’s words; Mr. Rossiter came very often to

Marshlands.

(_To be continued._)

I ONLY WISH I HAD.

BY MEDICUS.

There are five hundred of my lady readers, at the very least, who can

easily guess the reason why Medicus did not appear before them so

regularly last summer.

“Five hundred!” I think I hear some girls say; “why are these five

hundred in the secret? And what about all the other thousands?”

Stay, and I will tell you. For four months this last season I was “on

the road,” travelling in my own chariot—I am surely not wrong in

calling it a chariot, seeing it is twenty feet in length—throughout

the length and breadth of Merrie England, and I put down the minimum

of Girl’s Own readers who visited this chariot and its owner at five

hundred, though, seeing that schools with their teachers, numbering

from twenty to seventy, sometimes paid a visit to me, all of whom were

ardent admirers of the “beautifully and tastefully illustrated G. O.

P.”—the girls’ own words—a thousand might be nearer the mark.

But what, it may be asked, has this to do with the non-appearance of

Medicus before his readers? Why, everything; because I find it all but

impossible to do literary work “on the road.”

I might have done more, though.

“I only wish I had.”

And these words form the text on which I desire this month to speak a

few homely words to my girls, young or not young.

“I only wish I had.” How often a medical man hears those same words;

spoken, it may be, with blanched lips, by some poor mortal who is

languishing on a bed of sickness and pain. “I only wish I had.” Had

what? Taken better care of health while it lasted.

I sat by the bedside of a poor girl some years ago, and heard her

repeat those same words frequently. I had somewhat more time to spare

then than I have now, or I could not have sat there for an hour or two

at a time reading to her or to myself. She did not speak much, being in

the final stage of consumption, but she assured me again and again it

was “such company” to have me there, so what could I do?

“I wish I had.” These words, it seemed to me, were too often on her

lips. Sometimes it was only the first two words, “I wish,” she

breathed, as if the weakened lungs and voice refused to add the others.

I think I see Esther D—— even now, a long, thin, pale hand on the

coverlet, a white, thin face, with a flush on the high cheeks, little

blue veins meandering over the temples, and sad blue eyes, with dark

dilated and glistening pupils.

“I wish I had.” Wish she had what? Taken a word or two of advice I gave

her in a friendly way, just before she started for the seaside on a

holiday trip.

She looked bright, strong, and beautiful that day, though I could tell,

from her transparent skin, her too soft hair and drooping eyelashes,

that in her veins were the seeds of our island illness, and that it

would need but little to fan it into flame.

“I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly,” she said, her eyes dancing with

good humour.

“Yes,” I said, as I bade her good-bye, “but not excitedly, Esther; and

remember what I said about night air, damp feet, and warm clothing.”

There was a little impatient toss of the head, and just about half a

frown, and I smiled, expecting her to say, “Oh, bother!” but she did

not.

Well, poor Esther died.

But I know of nothing more sad when one is ill than the thought that

the illness might have been avoided.

“I wish I had been more careful.”

If you let your thimble fall, it will drop to the ground, will it not?

This is a law of Nature; and as sure and certain is every other law of

Nature. Nature will forgive, but she never will forget. If you, for

example, sit in wet clothes, evaporation takes place; in other words,

the damp of your clothes passes off in steam, and, as water requires

so much heat to convert it into steam, it takes this heat from the

nearest source, and that is from your body. It absorbs animal heat.

What is the consequence? Why, baby there could understand this simple

lesson in physiology. The consequence is that the surface of the body

becomes chilled. Well, then another law of Nature comes into force.

The law is this: Cold contracts. Cold contracts everything, even iron.

Witness the difference in the length of railway iron rails in summer

and winter. Given a sun-heat of, say, one hundred and twenty degrees,

and they are all close together at the ends. Given a winter temperature

of thirty-two degrees, or under, and the rails do not touch, but gap.

And the cold on the surface of the body contracts the veins and

arteries. With what result? With the result that the blood is to some

extent squeezed—to use simple language—out of them, and, as it must

flow somewhere, it rushes in upon the internal organs of the body.

Now, we all of us have some one organ weaker than the others, and

it is this organ that suffers from a surfeit of blood in its veins,

driven inwards by a chill. It may be Miss Ada’s liver, and she has in

consequence “a horrid bilious attack,” as I have heard it called, or it

may be worse, suppression of the bile entirely, followed naturally by

blood poisoning and jaundice.

It may be Miss Ada’s lungs. The blood is driven in upon the surface

thereof; this surface becomes congested and red, though no one can see

it. Nature tries to relieve the congestion by throwing off through

the walls of the veins or arteries the watery portion of the blood.

This tickles the lungs, and a cough is the result. But the very act of

coughing increases the mischief tenfold, and what was at first water

may become matter.

Nor may the mischief end here; for, if inclined to have consumption,

the tubercle, as it is called, will now be deposited in the lung

surface or tissue. Why? Because, the veins being congested and

enlarged, the flow through them is more sluggish. I do hope I’m making

myself understood! The flow, I say, is more sluggish, and deleterious

matter, that otherwise would have been washed or carried away in the

secretions, gets time and opportunity to settle.

Now do you understand how a chill from a draught or from damp clothing

may cause mischief of even a fatal character?

Will you take my advice, and wear judicious clothing, or will you wait

till the mischief is done, and then say, “I wish I had”?

Mind, I do not wish you to go about, even during the cold months of

winter, swaddled with as much clothing as a mummy, but I do wish you to

wear woollen clothing—next the skin, at all events.

Age has nothing at all to do with it. The young are even more apt to

catch deadly colds than the older or middle-aged.

I often wish there was some woollen material manufactured in this

country—thin, warm, and soft, with a smooth surface that would render

it perfectly suitable for underclothing for the most delicate-skinned

girl. Flannel, such as is sold in the shops, has its good points, but

it really has many objectionable ones. I hear new flannel extolled. I

may be fastidious, but I really do not care for its perfume. Then there

are your woollen jerseys, or whatever you call them, and merino ditto.

Why, they are so rough, I, myself, would rather fall back upon silk.

[Illustration: “I WISH I HAD BEEN MORE CAREFUL.”]

In Germany, I believe, they have a material that is eminently suitable

for the purpose I am advocating.

There is a chance for some manufacturer to come to the front.

Meanwhile, our girls will go on wearing linen and catching colds; and

I do assure my readers that they would be both astonished and shocked

were I to tell them the average number of fatal illnesses brought

on annually in England from neglect of proper precautions for the

preservation of health.

But if winter hath its dangers from cold, and wet, and frost, neither

is summer exempt.

Would I have girls wear wool in summer? Undoubtedly.

Wool is not only a protection against cold, but against intense heat as

well. It is a go-between, so to speak.

We all know that thatched houses are warm in winter and cool in summer,

but possibly the words of Stanley, the great African traveller, may

be new to many, although the truth they contain rests upon the same

natural basis as that about thatched houses. I cannot give the exact

words of this truly great man, but they are to this effect:—

“The only way a European can withstand the intense heat of tropical

Africa is by wearing garments of wool.”

This is very easily understood. Wool is a non-conductor. In winter,

therefore, it conserves or retains the internal or animal heat, and in

summer it will defend the skin and the blood from becoming fevered by

the scorching rays of the sun.

I do not expect my youngest readers to be interested in one-half of

what I am now writing, but I most earnestly desire their mothers and

guardians to lay my words to heart, and to act upon them, so that they

may not hereafter have to say, with sighs of regret—

“I wish I had.”

There is one other little matter I wish to point out to my thoughtful

mamma-readers, with regard to clothing, and that is, the absurdity of

not having dress, either for boys or girls, made the same thickness at

the back as at the front.

It really is ridiculous to clothe the chest in front and leave it to

starve between the shoulders. I have before now pointed out to you that

people catch colds in the chest far more often from chills caught from

behind. _Verbum sap._

Well, now I shall change my tune, and go on to another subject which

also has a bearing upon colds and coughs and ill-health of every kind

engendered by wintry weather.

One-half of the people in this country are not breakfast-eaters.

Are you really a breakfast-eater? Do you get hungry as soon as you have

had your bath? As soon as you have said your good-morning, do your

eyes roam over the table-cloth with a wholesome desire to know what is

on board? If you are healthy, and have discussed that matutinal meal,

nothing can hurt you all day. You may walk through the most unwholesome

streets and lanes in the City, and come forth intact.

On the other hand, do you feel languid when you get up? Do you cast a

longing, lingering glance behind you as you commence to dress? Do you

come downstairs caring little what is to eat? Are your fingers numb

and cold? Do you require to slowly sip a cup of tea before getting an

appetite even for toast and butter, and that new-laid egg you have to

coax yourself to eat? If so you are not in health. Go not anywhere

during the day where you are likely to breathe a tainted air, or be

influenced by cold or damp. If you do not take my advice in this

respect you may live to say—“I wish I had.”

But have I no remedy to suggest for my breakfastless readers?

Oh, yes, I have! There is a cause for everything. Your want of appetite

in the morning may depend on one or other of many things. To be sure,

it may be constitutional. You may have a weak heart and be altogether

delicate in consequence. But ten to one you have nothing of the sort.

Besides, if your heart be only functionally weak, do not forget that it

is a muscular organ, as much so as your forearm or biceps, and, like

the biceps, can be strengthened by good food and plenty of pleasant

exercise in the open air.

But there are other reasons why appetite absents itself at the

breakfast hour. As my space is nearly filled, I can but name a few.

Late suppers are inimical to health in the morning. They create

restless nights, or, if the nights be not restless quite, the sleep is

not refreshing. The stomach ought to sleep as well as other organs; and

if it does not, depend upon it that it will not be fit for its duties

next morning.

Badly ventilated rooms. Sleeping in a room where there is not an

abundance of fresh air is poisoning to the blood. The carbonic is not

burned off therefrom, and dulness and lethargy are the result. You

awake in the morning feeling your sleep has done you little good,

feeling you would like just another hour. Believe me, if you slept as

long thus as Rip Van Winkle, you would feel precisely the same when you

opened your eyes.

Want of exercise and neglect of the bath also destroy the appetite for

the morning meal.

And medicines will not make up for want of obedience to Nature’s laws.

But if you return to these with heart and soul, then a mixture of

infusion of quassia, say a tablespoonful, with ten drops of dilute

phosphoric acid, and twenty of the compound tincture of bark, may be

taken with great benefit, a quarter of an hour before breakfast and

dinner.

See, then, to your appetite as well as clothing, especially in cold,

inclement weather, and may you never have those bitter, regretful words

to utter—“I wish I had.”

THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

BY LOUISA MENZIES.

CHAPTER III.

THE CALLING IN LIFE CHOSEN.

As Eveline had said, what seemed an accident determined Mark’s choice

of an occupation. A cousin of his mother’s came to spend a few days

at the rectory. He had recently lost a very promising son, and was

much softened and saddened by his trouble, and in his saddened mood

his thoughts turned to his cousin James, whom he remembered a bright

and cheery lad, very much his own junior. He knew that there were two

lads at Rosenhurst, one the son of his cousin James, the other of

his widowed cousin Margaret, and he thought with interest of him who

bore his own name, and wondered whether he in any way resembled his

lost Edward—whether he was a true Echlin, like his father, earnest,

teachable, and faithful.

Miles Echlin was the head of a publishing house, holding a high

position in London, and by the death of his son, not only he himself

but the business had experienced an irreparable loss. He wanted

comfort, he wanted help, and in this saddened mood he came down to

Rosenhurst Rectory. Lady Elgitha, fully alive to the fact that many

sons of noble houses were at the present time engaged in commerce, was

at some trouble to be civil to him, and schooled her son to proper

behaviour; but outward civility did not impose on the keen-sighted man

of business, and before he had been twelve hours at the rectory he was

convinced that Gilbert was indolent, opinionated, and selfish.

Margaret and her children came to dinner, and there was much pleasant

chat among the elders about the days when they had been children, and

when Miles had thought it a great treat to spend the holidays with his

uncle at Westborough, but he had little opportunity then for making

acquaintance with Mark and Eveline; but when next morning he walked

over with the rector to the cottage, Miles felt at once the calm and

restful sense of home, where all the members were in harmony, and where

the grave, handsome face looking down from the wall seemed to his

mind, saddened by recent sorrow, to promise him sympathy. He had known

Michael Fenner very slightly, being at the time of Margaret’s marriage

already much immersed in business, but a glance at the picture of her

husband, and at Margaret’s own composed and gentle face, assured him

that she would listen, not only with patience, but with true interest,

to what he should tell her about his son, and so it came about that

during his stay at Rosenhurst he spent most of his time at the

cottage, and talked much with and of Mark.

At the end of four days he returned to town, and in less than a

fortnight there came a letter from him inviting Mark to come and stay

with him in town, and offering him a share in his business if he would

devote himself to the study of it.

It was not without hesitation that Mark acceded to the proposal; either

of the callings he had been meditating on would, he thought, have been

more to his taste, but in either he would have been a comparatively

poor man, unable to do much for his mother and sister, and he could

not flatter himself that in either he was much wanted. Here there was

a place left vacant which he might fill, a positive call from a weary

heart which he might comfort.

His mother was slow to give her opinion in the matter; it was too easy,

too pleasant for her to have her son occupied in work which would not

take him very far away, which would not overtax his energies; she could

hardly believe that it would be desirable for his highest interests;

she feared lest James and Elgitha might be vexed that the offer had not

been made first to Gilbert. Of course Miles was a sort of tradesman,

and Elgitha could scarcely be supposed to admire trade; still she

might have liked Gilbert to have been first consulted.

She took the letter up to the rectory, and laid it before her brother.

The rector read it carefully, and returned it to her with a sigh and a

smile.

“I suppose Mark will go,” he said.

“He has not made up his mind yet,” said Margaret.

“Does he dislike the idea of desk work?”

“I don’t think he ever thought of disliking it. If he were to be

a teacher or a clergyman he would have a great deal of desk work,

wouldn’t he?”

“Certainly, and promotion is so slow; unless he happened to possess the

gift of oratory, he might be a curate at forty.”

“I fancy he thought rather of being a teacher.”

“Very hard work; breaking stones on the road is play to it,” said the

gentle rector, who had no talent for teaching, though he had a very

pretty talent for preaching. “It seems a pity that he should not close

with Miles’ offer; Mark would be a treasure to him.”

“You think he would?”

“Can you doubt it? Don’t you know what he is to you and to me? On all

grounds I think he should accept it, if he has no personal dislike to

the arrangement. At all events he should go and try.”

So Mark went, and Gilbert, with many a shrug, pronounced him a lucky

fellow, and promised to come and dine with him.

The rector took occasion, on Mark’s departure, to speak to his son as

to his own path in life.

“Mark has made his start in life, Gilbert. Don’t you think it would be

advisable for you to make up your mind as to what you will do?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it would; but it is so hard to make up one’s mind

when one has no special vocation. Mark’s a lucky fellow; his mind was

made up for him.”

“I have very good reason to think that if you had had Mark’s aptitude,

the offer would have been made to you.”

“It is a pity I hadn’t; but I don’t suppose it’s a man’s fault not

caring for things. It must be a great bore to you, sir, to have a son

like me, who doesn’t care for any of the things you care for. I don’t

suppose two men were ever more unlike.”

“I don’t ask you to consider what I should like you to do; that,

perhaps, would be unfair; but only to see that, taking your own view,

what you are doing will not pay. If I were to die, there would not be

more than enough for your mother and sister.”

“So you have told me before; so the mother has told me. It is

unfortunate that I have no taste for anything. I don’t find that I care

about doing the same thing for two days together.”

“Does it never occur to you that there is such a thing as duty?”

“A very useful dissyllable, no doubt, sir, and telling in a song;

but it is very much gone out of fashion nowadays, with the Church

Catechism, high pews, and church clerks. No one considers that he ought

to be ‘content with that state of life,’ etc.”

“Gilbert,” said Mr. Echlin, more sternly than he had ever spoken to

his son, “if you do not woo duty as a mistress, she will drive you

as a taskmistress. The man who has no love of duty had better never

have been born. He has no high aims, no ennobling thoughts. Do not, I

beseech you, give me the misery of knowing that my only son is an idle

man.”

“Do not distress yourself, father. I suppose I shall drop into

something before long. There can be no hurry. If you had ten children

it would be another matter. There’s Elgitha; she has energy enough, and

cares about lots of things. If you would send her to Girton, sir, I

feel sure she’d take a double first, and like it.”

“She might do very much worse, I believe,” said Mr. Echlin, turning

away. He went into his study with a sore heart to write his Sunday

sermon on the beauty of holiness, and Gilbert found half an hour’s

amusement in teasing his sister’s canaries.

It was not long before Mark Fenner’s start in life brought changes

to Rosenhurst. The more Miles Echlin knew him, the better he liked

him. Mark possessed one of those strong natures that rests in itself,

never impatient to thrust itself forward, and never much occupied

with a consideration of its own wants or pleasures. Accepting in the

fullest and heartiest sense all the duties that were comprehended in

the partnership offered him by his mother’s cousin, and loving them

because they were duties, he set himself with all his heart to master

the technicalities of the business, and entered into the enthusiasms of

the old publisher with all a young man’s energy.

“It was a lucky thing, sir, that visit to Rosenhurst,” said Evans, Mr.

Echlin’s head clerk and factotum, when Mark had been some six months in

London. “Mr. Fenner is a born publisher. He takes to the printer’s ink

as a babe to its mother’s milk. As things have turned out, it really

seems quite providential.”

“I am glad you think so, Evans; it is my own opinion exactly. I hope

the lad is satisfied. How those dear ladies at the cottage must miss

him!”

When Mr. Echlin left his office after this conversation, he took his

leisurely way to Manchester-square. It had always been a principle with

him to live within an easy walk of his business, having early imbibed

a taste for that most healthy of all exercises, and having found that

there was no better time for thinking over business. Indeed, for many

years he had never embarked upon an undertaking until he had turned it

over in his mind during two or three days’ walk to and fro.

As he strolled home that evening it was June, and the whole earth

was singing with gladness. The City’s great heart was throbbing with

welcome to the sweet summer, and stretching out eager hands for the

fruits and flowers of the country. Roses and strawberries lay in

tempting proximity in the shops, women’s clothes fluttered airily

in the breeze, and young men skimmed cheerily along, taking note of

the luncheon-bars where American drinks were for sale, while elderly

men looked fresh and rosy in light trousers, light hats, and light

waistcoats.

As Mr. Echlin walked on, nodding to an acquaintance here, exchanging

a word or two there, his mind was pursuing some such train of thought

as this:—How fine the weather was; it was a pleasure to breathe.

This time last year Edward had been by his side; it was on the 18th

of June; he remembered it because he had made a little excuse for the

extravagance, saying that we ought not to forget the anniversary of

Waterloo; and they had stopped to buy the first basket of strawberries.

How little had either of them thought that the course of their quiet

life would so soon be broken! It was a dismal thing to think that he

had let him go to Rome at that time of the year. But then he seemed so

strong; nothing ever ailed him. Dr. Dickenson said, indeed, that he had

no reserve force—weak vital energy, like his dear mother. To wish him

“good-bye” for a six weeks’ holiday, and never to see him alive again!

Well, well, it was sad. Such a son, too, and with all his future so

easy before him! Well, well, it wouldn’t be so very long that he would

have to survive him; he was almost sixty; it could not be so very

long. And now he had Mark Fenner. Strange that all the time Edward was

with him he had never thought of going down to Rosenhurst to see James

and poor Margaret. And then his thoughts carried him to the little

cottage at the rectory gate, where the two women lived who must miss

their good son and brother so much, and who must be so much missed by

him.

Thus meditating, he reached his own door, which he opened, according to

his custom, with a latchkey, and passed down the cool passage into the

large, cool, but rather sombre dining-room.

The table was laid for two, the silver and glass shining on the white

damask, while the old butler stood with his smile of welcome by the

shining mahogany sideboard, whereon was displayed the usual row of

bottles—port, sherry, and claret, with a dessert of early strawberries

and biscuits. It was all very comfortable, but just a trifle dreary;

so, at least, Miles thought it must be to the young man who was now

knocking at the door, who was to use the second knife and fork and be

his companion all the evening.

At the cottage at Rosenhurst what would the young man’s mother and

sister be doing now? Perhaps sitting down to their modest meal, waited

on by the little country damsel with round eyes and rosy cheeks;

perhaps going through the more stately but rather dismal ceremonial of

“dining at the rectory.”

All the evening, while they dined, read the papers, and, later on,

in deference to the beauty of the night, strolled through the quiet

streets towards the Regent’s Park, and saw the moon hanging like a

silver disc in the sky—while Mark, following his lead, discoursed

of the lovely woods of Sunbridge, of the hedges fragrant with wild

roses and honeysuckle, of the sweet, pure air, of his mother and her

garden, of his sister singing in the twilight to the old piano—there

always lay the thought suggested to him by the words of Evans in

the afternoon, “As things have turned out, it really seems quite

providential.” Mark Fenner was already much more to him than he could

ever have hoped from one who was not his own son; he was doing his

work with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his strength,

accepting it as the business of his life. But might not he for his

part—he, Miles Echlin—do something on his side also to make the lad’s

life brighter—to make the house in Manchester-square, now for nearly

thirty years his home, a little more cheery and a little more homelike

to the boy who had grown up in the little cottage at the rectory gate

at Rosenhurst?

If there is much cause of lamentation at the overcrowded dwellings of

the poor, something might also be said plaintive and touching about the

desolation of the houses of the wealthy—of the rich carpets so seldom

trodden, the couches on which no limbs ever find repose, the mirrors

reflecting nothing but each other, of the soft beds which are never

pressed, and all the elaborate machinery of modern life gathered into

chamber after chamber, and never used. Extremes meet, and the rich man

in the desolation of his empty chambers may be as much in need of pity

as the poor man crowded out of his one apartment by the superabundance

of his domestic ties.

The house which Miles Echlin called home consisted of suites of

reception-rooms furnished in the costliest taste of thirty years ago,

when Mrs. Echlin was alive, and Edward, a bright boy of three, was

making sunshine in the house, while there was a possibility of sons and

daughters yet to come; but the cheery little wife, for whose sake and

by whose direction the furnishing had been done, took a cold—a mere

nothing, it seemed—and passed almost suddenly out of the life so full

of hope and happiness for her, just as a bright flame which makes the

whole room glad is blown out by a puff of wind coming one knows not

whence. Then Miles, saddened and sobered, went about his work, caring

little for the large house, only seeing that it was properly cleaned

and aired, walking methodically through the great rooms, and coming

at last to live in two of them, his dining-room and a small sleeping

room, which had been his dressing-room while his wife was alive. A few

friends came to see him at intervals, and there were some to whom the

silent house was a home whenever they came to town; but Miles had no

heart for company. When Edward should be grown up would be time enough;

the boy should marry, and then the house would once again echo with

laughter and song; he should make his own choice—it would be sure to

be a worthy one, and they would find a corner for the old man, and

not think him in the way. Edward grew up, and was all that his father

wished him to be; then came the second bitter disappointment, and the

big house was more empty and silent than ever.

On that June evening, as he strolled with Mark through the quiet

streets, and glanced up at the lighted windows in the houses of his

neighbours, at the groups of people, old and young, on the high

balconies, and caught the waves of laughter or song, the silence,

the darkness of the house into which they introduced themselves by a

latchkey, seemed almost unendurable. The gas was turned low in the

dining-room; the portrait of Mrs. Echlin looked thin and spectral;

the plate and glass on the sideboard suggested anything but good

cheer, looking rather like mummies from which the life has long since

departed. Mark turned up the gas, and they saw that it wanted five

minutes to ten. What a long evening it had been. Mark was tired,

and thought, if Mr. Echlin didn’t mind, he would go to bed; he said

something in apology about country habits; he did not say that he was

up every morning before six practising certain technicalities which

were necessary for the carrying on the business; nor did he complain

of the heat and closeness of the office, though both were trying to a

country lad.

Mr. Echlin wished him “good-night” kindly, but rather like one in a

dream, and when the butler came in at eleven, according to custom, with

his master’s candle, and to carry up the plate, he still sat in the

same chair, but he was leaning back with a satisfied look; the inkstand

and blotting-pad were on the table, and a sealed letter lay before him.

“Are you ready for your candle, sir?” said Martin, taking all in at a

glance.

“Yes, quite,” replied the master, rising briskly from his chair.

“Good-night, Martin; fine weather for the country.”

“Splendid for the crops, sir,” said Martin, a cockney to the backbone,

who was imbued with the idea that the more the sun blazed the better

the corn grew; but as he turned out the gas the old man wondered to

whom his master had been writing, a wonder which was not relieved in

the morning, as was generally the case on the rare occasions when Mr.

Echlin wrote a letter at home, by his being requested to post it, for

his master brought the letter down with him, laid it on the mantelpiece

with the direction downwards, and carried it out in his own hand when

he went to business, all which unusual proceedings served to fix

Martin’s attention on the letter, and to impress him with the idea that

it must be a document of much importance.

(_To be concluded._)

AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.

BY ANNE BEALE.

Five years ago the first appeal for the Princess Louise Home was

inserted in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. It appeared in the weekly number

dated February 25, 1882. The response to it was hearty and immediate,

and from all parts of the habitable globe arrived contributions in

money and goods towards a bazaar for the benefit of this “National

Society for the Protection of Young Girls.” The bazaar was held in May,

but the account of it was given in the number for July 22, 1882.

Every subscriber likes to know what becomes of his or her donations;

therefore we purpose to look into results by paying another visit to

our old friends at Woodhouse, Wanstead, before terrifying our readers

by announcing another fancy fair.

“Old friends” is almost a misnomer, for new faces greet us everywhere

as we enter the precincts of the grounds and ancient abode. Mrs.

Talbot, the esteemed matron, has resigned, and Mrs. Macdonald reigns

in her stead. Miss Tidd, the originator and untiring secretary of the

bazaar, is happily married. So is the schoolmistress, who, it will be

remembered, was also a pupil trained at the Home. The monatresses of

to-day are the scholars of five years ago, and our own particular girls

have diminished in number. Thanks to the bazaar and collateral causes,

we have been privileged to gain admission for nearly a dozen, of whom

the greater number are in service and doing well, and when we make

urgent demands for our girls, four only respond to them; but they have

not forgotten us. We find two in the kitchen and two in the laundry,

and hear that a couple of these are going to service after Christmas.

They all look rosy and happy, in spite of the fumes that surround

them; for the young cooks are bending over two gigantic saucepans,

whence issues a very savoury odour, and the juvenile laundresses are

enveloped in the less appetising exhalations from damp linen; for

this is folding, drying, and mangling day, and one of our particular

girls is turning the mangle. This large and commodious laundry has

been erected, opened, and utilised since our last visit to Woodhouse.

There are different compartments for sorting, washing, drying, ironing,

mangling, packing, and delivering, which all communicate with one

another. We live and learn; for we had scarcely realised before all

the processes of laundry work. And this is all done by manual toil;

for there is no steam. Seven of the elder girls are at present in

training under a special experienced matron and laundry-maid, and as

customers increase, more will be drafted off to this particular work,

and open the other parts of the establishment to an increased number of

inmates. As laundries almost invariably pay, it is confidently hoped

that the income of the Home will be greatly increased by this agency,

and both friends and strangers are “cordially invited,” as the phrase

now is, to try it. The tariff of charges is the ordinary one laid down

in London and the neighbourhood, and arrangements have been made with

those ubiquitous carriers, Carter and Paterson, to fetch and return

boxes and hampers of linen from and to any part of this vast metropolis

free of charge; and customers may count on being supplied with the said

boxes and hampers gratis and securely padlocked. What could they want

more? “Good washing and ironing,” is the reply; and we trust these will

follow the demand. Over a thousand articles have to be washed weekly

for the inmates of the Home alone; so under all circumstances the hand

is kept in.

Our laundresses boast of a separate establishment, which they have

called Primrose Cottage, probably after the Primrose League, of which

they have heard. This is a long room with a long green-baize-covered

table, communicating with the laundry. A short time ago it was a sort

of outhouse; now it is a sitting and dining-room, adorned with texts.

If funds only came in, many other tumble-down and ill-paved portions

of this country seat might be vastly amended. But neither Rome nor

Woodhouse was built or repaired in a day. Soon, however, we hope to

see a splendid drying-ground replace the present one, for the asphalted

roof of the laundries offers every facility for it. If we may be

permitted to make a personal remark, we would venture to say that a

rosier, healthier set of laundry-girls could nowhere be seen, and the

roses extend from face to arms. As we descend from Primrose Cottage to

the laundry, we are arrested by a remark made by the secretary, as he

points upwards to an iron girder—

“This was a great encouragement to me. This iron came from Providence,

and bears that name. I took it as a good sign, and worked on in faith,”

he says.

Assuredly there is the word “Providence” stamped on the iron, and we

will not pause to inquire whence its origin, but hasten onwards to see

what the Divine Providence is doing for His rescued children, and what

He requires us to do.

Most of them are in the playground, and their ringing voices and

laughter sound mirthful, and convey no impression of the depraved homes

from which they have been taken. About a dozen of them, however, are

gathered round a fire in what is called their playroom, which might be

better paved and appointed, if only those—we dare not mention funds

again in this place, seeing we are about to make an appeal vigorous

enough to melt hearts harder than these very rough stones on which

the children play. A bundle of picture text cards attracts the whole

school into the playroom, and we are soon surrounded by about fifty

girls of ages varying from eleven to fifteen and over, all thankful

for very small mercies. We are thus enabled to declare them very

well-mannered; for instead of pressing forward to seize on the coveted

card, they stand back, each urging a companion to the front. Slight

touches indicate character and training, and this reticence speaks for

itself. In spite of many difficulties inseparable from the education of

girls mostly born and bred in a doubtful atmosphere, it is possible to

cultivate a certain delicacy and refinement amongst them.

“I am sorry to be obliged to leave you; but I am going to take this

girl to her place,” interrupts the matron, as a respectable-looking,

neatly-dressed maiden appears amongst her schoolfellows to bid them

good-bye.

She has passed her term of years in the Home, and is about to make her

start in life. A good outfit and a respectable place have been provided

for her somewhere in Kent, and the kind matron will not lose sight of

her until she places her in the care of her new mistress. Indeed, the

girls are never lost sight of, as their touching letters and frequent

returns home prove, as well as the communications made to the matron on

each change of place.

“If you keep your situation and have a good character for one clear

year, the committee will give you a guinea as a reward, together with a

new dress,” says the secretary, encouragingly.

How little we realise the feelings of the young servant as she leaves

the best home she has known for a stranger one, and hurries off to

the train about to whirl her away into a new world! When we inquire

her previous history, we are told that she was “surrounded by immoral

influences, and rescued just in time.”

Let us hope that her mistress will be able to write of her as

many mistresses have written this year of girls sent to service

before her—in terms of high commendation. Here are one or two

extracts:—“Mary has been in my service for three years, and I have

much pleasure in testifying to her continued good behaviour. She works

hard, is very trustworthy, and I should be very sorry to part with

her.” “Ellen is a very good girl, and during the two years she has been

with me has given me great satisfaction. I hope she may remain with me

many years,” etc.

When we consider what may have been the fate of these young people

had not friends of the Home intervened, we are thankful for what our

readers have done to help them. We are attracted by one who sits rather

apart, and is bigger than the others. She was rescued from a life of

such awful terrorism that even now, when reproved, she hides under the

beds, creeping from one to another like a wild animal. She has, it is

said, lost half her wits from fear; but it is hoped that kindness may

recall them from their “wool-gathering.” She seems less perplexed than

she was.

We should like to linger, and learn the story of all the girls; but

we are summoned from the outworks to the keep, where lessons and

housework alternate, just as they did when last we were here. As to

the dormitories, they are literally ablaze with colour, for a generous,

anonymous donor has sent seventy scarlet woollen coverlets, and each

bed boasts of one. But there are at present only sixty-one inmates,

and, accordingly, nine of the said coverlets are set aside. We are

anxious to fill the home, which will hold one hundred. Therefore

that last resource, a bazaar, is still in contemplation. Adverse

circumstances prevented its taking place in 1886, the jubilee year

of the Institution; so we hope that 1887, the jubilee year of our

well-beloved Queen, may see it consummated. Will the readers of THE

GIRL’S OWN PAPER continue their kind efforts, and send us work or

money, as seems to them best? Some eight hundred pounds resulted from

the last bazaar, which was mainly attributable to the start they gave

it; and already numerous contributions have been received, the work of

their willing fingers. Five years ago the office of the Princess Louise

Home was crowded with packages containing their gifts. May it be so

again, and may the writer once more be privileged to record them, and

may another round dozen or more of girls be safely housed, taught, and

placed in service, as the result of their labours.

Several distinguished and influential ladies have already promised

their aid in various ways, and we are stirring ourselves up to hope for

“a great success.” H. R. H. the Princess Louise will open the bazaar,

life and health being granted to her. We will pray that they may be

extended and lengthened, and that she may see the Home that bears her

name full to overflowing.

We are thankful that our readers have such good memories, and that

they have not forgotten this, their first love, while contracting an

attachment for another, equally worthy. Happily the philanthropic heart

is large, and its hand ever open.

We have been so long the historian of the Home that we find nothing

new to say about it, therefore we will wind up by a visit to the

secretary’s private abode, in order to see one of the girls, now in his

service, who was a Woodhouse bird when last we looked into the nest.

A drive across Wanstead Flats, through a portion of the Forest, and

past the picturesque village, brings us to his hospitable domicile.

Hence he walks almost daily to oversee the Home, so that he, at least,

is not idle, since he must also supervise monetary matters in London

diurnally. We congratulate him on having such a quiet halting-ground

midway.

It would be out of place to describe it, or the excellent luncheon

of which we partook, but it is quite allowable to say that the neatly

dressed, rosy-faced parlour-maid waits uncommonly well, and that she

is a good specimen of Woodhouse training. We are gratified by her

recognising us, and if all the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER could

have seen her bright smile of welcome and respectable appearance, they

would have rejoiced with us. But she is only one of the many who have

been aided. During the fifty years of the existence of the Institution,

nearly three thousand have been rescued from danger of one kind and

another, fifteen hundred of whom have been received since it has

been known as “The Princess Louise Home.” Forty-three of these were

admitted only last year. Close upon eleven hundred have become domestic

servants, and who can calculate the inestimable good done to them and

society by rescuing them from indescribable evils?

As we stood upon the platform of the Snaresbrook Station awaiting the

train, we moralised on this. Sunset with its heavenly glow overspread

Epping Forest and Wanstead-park, beyond which lies the Home. We reflect

on the Divine love which has inspired in the human heart the desire to

devote all we see around us to the overworked citizens of the largest

city in the world; and to open to some of her tempted children the

gates of the rescue house in the distance. We recognize in the evening

glow that God’s love never fails. We will strive to obey His command,

which says “Let brotherly love continue.”

We perceive both degrees of love in the subjoined list, and feel

assured that Christ’s little ones will be still held in tender

remembrance.

In addition to the seventy coverlets already mentioned, we are

requested to state that 224 valuable articles have been received at the

Home from a lady who desires her name not to be announced. These vary

from scarlet blankets to children’s hose.

Lady Greenall and Mrs. Edward Lloyd have also sent magnificent gifts of

clothing, made and unmade; and “The Hampton Court Association of Ladies

for the Care of Friendless Girls” has likewise contributed a valuable

parcel of clothing, through the Dowager Lady Clifford.

In money, three guineas from Lady Martin and ten shillings from C. W.

B. D. have been received.

Contributions sent to the Secretary, Mr. Gillham, at 32,

Sackville-street, W., will be immediately acknowledged by him, and

subsequently in this Magazine.

“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.

Although Mrs. Wilson was very much better, her improvement still

greatly depended upon having perfect quiet and freedom from all

excitement, and her nurses found that if she was in any way disturbed

or agitated in the evening, she either lay awake the greater part of

the night, or, when worn out for want of sleep, was compelled to take

the soothing medicine, which always had a depressing effect upon her

next day.

One evening, Ella had just left her aunt, who was drowsily watching

nurse’s final preparations for the night, when the whole house suddenly

rang with piercing screams and cries for help from the kitchen.

Greatly annoyed and frightened, Ella ran downstairs to stop the

noise, and, on reaching the kitchen, was horrified to find Annie,

the housemaid, rushing about the room with her dress in flames, and

shrieking wildly for someone to save her. The cook, meanwhile, was

crouching in a corner with her apron over her head, so that, as she

said afterwards, she “might not see Annie burnt to death before her

eyes.”

Ella quickly shut the kitchen-door, thereby stopping the draught of

air, which was blowing the flames in all directions, and then, with

more presence of mind, although not much better success, than the cook,

she seized a jug of water, and flung it over the flames, and ran for

more.

Unfortunately, it was burning oil that had caught fire, and was setting

alight to the matting that covered the floor, and the water only spread

the mischief further.

Happily, nurse now appeared in the doorway, and instantly perceiving

what was the matter, tore up a heavy hearthrug, and wrapping it

round Annie, soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames; while Ella,

perceiving the good effect of her plan, promptly imitated her example,

and pulling up doormats, and anything woollen she could reach, threw

them on the burning oil on the floor, and she and nurse soon stamped

out the flames.

Directly the fire was quite out, nurse urged Ella to return to her

aunt, while she herself examined the extent of Annie’s burns. Happily,

the poor girl was wearing a dress of thick woollen material, which had

taken a long time to ignite, so that, although her muslin apron had

made a great blaze, she herself was hardly injured at all. It was, in

reality, Mrs. Wilson who suffered the most, the excitement causing her

a sleepless night, followed next day by a violent headache and feverish

attack.

After breakfast the following day, Ella made up her mind to hold a

solemn inquiry into the causes of the accident, the result of which

filled her with amazement that the whole house had not been burnt down

long ago.

There was no gas in the house, and, as a great deal of oil was

required, a large tin vessel containing several gallons was kept (or

was supposed to be) in an outhouse; while, in order to avoid the danger

of taking a light near this supply of oil, Mrs. Wilson had given

instructions that the lamps should always be cleaned and re-filled

during the morning.

But the outhouse was cold, and the lamps were often forgotten until

they were wanted in the evening; so the large can of oil had been

surreptitiously brought into one of the pantries, where it could be

more easily got at.

On this occasion, as on many others, Annie had forgotten to fill the

hall lamp, and when it reminded her of the fact by smoking, making a

choking smell, and finally going out, she took it down and filled it,

using the naked flame of a benzoline lamp to light the dark little

pantry.

Even this foolhardy act did not, as it might have done, set the whole

store of oil in flames, and she actually trimmed and re-lighted the

lamp in safety, and was carrying it through the kitchen, when a sudden

draught blew the flame of the benzoline lamp against her hand, on which

some oil was spilled. This flamed up, and the frightened girl dropped

both lamps. The larger one exploded in the fall, setting fire to the

oil and to her own apron, and, but for nurse’s quickness and presence

of mind, she would probably have been burned to death.

All this information, very unwillingly given, added to cook’s remark

that there was not a lamp that would burn properly in the house, so

frightened Ella that she felt inclined to give up the use of lamps

altogether, and burn nothing but candles. On second thoughts, however,

and after consulting Mrs. Mobberly, to whom she always referred in all

her difficulties, she sent instead for the man who had supplied the

lamps, and had them all reviewed.

He declared that all the mischief arose from the dirty state of the

lamps, which, much to the indignation of the maids, he requested Ella

to look at, to prove the truth of his words.

“If you have good lamps, and keep them perfectly clean, and burn good

oil, you are quite safe,” he said; “but if you neglect any of those

three, they are the most dangerous things you can have about a house.”

Ella honestly acknowledged that she knew nothing at all about lamps,

and had never cleaned one in her life, but she was determined to

understand the matter thoroughly now, and begged the man to explain

exactly what cleansing was necessary to keep them in good order.

He advised that the lamp glasses and globes should be washed every week

with warm water, soap, and soda, but they must be most carefully dried

before using. The different parts of the burner should be brushed out,

or rubbed clean with a cloth every day; and at least once in two months

the whole brass fittings taken off and well washed.

In a well-made lamp all parts of the burner should take to pieces in

order to be cleaned. The wick-tube and perforated plate through which

the air has to pass to feed the flame should be most particularly seen

to. Charred wick and paper, match heads and dust are often allowed to

fill up the holes of the grid, causing a poor flame, a bad smell, and,

not unfrequently, an explosion.

“Don’t be afraid of plenty of warm water and soap and soda,” the man

repeated; “only you’d better look out pretty sharp, miss, and see that

they get the whole thing perfectly dry before it is lighted again, or

you’ll be having another explosion, and perhaps you won’t come off as

well next time.”

Ella thanked the man for his goodnatured advice, and determined

henceforward to examine the lamps for herself every day, to make sure

her directions were really carried out. Both she and the nurse made

as light as possible of the affair to Mrs. Wilson, who, on seeing for

herself that Annie was not much the worse, was quite contented that

it had been a very trifling matter which had unnecessarily frightened

them; and feeling herself worn out and irritable with sleeplessness,

and the consequent feverishness, she indulged in some rather biting

sarcasms on the “hysterical young ladies of the present day, who make a

fuss about nothing at all,” and begged Ella to remember that she liked

the house kept quiet last thing at night.

These very undeserved reproaches were rather hard for poor Ella to

bear, but she managed to keep silence, and as soon as she was released

consoled herself by writing a doleful letter to her mother, with a full

account of the whole affair, adding the oft-repeated remark that “she

would never be able to manage a house—it was not in her.”

As she expected, her letter brought a speedy reply.

“You must not be discouraged, my child,” wrote her mother, “when

you have to accept blame for the faults of others; that is the very

essence of self-denial, to give up everything, even the credit you

feel you have deserved, for the sake of others; and if it cost you no

effort to do, it would be no denial of self. At any rate you have been

successful, for the very fact that you are blamed proves that you have

saved Aunt Mary the worry and annoyance of knowing her servants to be

careless and incompetent, and thereby you have done much to help on her

recovery.

“Now about the lamps. My own experience has taught me one or two other

lessons, which I will pass on to you.

“The wick must fit the lamp, and be the right kind for that particular

burner. If you are not sure about the kind to get, they will always

advise you if you go to a good shop to buy the wick.

“Then, again, the oil is not (or should not be) all burnt out before

the lamp is refilled, but fresh oil is added to what is already in.

After this process has been continued some time, however, the oil

becomes turbid, and gives a disagreeable smell when the lamp is

lighted. To avoid this, the oil should occasionally be emptied out of

the lamp, and the whole thing washed before being refilled with fresh

oil.

“You cannot insist too strongly on proper care being used in filling

the lamps; one brilliant housemaid we had when you were children was

caught filling a lamp holding it over the kitchen fire, that the oil

might run over on to the fire, and not make a mess on the floor. After

that I filled them myself till I got a maid whom I could thoroughly

trust.

“And do not try to be economical in buying the oil; I cannot advise you

which kind to use, as I do not remember what the lamps are like, but go

to a good shop, and get the best they recommend. I have generally used

a very good kind, called ‘water-white.’ The poor oils throw off a most

explosive gas at a low heat, and do not give so much light as better

oils. If you are careful on all these points, you need not be in the

least nervous about the lamps; we have always used them till the last

year or two, and have never had an explosion or accident of any sort.”

With all this information to guide her, coupled with her own

observation of the construction of the lamps, Ella felt herself

mistress of the situation, and determined that for once she would

insist upon having her own way.

She had the oil removed to the little outhouse again, the door of which

she locked, and kept the key herself, only giving it to Annie at the

time she had appointed for filling the lamps.

The result of this decided measure was that Annie became sullen and

disobliging, while the cook, taking her part, made rude remarks in

a tone purposely loud enough for Ella to hear, about the discomfort

of having two mistresses in the house; and nurse caught her, a short

time afterwards, complaining to Mrs. Wilson of Ella’s overbearing

ways and unreasonable orders, and of the “nasty, stuck-up ways” of

the nurse. She was very quickly and unceremoniously turned out of the

room; but the mischief was already done, for Mrs. Wilson, with the

natural irritableness of an invalid, insisted on having the servants

admitted to the room whenever they wished to see her, and partly, too,

in consequence of her weakness, which made her unwilling to have any

kind of upset in the house, and partly that she believed the servants

to be honest and trustworthy, while she knew Ella was ignorant and

inexperienced, Mrs. Wilson made matters worse by always taking their

part, and blaming Ella for actions which had existed only in the

imaginations of the maids.

One complaint especially annoyed Ella. At home they had always been

accustomed to arrange the work and the meals on Sundays so that not

only the family, but the servants also, might attend a Bible class in

the afternoon, in addition to the regular morning or evening service;

and as she was very anxious that the servants at Hapsleigh should have

the same liberty, Ella had done as much as she could of the necessary

work for the sick room herself on that day, and had so managed that one

or other of the maids had been able to go out every Sunday afternoon

since her arrival.

It was, therefore, with considerable surprise and vexation that Mrs.

Wilson one morning showed her a note she had just received from the

teacher of the Bible class Annie was supposed to attend, asking if she

could be spared to come once in the month, so that the lady should not

lose sight of her altogether.

This was rather too much for Ella’s patience, and after with some

difficulty convincing Mrs. Wilson that the girl had not even once been

hindered from attending the class, she went straight off to call on

the teacher. It seemed that Annie had lamented to that lady that with

sickness in the house and an unreasonable young mistress, she would be

unable to attend the class until Mrs. Wilson was well again; whereas

in reality she had been going every Sunday to visit some friends whom

she knew would be disapproved of both by her mistress and her teacher.

However, happily for all parties, matters were coming to a crisis.

Ella went, as usual, one morning to speak to the old gardener, whom

she found digging in a secluded corner of the garden, with the ducks

following closely at his heels, and poking with their flat bills into

the freshly-turned earth, searching for worms or any other choice

morsels that good fortune might bring in their way.

The old man evidently had something on his mind, and, after the usual

greetings and inquiries after Mrs. Wilson, he stuck his spade into the

earth and leaned his arms on the top of it, as if prepared for a long

conversation; at which the old drake cocked his head on one side, and

stared at him out of one eye with an air of virtuous indignation at

having his own labours interrupted in this way.

The conversation did not seem easy to begin, however, and it was only

after a good deal of hesitation that he said at last—

“I’ve lived along of the missus now these forty year.”

“Yes, I know you have, Mallard. Why, I remember you all my life,”

replied Ella, wondering what was coming.

“Well, Miss Ella, I ain’t told no tales, and I ain’t goin’ to tell no

tales; but what I say I say; and that is as ’ow there’s things goes

on in this ’ouse as ’adn’t ought to; and I ain’t lived along o’ the

family, man and boy, these forty years without knowin’ as when the

doors is locked at night they ought to be locked, and not so many goin’

in and out as what there is.”

And having finished this enigmatical speech, accompanied by many

mysterious nods and winks, the old man pulled up his spade, and,

touching his hat to Ella, disappeared amongst the bushes, leaving Ella

and the ducks gazing after him in mutual astonishment.

(_To be continued._)

NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.

A paper in _Science Gossip_ for August, 1886, gives a very interesting

description of the sprouting of a sycamore seed.

These seeds have wings especially adapted for floating a heavy body. In

November they are caught by the wind, and whirl round and round till

they reach the earth. They always grow in pairs, although, if looked

for now among the grass or on the wayside, many of them will be found

single, having been separated from their companions. If a few of the

double seeds are brought into the house, placed in a warm situation

under a bell glass, and kept watered, their growth may be watched, and

some marvels of nature learned.

Every process is wonderful: the separation of the double seed, showing

their junction to the stalk, then the appearance of the rootlets which

are the first signs of growth, and then the cotyledons, or “nursing

leaves,” whose function in life is to nourish and protect the pair of

true leaves hidden within their embrace, till they are strong enough to

defend themselves, when the cotyledons fall off and die.

The folding of the cotyledon is a study in itself. “They are folded so

as to occupy the least space, _i.e._, first fold in half, and then in

half again, like a ribbon reduplicate, and not coiled round (circinate)

like a fern frond, which, growing later in the season, requires less

protection.”

So the life goes on, showing fresh wonders and beauties at every stage

of its growth, each step showing the wisdom and love of the great

Creator and Designer.

Plants grown indoors need constant care; it is advisable only to keep

as many as can be properly attended to. Very few can stand gas, and

all thrive better if removed when it is lighted. The watering, too,

needs careful attention; they should not be kept too wet during the

cold weather, although they must never get quite dry. They need plenty

of light, so it is important that the windows should be kept clean, to

allow a full measure of sunshine. The pots must be kept clean, and when

a green growth appears on the outside they should be well scrubbed.

They must not stand in a draught, which causes a chill, and checks the

growth of the plants.

Outdoor gardening this month depends greatly on the weather. If cold,

all tender plants must still be protected, and even if warm they should

not be encouraged to grow, as frosts may be expected for some time to

come yet. Unless it is actually frosty, rose-trees needing it may be

pruned, also raspberry, gooseberry, and currant trees. Turf may be

re-laid, and, if necessary, grass-seed sown; the grass should be rolled

after wet weather.

Pay attention to bulbs now; crocuses and snowdrops should be starting.

As soon as tulips, hyacinths, and other bulbs show their foliage, they

should be protected at night by a light covering, until the frosts are

over.

In February, annuals may be sown indoors in boxes, and gradually

hardened off for the garden, where everything should now be made tidy

and ready for the spring, which will soon be coming.

In the warmer counties of England the wild daffodil will soon be

flowering. The old-fashioned “daffy-down-dilly,” though only of late

years fashionable in town drawing-rooms, has always been a favourite

with poets and artists, and all true lovers of the country. Wordsworth

gives a beautiful description of “a host of golden daffodils.”

“Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”

And who does not remember Herrick’s quaint but beautiful verses,

beginning:

“Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon.”

Or Spenser’s equally charming description of Cymoënt with her

companions playing by a pond, and

“Gathering sweete daffadillyes, to have made

Gay girlonds from the sun their forheads fayr to shade.”

The name sometimes given them of “Lent Lilies” is peculiar to places

where they flower; in colder countries, where it would have no

significance, the name is unknown.

Like every other growing thing, the daffodil has much about it worthy

of notice. It deals in sixes; six lobes to the corolla, and six pollen

stamens, but a three-lobed ovary, and only one seed-leaf.

The wild daffodil has little scent, but being, like the majority of

spring flowers, of a bright yellow colour, it is easily seen by the

day-flying insects, on whose visits it depends for fertilisation, while

some of its near relatives, which are chiefly visited by night moths,

are white and strongly scented, in order to be conspicuous even in the

darkness.

At this time of year, when the more hardy birds are beginning to return

to our shores, as well as in autumn when they are migrating, a great

number of our songsters are killed annually by flying against telegraph

wires.

Those that fly by night are the most frequent victims, but besides

these many either fly or are blown against the wires, and killed or

injured so severely that they die before long.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

MELISSA MATHESON.—The Braille System is the invention of M. Louis

Braille, who was a blind professor at one of the national French

institutions for the blind in Paris. The work of copying the cut-books

is done by ladies, and the blind copy the embossed copy five times at

least. You can obtain full particulars on applying to the secretary,

British and Foreign Blind Association, 33, Cambridge-square, Hyde Park,

London, W.

A LOVER OF HISTORY.—Sir William Wallace was defeated at Falkirk, July,

1298, by Edward I., brought to London, and hanged at Smithfield, 24th

August, 1305, seven years afterwards. His public life extends over a

period of fifteen months, and as to the history of his private life,

there is an absolute blank. The whole of the fables about Sir William

Wallace are the product of Blind Harry’s imagination.

A MARTINITE.—You do not mention where you live, so our help will not

be as effectual as it might be. You would obtain evening classes at the

Birkbeck Institution, Bream’s-buildings, Chancery-lane, E.C., in all

the branches you name. Subscriptions, 4s. quarterly, 12s. annually.

S. A. U.—We should think you fully capable of taking a situation as

governess with your certificates, which say so much for your general

education, as well as attainments in music. Your handwriting is

certainly not good, and looks uncultured. The only way you can improve

it is to take some pretty handwriting and form yours on it.

M. B. B.—You should write to the secretary of the College of

Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C., for their prospectus,

and all information for the current year or coming term. It holds

half-yearly pupils’ examinations, the certificates given being

recognised as guarantees of a good and general education. The fee is

10s.

ART.

MERMAID.—Seaweed taken from rocks should be placed in a basin of cold

fresh water to spread itself out, and removed from thence on to a sheet

of blotting-paper by sliding a card under it. See directions already

given, and the article on how to preserve seaweed.

MEMORY.—The price mentioned in the article upon crystoleum for

finished pictures was obtainable when the work was new, at which time

the paper was written. Five years have elapsed since that time, and

many people have learnt the art, so that the price it could fetch at

first is no longer given, unless the work be very superior and the

subject of large dimensions.

MARY.—Fan painting is decidedly remunerative, and has the advantage of

being home-work; but a certain amount of originality is essential for

it, as well as practical skill and experience and very great neatness.

MISCELLANEOUS.

WINIFRED MARY wants “a remedy for taking sunburn off the face and

hands.” Shut yourself up in a bandbox, my dear, and when winter clouds

and winds return you may open the lid and inspect the condition of

your complexion. If a cure have been effected, come out; if not, shut

yourself up in the dark a little longer. If you live to rejoice in the

return of the summer’s sunshine you had better wear gloves and a veil.

ROSE HENSHAW.—We regret our inability to avail ourselves of your

story. If you send your address in full, it shall be returned to you.

LIZZIE HERBERT.—We are glad you are happy in your marriage, even in

the circumstances you name. But “one swallow does not make a summer.”

We only laid down general rules, more especially for girls in the upper

ranks of life. In your special case you seem to have acted wisely.

HEZEKIAH.—We think that the “best thing to make you look as if you had

not been crying” is not to cry. We imagine that your royal namesake

cared little whether his eyes were red or not, because his was real

grief.

ANNE S.—No stranger could venture to give advice for deafness

without seeing the patients and becoming acquainted with a variety

of circumstances connected with them. Deafness may be hereditary or

accidental, from a cold, an abscess, a plug of cotton, a secretion of

wax, a fall, and thickening of the membrane, or a broken drum from a

loud noise. It is an ailment too serious for guess-work.

VIOLET.—The sons of a commoner could not inherit the rank their own

father did not hold merely because their mother’s former husband was a

peer. However, there are some few peerages that run in the female line,

the mother being a peeress “in her own right,” not by marriage only.

See our letters on “Girls’ Allowances,” in vol. v., pages 54, 91, 246

and 764.

MYRTLE.—Provided a licence were obtained, the marriage would be legal

anywhere. If “Myrtle” is a Protestant, the ceremony should be performed

by her own minister as well.

FITZGERALD.—We are much obliged for the account of your visit to

Wales, and regret that we can make no use of it; but it is very well

written for a girl of your age.

UNE JEUNE FILLE.—You would find a mention in the “Princesses of Wales”

of the Princess Charlotte, at page 773, vol. vi. We have read the

verses, but as yet they do not show much promise of future poetry in

them.

A SORROWFUL WIFE.—The Act passed last session will enable you to

summon your husband for maintenance without the intervention of the

Poor Law Guardians. Hitherto deserted wives have been obliged to throw

themselves on the parish before taking proceedings; but the necessity

for so doing no longer exists, and the benefit cannot be too widely

known, as it is a very excellent change.

E. G. (Leeds).—We sympathise much with you in your sorrow and trouble,

and were glad to hear from you.

MARGUERITE VANCE.—She would be his niece by the half-blood, and, of

course, he could not marry her.

WINNIE must keep her feet dry and warm, and place herself away from the

fire when she comes in from a walk, as the heat of the fire will make

her nose burn.

ELLA KINGSLEY.—Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Oliphant, Mrs. Craik, Rosa N.

Carey, and Anne Beale, are all good and careful writers, whose books

are quite fit for young girls to read.

MINNIE M. (Maidstone).—Your verses are pretty, and give some promise,

but need correction.

POLLY.—The condition of your hair seems to imply a deterioration of

your general health, for which you probably need tonics and better

living. Vaseline is highly spoken of for the hair, and might be of use.

MAGGIE.—1. As silkworms’ eggs are sold in Covent Garden Market,

perhaps they might buy yours, if they can be proved thoroughly healthy

and strong. 2. The acidulated drops such as are almost universally sold

are most injurious to the enamel of the teeth.

[Illustration]

CECILIA.—Your lines on “Evangeline” give some promise for the future.

The first sixteen lines are correct, the last sixteen are not so,

neither in the number of feet nor fall of the beat, or emphasis.

MAY.—The fault lies with yourself if you “hold back,” and be “unable

to raise yourself from sin to a certain extent,” because our Divine

Lord has promised to “give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him.” It

most certainly is not our Father’s will that we should not “attain

grace for a little while.” The evil will that keeps you back is that

of your own heart and of the arch-tempter and deceiver. In reciting to

uneducated people or children, select what they can comprehend, but

what is good, though simple.

MISS DAYNS.—Persons requiring any publication issued by the Religious

Tract Society, whether a number of this paper or otherwise, should

apply to the publisher (as we are always telling our correspondents),

as the Editor has nothing to do with that department. He regrets that

he has no knowledge of what Miss Dayns’s question was, nor in which

number it may yet be answered. The number of answers inserted depends

on the amount of space.

CHRISTABEL.—Ash Wednesday is the first day in Lent in the English and

Roman Church. In the latter the priest makes the sign of the cross

on the foreheads of the people, saying, “Remember thou art but dust

and ashes, and to dust thou shalt return.” Shrove Tuesday is the day

preceding Lent, when in the latter church the people go to confess and

be shriven.

UNA.—1. We think the process of hardening, as carried out by exposure

to cold, is of questionable wisdom in most cases. 2. We have made no

personal trial of the instrument you name, but heard a friend commend

its utility.

VIVIAN KATE.—1. A young man who presumed to introduce himself to a

girl could know nothing of common propriety nor of the respect due to

an unprotected woman. Any knowledge of etiquette in such an individual

is, of course, out of the question. In the circles of society where the

rules of etiquette obtain, such impertinent intrusion on the part of a

man would not be tolerated. 2. Wash the blue sateen in tepid water.

HOPEFULL.—The water takes up all the camphor requisite, and will last

for some time in the wash. You can use it again when you make it fresh.

DORA (Aged 13) sends a poem, written when confined to the house by

indisposition one Sunday, from which we can only quote one verse—

“And one, though pale, yet _beautiful_,

Lay in a darkened room,

But the sweet texts she uttered

Seemed to dispel the gloom.”

Did she mean this description of an invalid to apply to herself?

MARY.—1. The town named by you, Altrincham, in Cheshire, is usually

spelt “Altringham,” and pronounced accordingly. 2. We say “crocuses,”

not “croci.”

LONELY GIRL writes her _nom de plume_ so illegibly that we cannot

decipher it, so do not know what she wrote about on the first occasion

that she addressed us; but she may feel happy in the assurance that

we do not think, judging from her second letter, that she could have

written anything needing the apology she now makes on the chance of

having done so.

ANTI-ANT.—You may keep the ants from shelves by keeping the latter

washed with a strong solution of alum and water. You should also

sprinkle insecticide powder over the floor, only be careful if you have

a cat. Should this prove insufficient, apply to a chemist. Without

doubt, Sir John Lubbock would appreciate his pets’ all-pervading

presence as little as you do were he a guest in your house and found

them, as you say, in his “meat, bacon, bread, cheese, pastry, sugar,

plate, and cup” at all times and seasons!

GWENDOLINE R.—1. We could not condense into two or three lines all the

rules of lawn tennis contained in the manuals of instruction respecting

the game. You should buy one of these. 2. Eat no more sweetmeats if you

wish to cure your complaints.

GERANIUM should write to our publisher. The editor’s department is

perfectly distinct from his.

FEATHERS.—Curl the ostrich feathers by gently drawing every filament

between the edge of a blunt penknife and your thumb.

POLLY.—1. By “elective affinity” we suppose natural selection was

meant. 2. Your handwriting is rather a poor one.

KATHERINE VAN HEMSKIRK.—We are sure that you could not do better than

send the articles of clothing you name to the Home for Upper-class

Children, 11, South-grove, Tunbridge Wells. Any of our readers who have

school books or any suitable books for such a home would do a useful

and charitable act in sending contributions of these kinds to this

little institution.

BUCHAN and J. B.—The verses by these young people express good

sentiments in feeble language. They ought to make themselves acquainted

with the rules of metrical composition. This at least could be

accomplished, though the gift of original ideas cannot be acquired by

any amount of study.

ONE OF TWO.—For the meaning of girls’ Christian names, see our

articles in vol. iv. In Webster’s large illustrated dictionary of the

English language you will find those of most names, male as well as

female.

* * * * *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 261: dont’s to don’ts—“don’ts”.]