CHAPTER I.

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THE QUIVER 2/1900

[Illustration: (_By permission of Messrs. Henry Graves and Co., Pall

Mall, S. W._)

THE LOST PIECE OF MONEY.

(_By the late Sir John E. Millais, P.R.A._)]

PICTORIAL SERMONS.

[Illustration: (_By permission of William Coltart, Esq._)

JOSEPH INTRODUCING JACOB TO PHARAOH.

(_By Sir Edward J. Poynter, P.R.A._)]

With truth and beauty as the objects of his art, the painter,

whatever be the subject he is endeavouring to depict, becomes a

guide and helpmeet to his fellow-men. His art is "twice blessed,"

blessing "him that gives and him that takes." The contemplation

of a beautiful and pure work of art acts as a charm upon the

mind oppressed with care and trouble. A landscape on canvas,

reflecting the sunshine of the countryside, suggesting its freedom

of atmosphere, its "fair quiet and sweet rest," when seen in the

midst of the toil and grime of a great city, is a sedative to the

jaded nerves of the busy worker; it reminds him of the glories of

nature which lie outside the boundaries of the man-made wilderness

of houses, and brings him for the moment into close commune with

Nature herself. A glimpse of blue sea, of clear running stream, or

some sweet pastoral scene, carries with it a breath of fresh air,

invigorating and refreshing, to those who gaze upon its brightness

through the murky atmosphere of the city streets.

The painter, indeed, has a power which competes closely with the

eloquence of the preacher, or the soothing rhythm of the poet; it

raises the man who approaches his work with a receptive heart from

his own petty self, enlarges his sympathies and his hopes, calms

his troubles, and sends him back refreshed and invigorated to his

struggle with the cares and troubles of his daily life.

A great picture is not so much one that displays the technical skill

of the painter as his power to appeal to the emotions of those who

look at it. Truth is at all times simple, and he who would expound

it, either in sermon, poem, or picture, must do so in language which

can be readily understood of the people. This does not make his

task any the lighter, for any straining after effects of simplicity

betrays his own lack of truth; simplicity must be spontaneous--from

the heart.

Judging a picture, then, by this standard of simplicity and truth,

we look first of all for these qualities; we look to see if the

artist is sincere in his representation of the scene he presents

to us. If we find this to be so, then we receive the work as a

contribution to the truth we are seeking. Some painters force

us to recognise their skill as colourists, as draughtsmen, as

archæologists--they have insisted upon their accuracy in these

respects, but oftentimes at the sacrifice of all spirituality; their

pictures are representations of costume, of architecture--what

you will--but the true spirit of art is lacking; they are merely

skilfully painted canvases.

In no direction is this more apparent than in pictures dealing

with religious subjects. In such works we especially want to feel

immediately we look at them, "Here is an honest effort to realise

the true spirit of the subject: here is something which is helpful,

inspiring, _good_." We do not want to be forced to admire the

accessories before we realise this; that should follow in due

course, and will, if the picture has been designed and executed

in the right spirit. As in a spoken sermon we fail to grasp the

teaching as we should if we see the framework upon which the

preacher has built up the fabric of his oration, so in a pictorial

sermon we lose the good that is in it if we are impressed first of

all with the details of technique or composition. The appeal to the

heart should come first--that to the head should be secondary.

[Illustration: (_By permission of the Artist. Copyright reserved._)

"AND THERE WAS A GREAT CRY IN EGYPT."

(_By Arthur Hacker, A.R.A._)]

The helpfulness and interest of Biblical pictures to young and old

is acknowledged by all. The pictorial Bible is a never-ending source

of delight, and its influence is extraordinary in its extent and

power. Our ideas of Scriptural scenes and incidents have often been

formed more by the illustrations than by the Biblical narrative

itself, and we have often been almost pained in after-life on

seeing the attempts of other artists to depict scenes which differ

materially from those for which we acquired a fondness in our

early days, although we recognise the fact then that many of these

favourite pictures are in no wise worthy of their subjects. After

all, pictorial Bibles are, as a rule, unsatisfactory. More's the

pity! The range of subjects is so vast, and the artists employed

have seldom succeeded in impressing their representations with any

degree of the dignity attaching to them. Even the versatile genius

of Gustavo Doré could not respond successfully to the gigantic work,

although of the few artists who have grappled with it, he creates

the greatest amount of interest.

[Illustration: (_From the Fresco in the House of Lords._)

MOSES' DESCENT FROM SINAI.

(_By J. R. Herbert, R.A._)]

An interesting volume has recently been published in which are

gathered together pictures, by modern artists of varied nationality,

which illustrate the Bible story from Genesis to Revelation, and

which affords an excellent opportunity of studying the manner

in which Biblical subjects have impressed artists of different

countries and temperaments.[1] Each has chosen to illustrate

the portion of Scripture which appealed to his own particular

inclination, and the result is a collection of pictures which

cannot fail to interest all who examine it. There are reproductions

of the vast conceptions of John Martin, which so impressed his

contemporaries--"Belshazzar's Feast," "The Fall of Babylon," and

"The Fall of Nineveh"--with their hundreds of figures struggling,

writhing, fighting, and dying amid the gorgeous palaces and the

buildings of those wonderful cities of old. The curiously eccentric

genius of Turner is shown in his "Deluge" and "Destruction of

Sodom"--in the one, the swirling rush of the destroying torrent

sweeping away crowds of doomed humanity; in the other, the glare and

smoke of the burning City of the Plain, the tottering columns of

the buildings, and the wild hurryings of the affrighted citizens.

Now the sensuous dancings and frivolities of "The World before

the Flood," by William Etty, R.A.: and now the grim pictures of

the Biblical tragedies from the brushes of the masters of the

French School. Here the calm, peaceful creations of Burne-Jones

and Rossetti--decoratively beautiful--and then the prettily human

pictures of Dyce and Herbert. The modern German artists who

delight in representing Christ living among and appealing to the

people of our day--the school in which Herr Fritz von Uhde stands

pre-eminent--are represented by "Christ's Call to the Sick and

Weary," by Herr A. Dietrich.

[1] "Sacred Art: The Bible Story Pictured by Eminent Modern

Painters." Edited by A. G. Temple, F.S.A. (Cassell & Co., Ltd.)

From this series of pictures we have selected some typical works

with which to illustrate this article, and these will serve to show

the variety and interest of the whole.

The President of the Royal Academy, Sir Edward J. Poynter, delights

in rendering classic scenes and stories on his canvases, and of late

years has turned his attention almost entirely to such; but twenty

or so years ago he painted several religious pictures, and was one

of the artists chosen by Messrs. Dalziel to illustrate their great

edition of the Bible. Egypt seems especially to have fascinated

him, for, in addition to the picture of "Joseph Introducing Jacob

to Pharaoh," he painted another large canvas dealing with the

captivity, in which crowds of Israelites are dragging a great,

clumsy trolley on which is placed an enormous stone lion for the

decoration of a temple. In this picture, as in the one illustrated

on page 387, the artist has exhibited his love for Egyptian

architecture, with its massive pillars covered with mysterious

symbols. But in the latter work Sir Edward Poynter has made the

human element predominant; and the simple, pathetic figure of the

patriarch, leaning heavily on his staff and on the shoulder of his

long-lost son, stands out in contrast with the languorous splendour

of the Pharaoh.

[Illustration: CHRIST IN THE HOUSE OF HIS PARENTS.

(_By the late Sir John E. Millais, P.R.A._)]

Vastly impressive and weird is Mr. Hacker's "And there was a great

cry in Egypt." This artist has on more than one occasion exhibited

works of a religious nature at the Royal Academy; but none better

than the one before us and "The Annunciation," purchased for the

Chantrey Collection, and now in the National Gallery of British Art.

The picture reproduced on page 388 illustrates the passage in Exodus

(xii. 30): "And there was a great cry in Egypt; for there was not

a house where there was not one dead." It is in its suggestiveness

that the picture tells: we see none of the horrors of the last

plague; they are only suggested in the title. The silent, sorrowing

figure of the Angel of Death, sweeping through the city with flaming

sword in hand and trailing robe of black--symbol of the train of

sorrow he leaves behind him--is noble and dignified. Carried along

on swift wings through the deserted streets of the stricken city,

the destroyer touches in each household the doomed "first-born," and

only that weird, heart-breaking cry rising on the night air tells of

the sorrow and misery that mark his track.

The next illustration (page 389) deals with the incident of Moses'

second descent from Sinai, bearing the re-written tables of the law,

and is the work of J. R. Herbert, R.A. It forms one of the series of

frescoes in the House of Lords.

"Ruth and Naomi" (page 393) is one of the best of the Scriptural

subjects treated by the late P. H. Calderon, R.A., and hangs in the

Walker Art Gallery at Liverpool. The passage illustrated is that in

which Ruth makes her impassioned appeal: "Intreat me not to leave

thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou

goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people

shall be my people, and thy God my God"; and the artist has imparted

to the beautiful figure of Ruth all the intensity and passion to

which the words give utterance.

[Illustration: (_By permission of Miss Armitage._)

FAITH.

(_By the late E. Armitage, R.A._)]

We now pass on to the New Testament--the section most favoured by

artists, for the attraction of its central Figure is as overpowering

for the painter of to-day as it has been to those of the intervening

ages. The picture on page 390 of "Christ in the House of His

Parents," by the late Sir John Millais, is one of the earliest and

most noted of the painter's works. When exhibited at the Royal

Academy in 1850 (Millais was then but twenty years of age), it had

for its inscription, "And one shall say unto him, What are these

wounds in thine hands? Then he shall answer, Those with which I was

wounded in the house of my friends" (Zechariah xiii. 6). The picture

aroused a veritable storm of hostile criticism, scorn and contumely

being poured on painting and painter alike. Charles Dickens, in

his _Household Words_, pronounced it as "mean, odious, revolting,

and repulsive," and other critics found fault with it in equally

strong language. It was then that the title of "The Carpenter's

Shop" was scornfully bestowed upon it, and by which it has since

been generally known: it has, however, long been recognised as one

of the most wonderful contributions to modern British art, quite

apart from any consideration of the age of the artist when he

painted it. The perfect draughtsmanship, the wonderful colouring,

the marvellous skill displayed in the whole composition, were all

overlooked by the contemporary critics; all they considered was

the--to them--execrable taste of the artist in representing Christ

in an ordinary carpenter's shop! The beautiful allegories contained

in the work were all ignored, and abuse for the conception alone

given place.

[Illustration: "ECCE HOMO!"

(_By Professor Ciseri._)]

And yet, when it is examined, what is there to find fault with in

this respect? Absolutely nothing. The artist set himself to paint

from nature; the work appeals directly to the observant eye by its

simple force; even the symbols are not intricate when carefully

considered. The Child, whilst playing with the pincers in His

father's workshop, has injured His hand on a rusty nail protruding

from the wood on the bench. Joseph draws back the fingers to examine

the wound (the symbolism of which is obvious enough), and Mary,

with grief and motherly anxiety portrayed on every line of her

face, seeks to soothe the Boy, and with a piece of linen prepares

to bind up the hand. St. John is coming with a bowl of water with

which to bathe the injury, and St. Anne leans forward to remove the

tool which contributed to the hurt. On the ladder against the wall

rests a dove--the emblem of peace--and through the open doorway can

be seen a flock of sheep huddled close to a fence, emblematical of

the faithful, the Church of Christ. Farther out in the meadow is a

well--the well of Truth.

[Illustration: (_Reproduced by permission from the Original Painting

in the possession of the Liverpool Corporation._)

RUTH AND NAOMI.

(_By P. H. Calderon, R.A._)]

The picture was painted on commission for Mr. Farrar, the well-known

dealer, for the sum of £250--a large sum in those days for a work

by a young man.

This picture will form the subject of one of the fine art plates

offered to readers of THE QUIVER, on conditions which are

stated elsewhere in this number. Lord Leighton's well-known painting

"The Star in the East," and the masterpieces of four other eminent

artists, will also be included; the whole forming a set of sacred

pictures, suitable for framing, of permanent value and interest for

every Christian home as well as every Sunday school and mission hall.

The other picture by Millais, which is reproduced as the

frontispiece to this number, was based upon a drawing which the

artist made for Messrs. Routledge, in 1853, for a series of "The

Parables of our Lord." The painting, however, was not made until

1862, when it was exhibited at the Royal Academy. It was afterwards

totally destroyed in a gas explosion at Baron Marochetti's house.

The picture "Faith," by the late E. Armitage, R.A. (see page 391),

is an excellent illustration of the passage, "For she said within

herself, If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole."

The tragedy of the betrayal, and the perfidy of Judas, have been

the subjects of innumerable pictures; and that of "Judas," by

Henry Tidey, which we reproduce, is typical of many. The betrayer

is represented here when leaving the house in which is being held

the sacred feast on the night of the betrayal. The pose of the man

reveals the shame which he is feeling; hesitating yet as to whether

his fell purpose shall be accomplished.

[Illustration: (_In the possession of Mrs. Noble._)

JUDAS GOING OUT.

(_By Henry Tidey._)]

The illustration on page 392 shows us the memorable scene when

Pilate exclaims to the multitude surrounding the palace, "Behold

the Man!" The work of a modern Italian artist, this picture is an

admirable rendering of the tragic event, the subdued patience of the

central Figure contrasting strongly with that of the subservient

prefect.

ARTHUR FISH.

[NEW SERIAL STORY.

[Illustration: FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD]

By Scott Graham, Author of "The Link between Them," Etc.

CHAPTER I.

Dependent upon Charity.

It was a radiant June morning, and the fashionable

watering-place--Beachbourne--was looking its best in the brilliant

sunshine. Smart carriages dashed past, well-dressed cyclists

careered gaily along, and the High Street shops were thronged with

fashionable customers.

A tall, refined-looking girl, whose exquisitely fitting garb lent

additional elegance to her graceful figure, came along the pavement,

holding by the hand a pretty, fair-haired child of six, likewise

beautifully dressed. At a confectioner's window the child suddenly

stopped. "Oh, mummy, do buy me one of those dear little chocolate

pigs! I haven't had any sweets for ever so long!"

"Don't tease, Doris. I have no money to buy sweets."

The child opened great eyes of wonder.

"Why, mummy, you've got shillings, sovewins, great heaps of them,

in your purse! I saw them!" she remonstrated. And, indeed, Mrs.

Burnside's dainty, silver-mounted purse was literally bulging with

coin.

"They all belong to auntie, and she wants them to pay her bills."

And she turned resolutely from the enticing window, whereupon Doris,

who was tired with the walk and the heat, burst into loud crying.

As her mortified mother strove to check her, a young man in a

professional frock-coat and tall hat, who was passing, turned to

see the cause of the uproar. Mrs. Burnside's fair face flushed. "My

little girl is very naughty this morning, Dr. Inglis," she said,

answering the inquiry in his grey eyes. They were but slightly

acquainted, occasionally meeting in society.

"I want--a choc'late pig," wailed Doris. "Mummy won't buy me

one--unkind mummy!"

"Hush, Doris," rebuked the young doctor. "A chocolate pig! If that's

all the trouble----" and he fingered the few coins in his vest

pocket. "May she have one, Mrs. Burnside?"

So Doris got her wish; and, once inside the confectioner's, she

fancied so many things that very little remained to Dr. Inglis out

of a shilling; and he needed all his shillings badly. But he loved

children, and already May Burnside's blue eyes had begun to haunt

him, She held out her beautifully gloved hand with a grateful smile;

and he noticed how thoroughbred she looked as she went with the now

happy Doris down the sunny street.

There was a shadow on the young man's face as he sped home to his

scanty luncheon. He was too poor to take a house, so he rented

three rooms in a sedate-looking villa in a side street. Doctors

simply swarmed at Beachbourne, and sometimes Harold Inglis doubted

the wisdom of trying to work up a connection there. The eldest

son of an impoverished country squire, he had to depend upon his

own exertions; and, after a brilliant college career, came to

Beachbourne, hoping to work up a practice, as he was too poor to buy

one. Could he have taken a fine house and kept a carriage, he might

have succeeded; for he was a gentleman to the backbone, and had a

pleasant face and manner. But he remained almost unknown, and, after

a year of heart-breaking disappointments, found himself barely able

to live.

Before sitting down to the bread and cheese awaiting him in the bare

little sitting-room, he thriftily changed his frock-coat for an old

boating blazer. Dress was a terribly heavy item in his expenditure;

the well-cut clothes, the glossy hat, and the snowy linen

prescribed by medical etiquette being only procured at the cost of

semi-starvation. To the hungry labourer or vagrant many people will

give a meal; but, to my mind, the gentleman who has to go hungry

that he may be well-dressed is far more deserving of pity. And many

a professional man _has_ to go hungry in these sad days when "all

the markets overflow."

Meanwhile May and Doris Burnside were bound for Victoria Square,

the most fashionable locality in Beachbourne. Mrs. Burnside resided

with her aunt, Miss Waller, a sprightly spinster of fifty, who

lived at the very top of her handsome income, and was a leader of

local fashion. A smart footman opened the door, and the beautiful

drawing-room they entered was a great contrast to Dr. Inglis's bare

sitting-room.

[Illustration: "I want a choc'late pig," wailed Doris.--_p. 395._]

Miss Waller, a good-looking woman with white hair, and very richly

dressed, turned round from a fine old Chippendale writing-table.

"Oh! there you are." Then, as Doris began some childish babble about

the chocolate pig, she added impatiently, "Ring for Mary to take

that child upstairs. I wish you wouldn't bring her in here!"

Miss Waller had no love for children; and Doris was too well

trained to defy her great-aunt. Still hugging her precious sweets,

she was whisked away; whilst the spinster, producing a gilt-edged

account-book, methodically entered the sums paid by her niece that

morning out of a twenty-pound note. Every halfpenny was accounted

for, and when May closed her purse just one solitary sixpence

remained in it which she could really call her own. Sometimes she

had not even that.

"I've ordered the carriage for three," announced Miss Waller. "We

must call on Lady Lee, and the Amberys, and it's Mrs. Edgell's 'at

home' day. Put on your grey dress and your new hat."

"Yes, aunt," meekly responded May.

"And to-morrow you must unpick my green dinner-dress. I intend to

have it dyed."

"Yes, aunt," repeated Mrs. Burnside, as she went to the door. "Yes,

aunt," was what she was obliged to say all day long; to have said

"No, aunt," would have been a complete reversal of all the Victoria

Square traditions.

* * * * *

To do good by stealth is unfashionable nowadays, and when Miss

Waller, to her great disgust, found herself obliged to offer a

home to her widowed niece and her child, she took care that all

Beachbourne should know and extol her generosity.

"How delightful for Mrs. Burnside to have such a luxurious home!"

remarked many people who saw the aunt and niece that afternoon,

gorgeously arrayed; for it was known that, but for Miss Waller, May

would have been obliged to earn a living. Many a tired governess or

poor shop-assistant looked enviously at the pretty girl dashing by

in the smart carriage--the pretty girl who was dressed in silk and

chiffon, but had only sixpence in her pocket!

The daughter of a struggling country doctor, May had fallen in

love at eighteen with a handsome but dissipated assistant of her

father's, who persuaded her into a clandestine marriage. She knew

Arthur Burnside was far from steady, but it seemed noble and heroic

to marry him that she might undertake his reformation. Poor foolish

child! she failed to realise that if a man is too weak to stand

alone, without some woman to prop him up continually, the chances

are that he will bring ruin upon both. May shuddered to recall those

four miserable years of ill-treatment, disgrace, and privation,

which ended in the death of her husband, and left her absolutely

penniless. Her father was dead, his other children were scattered,

and, but for Miss Waller, she and Doris might have starved.

Yet, despite the outward prosperity of her new life, she found the

bread of dependence so bitter that, but for Doris, she would have

tried to earn her living. She was not highly educated, and could

only have hoped for a subordinate post; but it was so galling

never to have a garment to wear or a coin to spend, save through

her aunt's bounty, that she often thought she would be happier

as a nurse or parlourmaid. She mixed as an equal with rich and

fashionable people, and had to talk as if want of money were

absolutely unknown, though she could not even afford to buy her

child a few sweets. She dared not ask her aunt for pocket-money, for

she well knew that, though Miss Waller supplied her with fashionable

clothes, it was only because she could not bear to be disgraced by

shabby relations, and she secretly grudged every penny spent on

her niece. Yet she dared not quarrel with her aunt, who was her

only hope for a good education for her child. May was resolved

that Doris should be so accomplished that, if needful, she could

earn her bread. "Oh, if only I had not been so idle at school! If

I had practised, and talked to Fräulein more!" poor May thought to

herself, with unavailing regret, as the country roads flitted by.

But she had little leisure for these sad thoughts. She had to brace

herself to play her part in three crowded drawing-rooms, as if she

had not a care in the world. Miss Waller was well pleased with the

admiration her graceful niece always excited in society; and, thanks

to May, the spinster received many invitations which might not

otherwise have arrived. Miss Waller had a horror of being classed as

a frump; instead, she prided herself on being exceedingly modern and

up-to-date.

"Just fancy that plain little Daisy Edgell being engaged to a

Liverpool man with heaps of money!" she remarked as they rolled

homewards. "We met him at the Hubbards' last year, if you remember."

"I thought him very ugly and commonplace."

"Perhaps--but so rich! I wish _you_ could be as lucky, May. What a

pity there are so few really eligible men at Beachbourne!"

"If there were ever so many, aunt, I couldn't bear to marry again."

"And, pray, why not? You're only twenty-five; surely you are not

going to mourn all your days for that precious husband of yours?"

cried the spinster sharply.

"It is just because my first marriage was so unhappy that I never

wish to marry again. As to marrying for money--I couldn't do it!"

"What nonsense! Isn't it done every day? It's all very fine to

talk, May, but you know my income is only for my life, and I've

hardly saved anything, so that when I die you'll be left without a

home; and then what's to become of you and Doris? You _must_ marry

again--there's nothing else for it."

It was not the first time May had listened to such counsels; and she

was well aware that, should her aunt die prematurely, she herself

would again be homeless. Miss Waller was not the woman to deny

herself in order to save money for her niece. She must have the fine

house and carriage, the handsome dress, and the dinner-parties which

her soul loved; and she found May very useful in arranging flowers,

writing letters, and making not a few articles of personal adornment

for her aunt with her clever fingers.

Their nearest way home lay through the quiet street in which Harold

Inglis lived--or, rather, starved--and, as he chanced to be at the

surgery window mixing a powder, he saw the carriage driving by. The

sinking sun was burnishing May's golden-brown hair; and her profile,

beneath her gauzy hat, looked very fair and sweet. He sighed, as he

went back to his powder, for the contrast between her lot and his

own seemed a little too glaring. He did not know that all the time

she had only sixpence in her purse, while he could actually boast of

half-a-crown!

CHAPTER II.

Two Heavy Hearts.

Doris was never allowed to partake of meals with Miss Waller,

who disliked having to regulate her conversation according to

inquisitive childish ears. The little girl lived in the upper

regions with Mary, who divided the duties of lady's maid and nurse.

After breakfast one morning, May, having done what was required by

Miss Waller, went upstairs to give Doris the lessons which, so far,

formed her sole instruction. She found the child flushed and heated

after a combat with Mary.

"She's that cross, I can't do anything with her," grumbled the

maid, who dutifully imitated her mistress in hating children. "She

wouldn't eat her nice egg at breakfast, and she's pulled all her

dolly's hair off--see."

"I'm afraid she's not well," said the mother gravely, as the child

buried her face in May's skirt, sobbing fretfully. Her little hands

were burning, her cheeks flushed, and red spots showed on the

peach-like skin. "Ask Miss Waller if Jane may go for the doctor,"

May continued, dreading lest she had taken measles.

Miss Waller gave permission to summon the family physician, Dr.

Ellis, who was the most fashionable practitioner in Beachbourne, and

drove his carriage and pair; but Jane returned to say that both the

doctor and his partner were out.

"Then go and fetch the nearest doctor at once!" commanded Miss

Waller. "I must know whether it's infectious or not, so that I may

take precautions. How vexing it will be," she complained to her

niece, "if Doris is laid up for weeks, and the house placed in

quarantine, just as all the gaieties are beginning! There's the

Mowbrays' dinner next week, and Lady Lee's picnic, and the Clares'

musical party--oh, dear!"

Not a word of sympathy for the poor child! May clenched her hands

passionately in her struggle to restrain an angry reply. It was in

moments like this that her shackles seemed absolutely intolerable.

Presently Jane returned, followed by Harold Inglis, the first

disengaged doctor she could find. May was glad not to behold an

absolute stranger, and stood by anxiously until he had examined

the little patient, whose malady he pronounced to be chicken-pox.

He wrote a prescription, gave a few simple directions, and then

followed May downstairs to reassure Miss Waller, who was eager "to

know the worst," as she put it.

She was very gracious at being relieved from anxiety, and remarked

blandly, "It was very kind of you to come so promptly, Dr. Inglis.

Our usual medical attendant is Dr. Ellis, but he was out. As it's

such a trifling matter, don't trouble to see Doris again. If you

will be good enough to send in your account for this visit, I will

settle it at once."

And she bowed him out, as if determined to quench any hope he

might entertain of being privileged to attend in Victoria Square.

Although, of course, medical etiquette forbade his interfering with

Dr. Ellis's patients, he felt somewhat disappointed as he went

away. He was so weary of waiting in his dingy sitting-room for the

patients who never came!

May ventured a word to her aunt when they were alone. "I wish we

could help Dr. Inglis to find a few patients, aunt! He seems so nice

and kind."

"There are far too many doctors in Beachbourne!" pronounced the

spinster. "I shall certainly not leave Dr. Ellis--he gives such

delightful dinner-parties!"

Harold plodded dejectedly home, to learn, as usual, that nobody had

called during his absence; and, after thriftily changing his coat,

he entered his little surgery, to find a packet on the table which

had come by post. It was the manuscript of an article on throat

affections, which he had sent to a medical paper in the hope of

earning a little money. It had entailed great labour and research,

only to be rejected with the curt intimation that the editor had no

opening for such a subject.

"What _can_ I do?" he distractedly asked himself. "I've called on

everybody I can scrape acquaintance with; I've joined the local

clubs; I'm a Volunteer and a Freemason--what more can I do to bring

myself into notice?"

"A note for you, sir," said the maid-of-all-work, appearing at the

door.

He snatched it eagerly, hoping to find a summons; but, alas! it was

only a bill from a jobbing-tailor whom he had employed to renovate

various garments _sub rosa_. He had no money to pay it; although it

went sorely against the grain to keep the poor man from his due.

He paced in distress up and down the narrow room, wishing he dare

start out for a long walk, to distract his thoughts. But he dreaded

to leave, lest in his absence some desirable patient might send for

him. And so, hanging about listlessly, unable to settle to anything,

the dismal morning passed, like too many others; and Ann brought in

his meal of bread and cheese, from which he rose nearly as hungry

as he sat down. He looked at himself in the spotty pier-glass. His

cheeks were falling in, and there were hollows beneath his eyes, due

entirely to insufficient nourishment.

A card stuck in the frame reminded him that Mrs. Ormsby-Paulet was

"at home" that afternoon. "It's a tennis party--shall I go?" he

debated. It seemed a mockery to mingle in a scene of gaiety with

such a leaden weight at his heart; but a prosaic consideration

decided him. "There'll be a good tea, at least, and if I make myself

very agreeable, perhaps they'll ask me to stay to dinner. Besides, I

may get to know some people who'll employ me."

He dressed himself carefully, and sallied forth; informing the

servant of his destination, in case anybody should send for him.

Despite his thin cheeks, there was not a better-looking man at "The

Dene" that afternoon; for he looked a gentleman to the backbone, and

as such, his hostess--who was very short of men--smiled upon him

graciously.

"So glad you were able to come," she cooed. "Miss Waller," to the

spinster, who had just arrived, "may I introduce my friend, Dr.

Inglis?"

"I have already made his acquaintance," was the suave answer; and

then Harold, to his surprise, was greeted by Mrs. Burnside, looking

very fair and sweet in a cool white linen gown. He had not expected

to meet her; he naturally supposed her place to be by the bedside of

her sick child. In truth, she was only present at her aunt's urgent

entreaty.

"I'm afraid she must be rather heartless," thought the young doctor,

feeling oddly disappointed. He had not hitherto attributed want of

feeling to the owner of those pathetic blue eyes. Nevertheless, as

sets were being made up, he asked her to be his partner, she being

famed in Beachbourne as a tennis-player.

She complied; but the set was not a success. He could not have

believed that Mrs. Burnside could play so badly; they were beaten by

six games to two.

"I am so sorry," she said humbly, as they quitted the court. "I know

it was all my fault; but I really couldn't play--I was thinking of

Doris all the time."

Her lips quivered, so that he could no longer imagine her heartless.

"Your little girl will be well in a few days--there is really no

cause for anxiety," he answered gently, angry with himself for

having misjudged her.

"That is what Aunt Caroline says, and she insisted on my coming,"

plaintively returned May; but just then Miss Waller appeared,

resplendent in mauve satin, with a stout, black-haired, middle-aged,

and shrewd-looking man, very carefully dressed, in tow.

"I came to look for you, dear," she began very sweetly to her niece,

merely giving a cold bow to Harold. "I want to introduce Mr. Lang to

you. He knows our friends the Wingates in town."

With that, the excellent spinster turned away; and May, finding no

resource save to accept the basket-chair in the shade proffered by

the stranger--as Harold had prudently effaced himself--prepared for

a _tête-à-tête_ with a man she had never seen before in her life.

[Illustration: "It was very kind of you to come so promptly, Dr.

Inglis."]

CHAPTER III.

"Manners Maketh Man."

"Do you mind my smoking?" began Mr. Lang, after a moment's keen

scrutiny of the graceful figure beside him. Hardly waiting for

permission, he produced a gold case and lighted a cigarette. "Been

playing tennis, haven't you?" he continued in an off-hand way.

"Stupid game, not half so good as golf--you should try golf."

"I have tried it, and I don't like it."

"Beginners seldom do. It's a fine game, for all that. You live with

your aunt, don't you?"

"Yes, in Victoria Square."

"Do you like Beachbourne?"

She hesitated a moment before replying, "Yes."

"I suppose it's like all these provincial towns--heaps of gossip

and scandal, eh? But you should be in London now, Mrs. Burnside.

There hasn't been as gay a season for years. I shouldn't be here

now, I can tell you, but I got a touch of fever last time I was at

Johannesburg, and, as I can't quite shake it off, my doctor ordered

me complete rest for a fortnight. So I came down here to stay with

the Stevensons. I met them last year at Homburg, and ever since

they've been pestering me with invitations to Beachbourne."

[Illustration: The set was not a success.--_p. 399._]

"Oh, have you been out in Africa?" returned May, thinking it best to

ignore his flattering reference to his entertainers.

"Spent nearly twenty years there. I can remember when there wasn't

a gold mine on the Randt. And, though I've come back to England

for good now, I generally run over about twice a year. It's just

a nice little trip to the Cape, and they really do you very well

on the mail steamers," he condescendingly added, as he lighted

another cigarette. "By-the-bye, this case is made of African gold--a

nugget I found myself in the claim which was the beginning of the

Springkloof Mine. You've heard of the Springkloof, of course?"

She shook her head, and he looked at her with evident pity for her

ignorance. "I didn't think there was anybody nowadays who hadn't

heard of the Springkloof!"

"I'm afraid you'll think us rather behind the times at Beachbourne,"

she said, as she rose, hoping to shake off her new acquaintance;

but he rose, too, and kept by her side as she strolled through the

beautiful grounds, speaking first to one friend and then to another.

"Not many pretty girls here, I must say," he observed disparagingly,

as they approached the house, in quest of the tea-room.

"Are you an admirer of beauty?" asked May, with a rather sarcastic

glance at his tubby figure.

"Quite so. I love the best of everything there is. As soon as I

can find a girl pretty enough, I intend to marry," he replied

with perfect gravity. "It's rather lonely all by myself in Palace

Gardens. Do you like the Palace Gardens houses, Mrs. Burnside?"

"I've never been in one, and I don't even know where they are. I

know very little about London, and very few people there--just the

Wingates, and one or two others."

"Are the Wingates any relation?"

"Oh, no, only old friends of my aunt's. I hardly know them."

"Well, it's not much loss. I don't mean any disrespect to your

aunt, but old Mother Wingate isn't a woman I should ever wish to

confide in, myself. She's always trying to catch me for one of her

plain daughters--dear Maggie or dear Amy! By the way, what's your

Christian name, Mrs. Burnside?"

"May."

"And, by Jove, it suits you! So often girls' names don't. You find

Lily as black as a crow, and Rose as sallow as she can be, and

Queenie a little, insignificant dowdy with a turned-up nose!"

He talked in this carping strain while he consumed a fair amount

of refreshments, none of which, however, were good enough for his

critical taste. He evidently thought a great deal about eating and

drinking, for he incidentally mentioned that he gave his _chef_ two

hundred a year.

"What a waste!" was on the tip of May's tongue, as she thought

how useful even a tenth of that sum would be to herself. The tea

was cosily set out on a number of little tables in the spacious,

old-fashioned dining-room. Gay groups were seated at each, and not

far off was Harold Inglis, talking cheerfully with two of his host's

daughters. May glanced from him to her companion, noticing how

common and plebeian Mr. Lang looked when contrasted with him.

As she quitted the table Harold, who had apparently been lying in

wait, crossed over to speak to her. "Would you like to play again,

Mrs. Burnside? I can easily make up a set, if you wish."

But at this moment appeared Miss Waller, apparently from nowhere, to

throw cold water on the proposal. "I think you had better not run

about any more this hot afternoon, love. You really must not tempt

her, Dr. Inglis."

"There's croquet," suggested Harold; "shall we play at that?"

And, though in general she detested croquet, May assented quite

eagerly, only anxious to shake off Mr. Lang. Miss Waller could not

well interfere again, and Mr. Lang did not play croquet, but he

and the spinster sat on a garden seat close by till the game was

finished, rendering it difficult for Harold to say a word which

the watchful pair did not overhear. Divining from her erratic play

that May's mind was still running upon her sick child, he seized

the opportunity, when they were both searching for a ball which had

rolled into the shrubbery, to say kindly: "Don't fret about Doris.

I assure you there's no need. The malady must run its course, and

she'll be all right afterwards. Only you must be careful she doesn't

get a chill."

"I wish she could have you to attend her, instead of Dr. Ellis. She

detests him because he once deceived her about a powder she had to

take. But my aunt likes him----"

"I believe he is a very clever man," hurriedly interposed Harold,

mindful of professional etiquette. "Doris will be quite safe with

him; indeed, she hardly needs a doctor."

"My aunt is always at home on Tuesdays--I hope you will come to see

us," responded May, grateful for his manifest sympathy. She knew he

had few friends in Beachbourne, and resolved to do what she could to

introduce him.

His face lighted up unmistakably. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Burnside!

I shall be delighted to come, and I'll not forget Tuesday."

Miss Waller was in a most complacent frame of mind as they drove

home through the beautiful June evening. "What a fortunate thing I

forbade you to be so foolish as to stay at home to nurse Doris!" she

began. "Mr. Lang is a man worth knowing; he made an enormous fortune

in South Africa--a million at least--and Mrs. Stevenson says his

house in Palace Gardens is simply lovely. I'll ask him to dinner, to

meet some nice people."

May's delicate face flushed. "He's not a gentleman!" she said.

"I daresay he was not of much extraction originally, but what does

that matter nowadays? Money levels all distinctions; and I can see

Mrs. Stevenson would be only too glad to catch him for Edith."

"I thought his manner insufferably rude!"

"My dear, that's because he's so run after in London; it always

spoils a man to have dozens of girls angling for him. But he was

undoubtedly struck by you; and I don't think you were very wise

to go and play croquet with that Dr. Inglis as you did. He has

agreeable manners, but he has not a penny-piece; and I don't believe

he'll ever get a practice here."

"I'm sorry for him, aunt, and--and I thought it only civil to ask

him to call----"

Miss Waller's brow contracted. "I think you might have consulted me

first. At best he is only a detrimental, and there are far too many

here already; but you always _were_ quixotic, May!"

CHAPTER IV.

Lulu.

Whit Sunday--which was late that year--was simply glorious, the heat

being tempered by a delicious sea breeze. A vivacious, dark-eyed

girl, who accompanied Harold Inglis along the parade after morning

service, stopped again and again to gloat over the sapphire sea,

tumbling in, foam-crested. "How jolly for you, Harold, living in

this delicious place!" she exclaimed. "You ought to look better than

you do; you are much thinner than you were."

He evaded the subject, not wishing to sadden his favourite sister,

Lulu, with his shifts and privations. She had come down to

Beachbourne to spend Whitsuntide with her brother, glad to escape

from the stuffy London office in which she had to work hard for a

living.

"Oh, Harold! who are these smart people coming along?"

They had already passed many well-dressed groups of residents,

but none presenting so imposing an appearance collectively as did

stately Miss Waller, in heliotrope, May Burnside, in an exquisite

costume of pale grey silk and chiffon, Doris, a vision of childish

prettiness in white muslin, and two or three equally well-dressed

men, conspicuous amongst whom was Mr. Lang. Harold's colour rose as

he lifted his hat, whilst Lulu eagerly exclaimed, "Oh! who is that

pretty girl in grey? She looks quite fit for the Park!"

He explained, secretly glad that his sister should admire his

divinity; but it was fortunate he could not hear what Miss Waller

was meanwhile saying to her niece: "Who is that common-looking girl

with Dr. Inglis? She is most atrociously dressed."

It must be confessed that poor Lulu, who had little money for dress,

fell far below the Victoria Square standard. "Looks like a little

dressmaker," sneered one of the men.

"A dressmaker would have better clothes," observed Miss Waller.

Her eyes dwelt complacently on her niece's graceful figure, as

she spoke, and she was pleased to see how close Mr. Lang--who had

overtaken them in coming out of church--kept to May's elbow, despite

the black looks of Doris, who disliked him. The child was now quite

well again, some days having elapsed since the garden party.

"What are you going to do this afternoon. Mrs. Burnside? Will you

come for a drive?" presently asked Mr Lang.

But May did not approve of Sunday driving. "I promised to take Doris

to the flower service, thank you."

"Why, you've been to church once already, Doris! You'd much better

persuade your mother to bring you for a drive with me," cajoled he;

but the child burst out, "No, I don't like you, and I don't want to

drive with you!" so resolutely that he could not press it.

Miss Waller frowned angrily. "Really, May, the way you spoil Doris

is beyond all reason. She is the rudest little girl I ever saw!"

And, to soothe the plutocrat's wounded feelings, she insisted upon

his coming home to luncheon with her. He was now a constant visitor

in Victoria Square, for, having terminated his stay with the

Stevensons, he had taken rooms at the principal hotel.

Whilst May, in her costly gown, sat chafing beneath Mr. Lang's

glances of insolent admiration, at her aunt's luxuriously appointed

table, Harold and Lulu Inglis were very merry and happy over the

plainest fare in his bare sitting-room. They had not met for a

long time, and a cheap Whitsuntide excursion was the reason of her

presence now. As soon as they had finished, they started for the

shore. Sitting on a big stone, beneath the shade of the cliffs, they

had a delightful chat, until Lulu suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, Harold!

Here's that pretty girl in grey we saw this morning!"

Doris, who loved the sea, had coaxed her mother to come down on

the shore after the service, and, seeing his companion, May bowed

to Harold, and would have passed on, but he detained her. "May I

introduce my sister, Miss Lucy Inglis, Mrs. Burnside?"

There was something so frank and friendly about Lulu that very

soon, as Doris announced she was tired and wanted to rest, they

were all seated upon the big stone, upon which Miss Inglis insisted

on spreading her jacket, to protect May's dainty dress. Whilst his

sister expatiated on the delights of Beachbourne, and wondered why

her raptures evoked so little response from the young widow, Harold

sat pondering whether he dare invite Mrs. Burnside to come to tea in

his bare and shabby rooms.

To his delight, she instantly accepted the invitation; eager, in

truth, to escape from the hated society of Mr. Lang. Harold then

turned to Doris, gaily asking whether she would come too.

"Yes, I will," she answered with childish bluntness. "I like you,

but I don't like Dr. Ellis--nasty man!--and I hate Mr. Lang."

"You shouldn't hate anybody, Doris," reproved May.

"But Mr. Lang calls me Little Crosspatch, and it's very rude of him

to call me names, mummy."

"Bravo, Doris!" cried Lulu mischievously, as they turned to go.

"Stick up for your rights--you'll be a 'New Woman' when you grow up."

"I hope so," said May, in a low voice, to the amazement of Miss

Inglis, who exclaimed, with a glance at the costly equipment of the

speaker: "I should never have expected _you_ to utter such a wish,

Mrs. Burnside!"

May smiled with quiet bitterness. "I have no wish to see Doris speak

on a platform, or go in for a man's profession; but I do feel, more

and more, that it is better for women to be independent, whether

they marry or not."

"Why, that's just what I always say!" cried Lulu delightedly. "All

women can't marry nowadays--there are not enough men to go round.

Besides, what is more contemptible than to see girls sitting idle,

with their hands folded, waiting for somebody to come along and

marry them? No, every girl ought to be able to earn her own living,

and then she's safe, whatever happens!"

Needless to say, such maxims would have been entirely abhorrent to

Miss Waller, who regarded working-girls with detestation, as May

well knew.

CHAPTER V.

"A Beautiful Anomaly."

Arrived at his rooms, Harold did the honours; not without fears lest

May should miss the luxuries of her home. But she enjoyed the change

of surroundings with all the zest of a schoolgirl, and Doris, being

made much of, was as good as gold. Harold himself had not spent

such a delightful hour since he came to Beachbourne, but his hour

of bliss was all too short; for soon a summons came from a patient,

and, though it was only a greengrocer in the next street, patients

were too precious to be slighted. So he departed, begging Mrs.

Burnside to remain with Lulu until his return.

Left alone, the two girls settled down for a cosy chat; Doris being

quite absorbed in an illustrated book Harold had produced picturing

the wonders of the microscope.

"Dear old Harold!" began his sister. "Don't think me silly, Mrs.

Burnside, but I'm proud of him, knowing how hard he worked for his

degree. Will he ever get a good practice here, do you think?"

"I hope so; but it takes time," answered May, rather embarrassed.

"Have you many brothers and sisters?"

"There are six of us altogether--a formidable number, isn't it? But,

I'm glad to say, we're all doing something, and don't cost dear old

dad a penny. I remind Esther of that--she's my eldest sister--when

she grumbles, and wishes we were back at Mallowfield Hall."

"That was your father's place, wasn't it?"

"Yes, our ancestors lived there centuries ago. This is the house."

And she produced a photograph of an imposing mansion standing in

a spacious park, a residence which even Miss Waller would have

acknowledged to be a magnificent property.

"What a lovely place! And you had to leave it?"

[Illustration: "He's not a gentleman," she said.--_p. 401._]

"Yes, my grandfather was dreadfully extravagant, and since father

came into power the agricultural depression was the finishing

stroke. It was cruelly hard to leave the dear old place, but the

mortgagees foreclosed, and we all had to turn out. Dad and mother

went to live in Cornwall, where she owns a tiny cottage. Harold

passed as a doctor, Jack's at Johannesburg, and Ted's in Australia.

Then Connie, my youngest sister, is companion to an old lady, and

Esther and I share a cupboard of a flat with an old schoolfellow,

Mabel Bryan, whose partner I am in a typewriting office. Esther,

who's awfully clever, as well as handsome, and knows several

languages, is corresponding clerk to a firm of shippers. She gets a

hundred a year, and I manage to make about a pound a week; but I'm

not clever, and have to do the best I can. We work awfully hard, but

I really think we are happier than if we had nothing to do."

"I'm sure you are," sighed May, as her eye fell upon her own dearly

purchased finery. "I must say, I think it very plucky of you to take

it as you do."

Lulu opened her eyes, for she was not accustomed to pity. "I'm

proud to be a working-woman, and even if I were rich like you, Mrs.

Burnside, I couldn't bear to sit with my hands folded."

"Rich like me!" May echoed drearily. "I'm not rich; I owe everything

I possess to my aunt."

"But she's rich, so it must be the same thing," persisted Lulu.

Just then Harold came hurrying in. "I was as quick as I could be,

Mrs. Burnside," he began, manifestly pleased to find May still

there. With an alarmed glance at the clock, she arose to go, and

said cordially--

"I should be so pleased, Dr. Inglis, if you would bring your sister

to see me on Tuesday afternoon."

"Many thanks, Mrs. Burnside, but I must return by the excursion

train on Tuesday morning," returned Lulu; and May dared not urge the

point. To invite the Inglises to any meal but afternoon tea was out

of her power, for Miss Waller disapproved of promiscuous guests at

luncheon and dinner. So, bidding a cordial farewell to Lulu, May set

forth with Doris to Victoria Square, escorted by happy Harold.

"I call her a beautiful anomaly!" Lulu observed later on to her

brother, when he asked what she thought of Mrs. Burnside. "At first,

seeing how she was dressed, I concluded she was only a fashionable

butterfly, caring for nothing but amusement. But from her talk I

could see I had been unjust, and that there's nothing she would like

better than being useful and independent. Poor thing! Her face is

one of the saddest I ever saw."

"I believe she has a very uncomfortable time of it with Miss Waller,

who is a Tartar, from all accounts."

"Then why does she stay with her?"

"What else can she do, with that child?"

An unpleasant quarter of an hour awaited May within her aunt's

door, which she entered with a sinking heart. Doris was instantly

bundled off to bed, after which Miss Waller--in thin, high tones,

very different from her suave society accents--moralised on May's

enormities in absenting herself without notice, whilst Mr. Lang

vainly awaited her return. He had just gone, evidently vexed at her

non-appearance.

"Mr. Lang has no jurisdiction over me!" May was irritated into

retorting at last, whereupon her aunt's frown became portentous.

"Mr. Lang is my friend, and, as such, I insist that you treat him

with respect! Pray, who are you, to set your will against mine? I

paid for the very dress you have on, and every article you possess,

and but for me you and Doris would be in the workhouse!"

May would not trust herself to reply, but went away to her own room,

there to shed some very bitter tears. As she eyed her tall figure in

the glass, arrayed in the beautiful garments for which she had to

pay so dearly, she heartily envied the three happy girls in their

flat, as described by Lulu. How fortunate they were, to be able to

do as they pleased, and indebted to no living soul for anything!

"Oh, to be free!--to be free!" she panted, realising her slavery as

she had never realised it before.

CHAPTER VI.

Bijou's Mistress.

When bright-faced Lulu had returned home, brief though her visit had

been, Harold missed her inexpressibly. To vary the monotony of his

dreary rooms, he paid his promised call in Victoria Square, to find

himself promptly relegated to the background by Miss Waller, who

perfectly understood how to snub people without being unladylike.

May, who made tea, hardly uttered a word; and the lion of the

occasion was Mr. Lang, who expatiated on the riches of South Africa

and his own importance on the Randt.

"You're nowhere unless you've got money nowadays," he confidently

asserted.

"Oh, but"--expostulated a meek little clergyman's wife, looking

rather shocked, "surely culture goes for something--and

descent--and----"

"Culture, descent, my dear madam! We haven't time to bother about

such things at Johannesburg! They'd be no use to a man there!"

"I'm sorry to hear it," Harold was provoked into saying. "My brother

Jack is out there, and I shouldn't like him to come back less of a

gentleman than he went!"

"What's he doing?" disdainfully drawled the plutocrat.

"He is in the office of the Victorina Mine."

"Ah! a good property that--not equal to the Springkloof, though. I

know the Victorina manager; perhaps next time I go out, I may look

your brother up."

"How kind of you, Mr. Lang!" gushed Miss Waller; but Harold never

said a word.

"Well now, Miss Waller," said Mr. Lang, "it's time I was returning

to London, and don't you think you ought to give Mrs. Burnside a

little taste of dissipation before the season closes?"

"I should have taken her to London before, but dear May always says

she doesn't like town," answered the spinster, who always posed as

a most affectionate aunt in public. "I must leave you to try _your_

persuasions." As she spoke, she darted a glance at her niece which

plainly said, "Refuse to go, if you dare!"

"London is so hot now--and Doris----" faltered the girl in manifest

dismay. The clergyman's wife took her departure, but Harold sat

doggedly on, determined to hear the result.

"Doris could be left behind perfectly well," rejoined Mr. Lang, who

disliked the child as much as she disliked him.

"We shall be very pleased to see a little of London under your

auspices, Mr. Lang," interrupted Miss Waller, in a sub-acid tone. "I

know of some nice rooms near Hyde Park, which will be quieter than a

hotel, and I'll write about them to-night."

May said no more; but Harold perceived an expression of absolute

despair flit over her features for a moment, and his heart swelled

with pity for her.

He paced his lonely sitting-room many times that evening, lamenting

his own impotence. A few patients, poor people to whom he was at

home for an hour, mornings and evenings, came to consult him for a

fee of one shilling, medicine included; but even these were few in

number. He had the very deepest sympathy with the poor; but to be

wasting his time here when, in a few days, Mrs. Burnside would be

staying close to that man in Palace Gardens!

[Illustration: "Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey."--_p. 402._]

There was a ring at the bell, and the landlady entered, announcing,

with a smile, "Miss Geare and Miss Pepper." A little, round-faced,

white-haired lady, with curiously wandering light-blue eyes, then

tripped into the room, carrying something carefully in her arms;

followed by a forbidding, tall, dark-haired female, to whom Harold

took an instant and hearty dislike.

"Oh, doctor!" began the little lady, in a breathless, excited way,

with hardly any stops, "I saw your plate on the door, and I've come

to see if you can cure my darling little Bijon; a great cruel cabman

has just driven over him, and I'm afraid his poor leg's broken. Will

you look?"

Harold could hardly restrain a smile. "I am not a veterinary

surgeon, madam."

[Illustration: Harold perceived an expression of despair flit over

her features.--_p. 405._]

"I told you it was no use coming here," growled Miss Pepper, the

companion, in a voice as unamiable as her face.

"Oh, but poor Bijou is in such pain!"

With that Miss Geare burst into passionate tears and again entreated

Harold's aid. To end the tiresome scene, he examined the dog,

unprofessional though it might be, and, finding one of its legs

was broken, improvised splints and set it carefully. Miss Geare's

gratitude was excessive.

"And you _will_ come and see Bijou, won't you?" implored the old

lady. "He must have attention until he gets well, and I live at

Lyndhurst Lodge, Murray Road."

Harold demurred, as being unprofessional.

"Then come to attend _me_," eagerly responded Miss Geare. "I'm often

rather ailing; and you can give Bijou a look at the same time."

She looked at him so pleadingly that he could not find it in his

heart to say no. She brightened up at his consent, and asked for

a cab, in which to take home her injured darling, and then laid a

sovereign and a shilling on the table.

"I don't think I am entitled to charge for attending the dog," said

Harold, crimsoning. "Certainly, this is far too much."

"Watson, the veterinary surgeon, _never_ would have charged a

guinea," indignantly added Miss Pepper; but Miss Geare was resolute,

and when she had departed, it was certainly pleasant to see the gold

piece on the table, sovereigns being sadly scarce with him, poor

fellow!

He instituted inquiries, and learnt that Miss Geare belonged to a

good family, and was well-off, but somewhat "queer." In early youth

she was engaged to an officer, who was killed at Delhi, and had

become gradually more and more eccentric, until now she only lived

for her dogs and cats. Miss Pepper, it was added, tyrannised over

her shamefully, as though she were the mistress and Miss Geare the

companion.

The old lady was warm-hearted, though rather fickle, and, having

taken a fancy to Harold, contrived to secure him several fresh

and welcome patients. Miss Geare herself was far from strong, and

afforded a legitimate exercise for Harold's skill, which salved his

conscience in the matter of Bijou. But Miss Pepper remained, from

first to last, distinctly hostile.

[END OF CHAPTER SIX.]

CHILDISH MEMORIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.

By One of his Alices.

So many children will grieve over the sad event--the death that

deprived them of one of the best and kindest friends that children

ever came across--the children who have followed "Alice" through

all the wonderful adventures of "Wonderland" will be saddened by

the thought that the hand which held the pen that gave them such

amusement is now still for ever; and the children now grown up who

knew Lewis Carroll personally will look back into the years agone

and remember his delightful stories, and his never-ceasing kindness

towards them in their youthful days.

[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL.

(_At the age of 8._)]

To my mind Oxford will never be quite the same again, now that so

many of the dear old friends of one's childhood have "gone over to

the great majority." My poor old father, though always wishing to go

for little excursions back to the old University town where so many

years of his life had been spent, came back to his country rectory

in the Cotswold Hills bemoaning the loss of the "many who had gone

before," and how the familiar forms of his old college friends were,

alas! no more to be seen.

Often, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the

old wainscoted wall, have we--father and I--chatted over the old

Oxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together

in Long-Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child,

and, for some years, I might say, I was quite alone in the nursery,

my small, fat baby-brother being much more appreciated than myself.

I was left almost entirely to the kind and gentle mercy of Mary

Pearson, my own particular attendant, and though father, of course,

had commenced his friendship with Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) long

before, I only remember him first when I was about seven, and from

that time until we went to live in Gloucestershire, he was one of my

most delightful friends.

[Illustration: (_From a Photo by Lewis Carroll._)

THE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).]

I shall never forget when, sitting on a rustic seat with Mr.

Dodgson under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, I heard

for the first time the delightful and ever-entertaining story of

Hans Andersen's "Ugly Duckling." I was devoted to books, and could

read quite well for so small a child, but I cannot explain the

delightful way in which Mr. Dodgson read and told his stories: as

he read, the characters were real flesh and blood--living figures.

This particular story made a great impression on me, and, being

very sensitive about my ugly little self, it greatly interested me.

I remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good,

truthful, and to try not to think of self, than to be a pretty,

selfish child, spoilt and disagreeable, and he, from that story,

gave me the name of "Ducky," which name clung to me for many years;

in fact, from that day Mary Pearson always called me "Miss Ducky."

[Illustration: (_From a Photo by Lewis Carroll._)

THE ORIGINAL OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND."]

Many a time has Mr. Dodgson said, "Never mind, little Ducky; perhaps

some day you will turn out a swan."

I always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr.

Dodgson: his stories of animal life, his knowledge of their lives

and histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies, passed

many a tiresome hour away. The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were

our special pets, and, oh! the nuts and biscuits we used to give

them! He entered into the spirit of the fun as much as "Ducky" did.

Then there were the mornings spent in the Christ Church and Merton

meadows: Mary and I took our daily walks abroad there. Years have

passed since then, and I have travelled in many climes, but I always

think that the recollections of the days of one's childhood never

fade. One's views of life, persons, and things were so fresh, so

different from the judgment of things in later years.

Those meadows were, to me, full of the loveliest

field-flowers--daisies, the beautiful "snake-flower"--so rare, I

understand now--the golden buttercups, the masses of dandelions with

the added, never-failing fun of blowing the downy seeds away.

Nurse Mary always took thread and a needle in her pocket; these

were for the making of daisy-chains, and, oh! the wreaths we strung

as we sat in the soft grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite

close, and when we raised our eyes the lovely vision of Merton

College, with its covered walls of Virginian creeper! It all comes

back to me so vividly, though it is now far away in the past years.

And how delighted we were to see the well-known figure in his cap

and gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome

the "Ugly Duckling" sitting in the grass! I knew, as he sat beside

me, that a fairy-tale book was hidden in his pocket, or that I

should hear something nice--perhaps a new game or a puzzle--and he

would gravely accept a tiny daisy bouquet for his coat with as much

courtesy as if it had been the finest hot-house _boutonnière_. I was

very proud when, between us, we had made a chain of cuckoo-flowers

and daisy heads long enough to twine round my hat.

These meadows and the walk along the wall were remarkable then for

the quantity of snails of all kinds that, on fine days and damp

days, came out to take the air, and to me they were objects of great

dislike and horror. Mr. Dodgson so gently and patiently showed me

how silly I was, how harmless the poor snails were, and told me so

much about the shells they carried on their backs, and showed me how

wonderfully they were made, that I soon got over the fright and made

quite a collection of discarded shells; which collection finally

took up its abode in a little crimson-paper trunk that Mr. Dodgson

found at old Mrs. Green's toyshop and bought for me.

About this time also father had added to my nursery literature

"Ministering Children," "Sandford and Merton," and "Rosamund; or,

The Purple Jar." All these were shown in great glee to my kind

friend, who (as I knew he would) read to me from them.

Two or three times I went fishing with him from the bank, near the

Old Mill opposite Addison's Walk (Oxford), and he entered quite into

my happiness when a small fish came wriggling up on the end of my

crooked pin and line, just ready for the dinner of the little white

kitten, "Lily," he had given me.

In those days Addison's Walk had, in season, its banks covered with

pretty periwinkles--white and blue--and there were strict laws not

to pick them. I, childlike, could not resist the temptation, and

one day, Mary being seated at work near by, "Ducky," left to play

alone, gathered a bunch of the coveted beauties, hid them under her

little spencer (a small coat of those days), and trotted by Mary's

side, half-frightened, to the lodge of the gruff old porter, who

sat reading his paper, glancing always at the passers through his

doorway. Nothing escaped his notice. Mary went through and then I,

half-trembling, with the periwinkles closely clasped to my side.

The street gained, I was safe, but (alas! there is always a "but"),

Mr. Dodgson, going to see a friend in the college, came up to me,

saying, "Why so flushed, little Alice? And what is that hanging

below your jacket?"

The flowers had not gained anything by their hot pressure under my

jacket, and it was a very much ashamed, sad little girl who stood

convicted of flower-theft!

"Ducky, come with me"; and, taking my unwilling hand, he led me back

to the grim old custodian of the cloisters, to whom I had to deliver

up the now faded periwinkles, and promise future goodness and "never

to do so any more." Then Mary took me in hand, and the quiet little

"weep" I indulged in while going home was much enhanced by the sound

of Mary's voice telling me: "Miss Ducky, you are an awful naughty

child; you have quite disgusted Mr. Dodgson, and you shall go to

your bed without supper." This threat she carried out.

On Sunday afternoons father used to take me for a walk to St.

John's College gardens, or, perhaps, New College gardens, and as

they--father and Mr. Dodgson--were great friends, he often joined

us. And how I enjoyed all the bright sunshine and the shade of the

mulberry-trees! And then father, tired from his morning services,

snatched a "forty-winks." I revelled in stories of small men and

maidens, stories so entertaining that I thought I could never read

"line upon line" any more; and then there were the stories of the

other little Alice who bore the same initials as myself, and who

was so pretty and behaved so well; who sat before the wonderful

photographing machine and came out a pretty little beggar girl! I am

afraid I was rather envious of this child and a tiny bit jealous,

but I took the greatest interest in what she did and said. And I

remember all this perfectly.

Before me, as I write, is a likeness of Mr. Dodgson; in fact, two

photographs. These are just as I remember him. It was his sweet

smile and face that endeared him so much to his youthful friends,

his never-failing interest in their childlike joys and sorrows.

Mr. Dodgson was a very quiet, reserved man, and cared little for

society, such as large parties and receptions; but to come and go

as he liked in the homes of those with whom he was intimate, these

visits were some of the pleasures he allowed himself. He also made

very welcome the visits of his child-friends, and it was a great

treat to go to see him in his rooms in Christ Church College.

My dear father (the Rev. E. A. Litton, a very well known man in

the old Oxford days of sixty years ago) was much attached to Mr.

Dodgson, and they used to meet frequently to discuss points that

interested them both. I was always allowed, if I bore a good record

in the nursery, to join father when he went to Christ Church, and I

knew that, sooner or later during the visit, something good would

be for me. The delicious slices of cake and bread-and-butter, the

glass of creamy milk; the soft pile of cushions on the sofa if I

felt tired, and the glittering little glass balls of his wonderful

game of "Solitaire," for me to play with; the lovely picture-books

which I was so careful not to tear or hurt in any way; and then to

be allowed to look at the portraits of other little friends who knew

and visited him as I did!

[Illustration: _THE FIRST EARRING._

(_From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll._)]

Mr. Dodgson was a great admirer of photography and he inspired

father with a like enthusiasm, and I am the happy possessor of a

photograph (reproduced on page 407) that our dear friend took at

Christ Church of father and me. Such a good likeness of father

and me, such a lanky, long-legged, shy child, with very short

petticoats, low shoes, and a huge flap hat! More than forty years

has this been taken--the two dear friends gone for ever and only the

photograph remaining as souvenir of the dear old past--it is almost

as fresh as the day it was taken!

Other likenesses were taken, but, though I have hunted about, I

cannot find them. Also, to my great sorrow, I have lost several

long, illustrated letters written to me with the hope of shaming

me out of several bad habits and faults. One in particular was the

sucking of my thumb, and this Mr. Dodgson always teased me about

very much. One day I received a long letter with funny little

pictures of a small family of birds who would suck their thumbs

(claws). They looked so comical in a row, on a branch, with their

claws in their beaks, and the father- and mother-birds below with

a pot of bitter aloes, a birch-rod, and long muslin bags to tie up

the claws in. The next picture showed the little birds weeping,

with their claws in bags, the father and mother enjoying a good

repast, and the naughty little birds "had none"! And so on all the

way through this most interesting pictorial letter, till the little

birds had no claws left. All sucked away! The story was quite as

interesting as the pictures, and I think it did me good, as Mary

Pearson always read this letter to me whenever I sucked my thumb

more than usual, and protested my thumbs were disappearing as the

birds' claws did, and I was terribly frightened; for Mr. Dodgson

used to say Mary was quite right, and I should be spoken of as "the

little girl without thumbs."

My hair was a great trouble to me as a child, for it would tangle

and Mary was not over and above patient as I twisted and turned

when she wished to dress it. So one day I received a long, blue

envelope addressed to myself (letters are always so delightful to

children--they raise them almost to the ranks of the "grown-ups"),

and there was a story-letter, all full of drawings, from Mr Dodgson.

The first picture was of a little girl--hat off and tumbled hair

very much _en évidence_--asleep on a rustic bench under a big

tree by the side of a river (supposed to be the dear old seat in

the Botanical Gardens), and two birds holding an evidently most

important conversation above in the branches, their heads on one

side, eyeing the sleeping child. The next picture, the two birds,

flying with twigs and straw, preparing to build a nest; the child

still sleeping and the birds chirping and twittering with the

delight of building their nest in the tangled hair of the child.

Next came the awakening. The work complete, the mother-bird on

her nest, the father-bird flying round the frightened child. And

then, lastly, hundreds of birds--the air thick with them; the child

fleeing; small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips, and

Nurse Mary, with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the

rear! All this, with the well-drawn-out story, cured me of this

fault, and Mary, in after-life, told me she "had no more trouble;

just to open the letter and show the unhappy child in the picture,

and I was 'passive as a lamb.'" Sometimes father would say, patting

my head, "Any more nests to-day, Ducky? Birds would not have a

chance now with this smooth little head."

[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL.

(_The Rev. C. L. Dodgson._)]

I have grieved greatly that these picture-stories are no more, and,

from several letters which I have seen from other little girls--now

grown up and far away in different parts of the world, their letters

of a like kind have also gone astray and been lost amidst the

movings, changings, and chances of life.

In after years my father often told me another story of Mr. Dodgson,

which I, being so young, had forgotten. In the very early part of

the time in which I knew him, he one day called in Long-Wall Street

to fetch father to go with him to "The Union" to look into some

particular subject together. Mr. Dodgson was anxious I should go as

well, as, perhaps, we might all take a walk, and as I promised to be

most obedient and good, I was told to go and get my hat. I trotted

along, and, "The Union" reached, was put in a comfortable chair to

wait till they were ready to go on the proposed walk. It was hot,

and I was tired, and the crackling of papers turning over and the

hum of voices lulled me to sleep. I slept on, oblivious of all, and,

I suppose, the two friends, talking intently, forgot my existence

and, in earnest conversation, left "The Union"--and me, sleeping

quietly, quite alone.

Mr. Dodgson left father in Long-Wall Street, and then went to his

rooms in Christ Church. Suddenly, so the story goes, he thought, "We

went out three; we came back two; where is three?"

And then it flashed across him that there had been no "three" left

in Long-Wall Street--only his friend--and so "three" must have been

left somewhere on the road. Though it was just the hour of dinner,

this good friend trudged back to "The Union," intent upon finding

the lost lamb, and there I was still asleep, coiled up, as he

expressed it, "like a dormouse." I was taken home tired and a little

cross; it was past my supper-time; I was hungry, and quite ready for

the white sheets and pillows that lead to dreamland. But, always

thoughtful for others, Mr. Dodgson strayed into the ever-famous and

delightful shop of Boffins in "The High," and a sugared Bath-bun and

a glass of jelly revived my drooping spirits and raised my courage

to meet Mary. I was soon given into her care, and my adventures, as

told by Mr. Dodgson, made me quite a heroine, and I felt myself a

person of some importance with a history.

I had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every

morning to instruct my youthful mind. I disliked particularly the

large-lettered copies in my writing-book, and, as I confided this

to Mr. Dodgson, he came and set me some copies himself. I remember

two were, "Patience and water-gruel cure gout." (I wondered what

"gout" could be.) "Little girls should be seen and not heard." (This

I thought unkind.) These were written many times over, and I had to

present the pages at the end of the week to him without one blot or

smudge.

[Illustration: ALICE AND HUMPTY DUMPTY.

(_From a Photograph._)]

Magdalen College always, to my childish mind, was a most lovely and

beautiful place, and my favourite walking ground in hot weather

because of the splendid trees. I also had a great admiration for the

many and brilliant-flowered balconies of some of the Fellows of the

College, which looked into High Street just before the Bridge of

Magdalen commenced. One particularly was the show window of the set,

flaming with the most varied colours--vivid geraniums, lobelias,

mignonette, and two tiny mirrors, cleverly inserted amongst the

flowers, so that the person inside could see who was passing, either

way, up or down the street, without being seen himself.

I was quite at home in these rooms, as they also belonged to a

friend of my father, a Mr. Saul; he was a Fellow of Magdalen,

and I always admired him so much, and thought he could never be

unhappy living in such charming rooms. I can see him now, with his

cheery laugh and white hair, and his very portly figure, and, oh!

the musical instruments that were here, there, and everywhere! Mr.

Dodgson and father and myself all went one afternoon to pay him a

visit. At that time Mr. Saul was very much interested in the study

of the big drum, and, with books before him and a much heated face,

he was in full practice when we arrived. Nothing would do but

that all the party must join in the concert. Father undertook the

'cello, Mr. Dodgson took a comb and paper, and, amidst much fun and

laughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the

big drum--a roll that was Mr. Saul's delight. All this went on till

some other Oxford Dons (mutual friends) came in to see "if everybody

had gone suddenly cracked." I meanwhile, perched amongst the flowers

and mirrors, joined in the fun by singing and clapping my hands with

delight at the drum, comb, and 'cello. When all had quieted down, a

large musical-box was wound up for my edification; such a treat it

was for me to listen to the beautiful airs!

[Illustration: THE AGE OF INNOCENCE.

(_From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll._)]

Music is, and always has been, the chief delight of my life, and

father always greatly encouraged this taste in me. Many a time, in

our walks amongst the Cotswolds in the long years after, father

would say, "Ducky, do you remember poor old Saul and his big drum?

And the fun we all had together, and how Dr. Bully thought we had

all gone in for Littlemore Asylum? Oh, the dear old days, child! The

dear old days!" And then we would walk on quite silently, father

wrapped in the past, till we reached the ivy-covered rectory and the

lights, and the daily routine of life was taken up once more.

One more story of my childhood, and then I shall have to write

"Finis" to what to me is so delightful--the shutting of one's eyes

in the twilight and the wandering back into the past with the many

near and dear friends--some now scattered far and wide, others gone

into the "weird unknown." Gone, but ever present in the loving

memories of friends.

Not very far away from Wadham College (in my remembrance) was a road

leading to "The Parks"; this was also a very nice walk, and the

hedges, when I was a small girl, were full of "ragged robin," wild

roses, and other field flowers. Yellow butterflies and, sometimes,

"peacock" butterflies, could also be found there. So, to the mind

of eight years old, it was a "happy hunting ground" for "eyes that

could see and look for things," and my pockets were generally filled

with great treasures on returning--which treasures, alas! Mary

Pearson always dubbed "Miss Ducky's aggravating rubbish."

Now father had a great friend living near Park Crescent, and one of

the bonds of sympathy (and a great one it was) between father, Mr.

Dodgson, and the little old gentleman, was mathematics. This friend,

whose name I have forgotten, lived in one of a row of houses at the

top of Park Crescent, and many were the times we all three took

this particular walk together to see the old scholar. My delight

was resting in the pleasant little parlour of the housekeeper,

into whose charge I was always given. She had very beady black

eyes, a bunch of keys at her waist, and a most wonderful cap with

bouquets of flowers intermixed with lace at each of her ears, and

funny little grey curls and combs (like those of the present day)

to fasten them back. I always was most polite to her and put on my

very best manners. To me she was a most potential personage, and her

coltsfoot wine and old-fashioned rock cakes, with which she always

regaled me with no sparing hand, were so delicious! Nowhere else

did these particular dainties seem to me so good. Perhaps hunger

(which is always the best sauce) had something to do with it; but I

know I munched the cakes and gazed intently at the swaying grasses

and flowers on her head, as she told me that she made all the cakes

herself, and also could sometimes make, when little girls were

"extra good," "almond toffee" of the most appetising description.

[Illustration:

56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY.

Ch. 6.

Hush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing

his strong-box.[2] It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly

with the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start;

the box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the

room. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but

they did it at last; though not without making noise enough to

waken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was an

_extra_ordinary sleeper.

[2] Of it's contents, as afterwards appears were very small. vide

page 27, note (1).

At a safe distance from the castle, they sat down the box, and

proceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours[3] did M^r Millon

Smith and his mysterious companion labor thereat; at sun rise it

flew off with a noise louder than the

[3] Probably they began at about one o'clock.

A PAGE FROM THE "UMBRELLA BOOK."

(_Written and Drawn by Lewis Carroll._)]

I was always ready to go this walk with father, and I well remember

one occasion on which we went. It must have been about July, for

it was very hot, and the roses and other flowers were all out. Mr.

Dodgson and father enjoyed a chat, while I--with a mind full of rock

cakes, the bright sunshine and all the pretty things of nature in

the hedges, and (oh! happy thought!) perhaps the wonderful toffee at

the walk's end--danced along till the little garden gate was reached

and we all passed through. I always shared my goodies with other

people when I could, and I had promised to save some rock cakes

for father and Mr. Dodgson, for upstairs they were always much too

intent on conversation to think about "refreshments of life," and

these things of which I am writing happened before "afternoon teas"

of four o'clock were ever thought of.

The toffee was there--rather sticky, owing to the hot weather, but

the almonds looked white and cool; and the green plate of cakes and

the jug with a dog's face for a spout--all were there just ready

for the flushed, tired, little girl. I quite remember the cap that

day, for it had bunches of pink May with "Quaker" grass, and the old

lady told me it was her best summer cap and had cost six shillings

at Oliver's in Corn Market Street. I thought she must be a very rich

woman indeed, and told Mr. Dodgson so that afternoon, when we were

once more together. I remember his laugh as he said, "The female

mind is full of vanity." I wondered what a "female mind" meant, and

father said little girls asked too many questions (he often told me

this part of the story afterwards, when I was grown up), and that I

should not know what it was, even if I were told. Mr. Dodgson said,

"Alice, all things come to those who wait; some time, if God spares

you to grow up, you you will learn many things."

[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL IN HIS STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH.]

But the pleasant hour spent with the old housekeeper came to an

end, and the bell was rung, which meant that I had to gather myself

together and go home. Two small parcels of toffee and cakes were

given into my willing, open, little hands; a towel was hastily

found to wipe away my general stickiness; and then I went away from

this dear little home into "The Parks" with Mr. Dodgson and father,

homewards.

It was hot, and I was tired: I am sorry to say that father said I

was "very cross." My little blue shoes, fastened with straps and

tiny pearl buttons, would come undone, and all the brightness and

flowery hedges had lost their charm for the now overdone "Ducky."

Mr. Dodgson lagged behind, and I saw him looking intently in the

hedges and all about, as if he were searching for something. This

aroused my curiosity. At length, stooping down, he gathered up

something in his handkerchief. I could not see what he had found,

but I felt very much interested. Holding the tied-up handkerchief

above my head, he said, "This is for my other little Alice; she is a

brave girl, and does not cry like a baby at being a wee bit tired.

Oh! such a curious, lovely little flower is tied up here!"

At this he waved the handkerchief above my head, and I, so anxious

to see what was in it, skipped after him, forgetting the tears and

the tired legs. "Tell me what it is," was my breathless request.

No answer. Mr. Dodgson danced on, and I followed, father laughing

at the two of us. When we were near dear old Wadham College (not a

great distance from Long-Wall Street), Mr. Dodgson said to me, with

much solemnity, "Alice, did you ever hear of a 'Bella perennis,'

most wonderfully and beautifully made?"

I was awestruck, and whispered, "Never. Is that it?"

He nodded, and we went on again till the steps of our house came in

view. By this time I was quiet and wondering, and hoping I should be

allowed to see inside the handkerchief, and look at this wonderful,

mysterious creation.

Inside our hall was an old oaken bench, and there Mr. Dodgson sat

down; I in front of him, in my favourite attitude, with my long,

skinny arms clasped behind my back. I dare not speak as the knots

were very, very slowly untied, and--oh! only a tiny, withered,

half-dead, little daisy appeared to my astonished view! "Where is

the beautiful 'Bella something?'" I cried, with a half-sob rising in

my throat; I was so bitterly disappointed.

"This is the 'Bella perennis,' child. See how beautifully and

carefully it is made: one of God's fairest small field-flowers."

I took it in my hand, and, giving Mr. Dodgson a big hug, I passed

through the baize door, leaving my dear, kind friend with father.

I never forgot that walk! It made a very deep impression on my

childish mind, not easily effaced in the long after-years. If people

only knew what the sympathy of a "real, grown-up friend" is to a

shy child, what courage it gives to the trembling little heart! How

few children would be set down as shy and stupid, and be thoroughly

misunderstood (as some are now), if only there were more like Mr.

Dodgson, who, though one of the cleverest of men, could yet stoop to

win the love and confidence and enter into the joys and sorrows of

his numerous child friends!

Perhaps I have wearied many who may read this, and it is time I

should close these past chapters of my "childish memories," shut up

the book, and lay down the pen; but it has been an inexpressible

pleasure to recall, as far as I can, all Mr. Dodgson's kindness to

me and father. Alas! alas! that life should change--on and on--all

the dear, old, familiar places and faces disappear. "Old Tom" still

chimes his daily hours; but the dear footsteps will never more be

heard turning in at the door of the old staircase leading to his

rooms in Christ Church College. Those cheerful rooms, where so many

delightful hours were spent, will know him no more. All is gone now:

only the memory, and the deep respect and love his child friends

bore him, remain.

Father died on August 27th, 1897, and Mr. Dodgson on January 14th,

1898; and we, who are left behind, can only hope we may meet them

once more in the realms that never change.

EDITH ALICE MAITLAND.

[Illustration: THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD.

(_Where Lewis Carroll died on January 14th, 1898._)]

[Illustration: GREAT ANNIVERSARIES

_IN MARCH_.]

By the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling

Hospital.

[Illustration: THE REV. JOHN WESLEY.

(_From the Portrait by G. Romney._)]

The March calendar is rich in great names; let us take a selection

in pairs, beginning with illustrious divines.

There died at Longleat on March 19th, 1710, Thomas Ken, some-time

Bishop of Bath and Wells. The English-speaking world is not likely

altogether to forget him, so long at least as his Morning and

Evening Hymns are sung. He is one of the uncanonised saints of the

English Church, as well as one of the prelates whose names enter

into English history. For Ken was amongst the seven bishops sent

to the Tower by James II., and one of the Non-jurors deprived

under William of Orange. The goodness of the man in an age of sore

temptation has been felt by every generation since his death. On

March 2nd, 1791, John Wesley died. His life is one of the most

astonishing in the religious history of the English people. In its

contrasts (such, for example, as between his life as a College Don

at Oxford and during his mission to Georgia), in its multitudinous

labours, in its immediate influence upon religion in England, and in

the far-reaching results of his work both in America and in Great

Britain, it is without parallel. He is a figure in the religious

history not so much of our own land as of the whole world, wherever

the Anglo-Saxon race has set its foot.

[Illustration: SIR ISAAC NEWTON.]

From divines let us pass to men of science. Sir Isaac Newton, one

of the most illustrious natural philosophers, and one of those for

whom room must always be found in even the briefest list of the

greatest Englishmen, died on March 20th, 1727. There is no more

distinguished name amongst the sons of Cambridge University. It was

by the choice of the University that he came into touch with the

political life of the nation, for in 1688 he was sent by it to the

Convention Parliament. Newton's name will never seem amiss in such

company as that of Ken and Wesley, for he was a profound believer

in the Christian faith and a diligent student of the Bible. Newton

was Master of the Mint; and this office was also held by Sir John

Herschel, who was born on March 7th, 1792. His fame is not dimmed in

comparison with that of his father, Sir William Herschel. Although

the son's career was not so striking as that of the "Hanoverian

fiddler," his scientific acquirements were of singular breadth.

At Cambridge, as a very young man, he agreed with two other

undergraduates that they would "do their best to leave the world

wiser than they found it." The compact seemed presumptuous, but in

the case of Herschel it was well kept.

[Illustration: DAVID LIVINGSTONE.

(_From the Painting in the possession of the London Missionary

Society._)]

Two illustrious philanthropists belong to this month. Thomas

Clarkson--still another Cambridge man--was born on March 26th, 1760.

Whilst at the University he won the Vice-Chancellor's prize for a

dissertation on the question, "Is it lawful to make slaves of men

against their will?" Working at this essay, he became so impressed

with the duty of fighting the slave-trade that he resolved to give

himself up to the work. He lived to see his ends attained as regards

Great Britain. There is a natural link between Clarkson's work for

the African, and the life-work of David Livingstone (born March

19th, 1813). Livingstone was very far from being merely an explorer,

or an explorer with missionary instincts; he knew that to kill the

slave-trade in Africa the country must be opened up, and he gave his

life to another side of the same work which Clarkson had toiled for.

[Illustration: ABRAHAM LINCOLN. JEFFERSON DAVIS.

(_Two Notable Americans._)]

March is a great month in the independent history of the United

States, and in the official lives of its Presidents. It has its sad

memories, too, though memories that no longer appeal to passion. It

was in March, 1861, that Jefferson Davis and Abraham Lincoln found

the North and the South just on the brink of open war. It was in

March also, in the year 1852, that Mrs. Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin"

was first published. That is one of the few literary anniversaries

that will always be connected with political history.

[Illustration: MRS. BEECHER STOWE.

(_At the time she wrote "Uncle Tom's Cabin."_)]

India offers us two memorable names. John Lawrence, Henry's

younger brother, was born on March 24th, 1811. One of the wisest

of Indian administrators, he would have been great had the Mutiny

never occurred. As it is, other achievements are forgotten in the

promptitude and skill which marked his conduct then. He is buried in

Westminster Abbey, and near him lies Sir James Outram, "the Bayard

of India," who died on March 11th, 1863.

[Illustration: BUST OF LORD LAWRENCE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]

So much for men; now for organisations. On March 8th, 1698-99, was

founded the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. On March

13th, 1701, the Lower House of Canterbury Convocation appointed

the committee to "inquire into ways and means for promoting the

Christian religion in our foreign plantations," which led to

the founding of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

The British and Foreign Bible Society was founded on March 7th,

1804. On March 4th, 1824, at a meeting held at the London Tavern,

under the presidency of Archbishop Manners-Sutton, "The Royal

National Institution for the Preservation of Life from Ship-wreck"

was launched. Its present title, the Royal National Lifeboat

Institution, was adopted in 1854.

[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)

BRITISH AND FOREIGN BIBLE SOCIETY'S PREMISES.]

CHRISTABEL'S REBELLION.

AN EPISODE.

By E. S. Curry, Author of "The Twins," Etc.

Nora was putting on her hat in her own room; Christopher, her little

son, was being dressed in the nursery to accompany her; Christabel,

his twin sister, was in her own pertinacious way arguing with her

mother. The Twins, known as Punch and Judy, had reached the age of

two. Each had a will, and a method of making it known--though in

this respect Judy caused most perplexity to her young parents. She

was now asserting it.

"Me go too, mummie," in a decided tone, for the sixth time.

"No, Judy--not this time. Your turn next," Nora said cheerfully.

She did not like separating the twins, but one was as much as she

could reasonably take to an afternoon tea party. They must learn

some time to be divided, she thought sadly, after reflecting on the

woes of the world.

"Me s'all go, mummie," in beautifully clear accents, with a charming

smile.

"Shall you, dear? Yes, next time," Nora said, bending over the vivid

little face, just the height of her dressing-table.

"If we're not back when father comes in," she went on, suggesting

solace, "will you take care of him, Judy, and love him?"

"Yuv father," murmurously assented the baby, busy with a knot in her

pink pinafore.

"And don't take off your pinafore, Judy," said her mother.

"Goin' out to tea," responded Judy. "Off!" releasing one little

white serge shoulder from the enclosing cotton.

Nora moved about her room for a few more minutes before she went

to the nursery to pick up her little son. Judy, trotting after,

was kissed at the top of the staircase, and, with a sombre fire in

her brilliant eyes, watched the descent of Christopher. His air of

triumph as he stamped his booted feet on every stair was no doubt

aggravating.

It was a cold March day, and, as she noted his gaitered legs, Judy

glanced down at her own bare toes. At the sight of his hat, firmly

set upon the soft fair curls, Judy lifted her chubby hands to her

own bare head--bare but for its clustering brown waves with their

tips of gold. A deep sense of unfair treatment, of unjust neglect,

flitted across the baby's mind. A great determination filled it.

Nurse went through the open nursery door in a busy manner. It was

Jane's afternoon out, and there was a good deal to tidy up. In two

minutes Judy, after a fashion of her own, was at the bottom of the

wide staircase, a lonely little figure, standing for a moment on

the rug before the log fire. Finding the hall door shut and the

drawing-room door open, the baby stepped into the conservatory, and

was soon trotting down the drive. Her shoulders were set sturdily

to a great effort. No one seeing her could possibly mistake their

expression. She was going out to tea.

Outside the gates, left open for the exit of a carriage, Judy

paused. Just before her, four roads crossed. Three she knew

well--one led to the village, the other two were the routes of daily

outings. The fourth was forbidden to the nurses because of a big

public-house a quarter of a mile away--a rendezvous of trippers from

London. Along this road the little figure turned.

A bicyclist rang his bell and startled her, whizzing close by her,

as she did not move from the middle of the road. A man in a cart

evaded her, pausing to look down with interest at the bare-headed

little traveller.

"My! she's a little 'un to be about alone," he thought, turning in

his seat to look after the purposeful little figure. He scratched

his head and thought of his own baby, about the same size, and for a

moment was tempted to turn his cart and go after her.

"She hadn't ought to have been let go out by herself," he thought,

indignant with some neglectful guardian. "A little gipsy child,

p'raps--never taught not to run in the middle of the road."

Unwitting of the kindly thought that followed her, Judy ran on--now

and then pausing for a second to glance about her, her bare feet

and uncovered head seeming to reck nothing of the cold spring

wind. A timber waggon, drawn by three huge horses, and guided by a

carter cracking his whip, made her flit in momentary tremor, with

hunched shoulders, to the side of the road, from which security she,

however, surveyed their passage with sparkling eyes. Holding out her

arms in ecstatic approval, she urged shrilly. "Gee-gee--go, go";

and the carter glanced at her bright face, under its touzled waves

of hair, admiringly.

"She's a spirit of her own," he thought, bestowing a momentary

wonder on her lone condition as he passed.

The dust from the grinding wheels settled, and Judy pursued her way.

Who can tell what thoughts were directing her progress, or whether

she ever wondered where the tea she was in search of was to come

from? She went on.

Presently a wayside inn, withdrawn a little from the road, with its

sign-post shaking and creaking in the wind before it, came into

view. Judy stopped and put her finger in her mouth, considering.

This was a house. Here was tea.

In a doorway stood a man, round and red-faced. He had no coat, and

his waistcoat had seen better days, whilst a battered felt hat was

on his head. He was gazing into space, with little sharp eyes set

under overhanging, beetling brows.

Judy drew nearer. Something in his appearance fascinated her.

Possibly its untidy dishevelment touched a fellow-feeling and

appealed to her reckless mood. At that moment nothing was doing, and

the potman was smoking a dirty pipe when Judy drew near and surveyed

him. For a moment or so the two looked at each other in silence.

Judy spoke first.

"Tea!" she demanded imperiously.

"Tea!" he repeated, amazed. And then he stooped and touched the

velvet of her cheek softly with his hand, and lifted the waves of

her overshadowing hair. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Tea," answered Judy, and a little appeal had crept into her tone

and into the beautiful dark eyes. The potman's resemblance to her

friend the gardener was not so great, on nearer acquaintance, as she

had at first thought.

"You want your tea, missy? Is that it?"

And, receiving a little nod and a charming smile, he lifted himself

and scratched his head.

"There ain't no tea--but there's some milk" (his face suddenly

brightening), "and one of them big buns. It's a bit stale--but if

she's hungry."

He disappeared, and Judy, after a second's pause of indecision,

elected not to follow him. The interior into which he had vanished

was not inviting. There was a little porch to the closed front

door, with wooden seats on either side, and these now caught Judy's

vision. Trotting thither, she essayed to climb.

[Illustration: "My! she's a little 'un to be about alone."]

"Up," she demanded, when the potman returned, carrying a mug of milk

and a very large scone.

Safely seated, with the mug beside her, and the scone held

carefully in both hands, she remarked in cheerful accents--"Out to

tea," looking at him for corroboration.

"Out to tea? Yes, missy--where do you come from?" he answered.

"What's yer mother thinking of to let yer out alone?" he asked.

Judy opened her mouth and fastened her little white teeth into the

big stale bun, condescending no answer to inconvenient questions.

The potman sat down opposite her and proceeded in his attempts.

"What's yer name, missy?" he asked again. "Ain't yer got one?" as

Judy, disregarding him, seemed bent on demolishing the bun. She

nibbled all round it, holding it with both hands, serenely callous

to her companion's beguilements.

"Doody," at last she vouchsafed, in a pause for rest, looking

interestedly at the pattern she had vandyked.

"That's a funny name. Ain't you got another?" he inquired.

A reminiscent smile broke over the vivid face.

"Daddy's Kistabel," she murmured softly, removing her eyes from his

face and considering another bite.

"An' yer daddy might do worse nor kiss you, I reckon," admiringly;

"but it's a rummy one, too."

The flash of the dark eyes opposite was irresistible. It awoke good

thoughts in the potman's mind.

"You've runned away, I reckon?" he observed, bending forward.

Judy looked all over the ugly face thus presented to her immediate

vision. Its corrugated surface fascinated her. Stretching one hand

out, she softly touched the knobbly nose and laughed aloud, hunching

her shoulders in glee.

Her own flower-like face was an equal attraction to the potman.

"Lilies an' roses ain't in it with her," he murmured admiringly.

"An' eyes as big as plums and as dark as--stout."

"Where do yer live?" he next essayed.

"D'ink," said Judy, occupied with the problem of what was to be

done with the bun whilst she drank from the mug beside her. "'Old!"

she commanded, holding out the bun, as she realised that her own

dangling legs made a very unstable, insufficient knee.

"Bless yer, missy, look at my 'ands!" the potman answered.

Judy looked, bending her dainty face with keen interest above the

members, encrusted with dirt and neglect, held out before her.

"Dirty!" she exclaimed delightedly, lifting sympathetic eyes to the

equally dirty face, and she laughed again in keen enjoyment. Dirt

always commanded Judy's suffrages.

"'Old!" she commanded again, undaunted by the sight presented to

her; and with sweet and dainty curvings of her soft fingers she

pressed the nibbled scone upon the greasy palms. Then the potman

handed her the mug and Judy drank.

"Out to tea?" she said again, a little doubtfully, as, her draught

finished, she recovered her scone.

But the rosy mouth paused half-open, and Judy's eyes fixed

themselves observantly on an advancing figure.

"Man," she said, directing the potman's gaze to the road. It was a

policeman passing by, and the potman stood up alertly.

"Here," he called, "here's a little gel." And the two men stood

solemnly regarding Judy. "I 'xpect she's lost," he suggested slowly.

The policeman's eyes fixed themselves on the dainty embroidery of

Judy's little petticoat, visible under her lifted skirt--a contrast

to the bare and dusty ankles it enclosed. The dragged-aside cotton

pinafore, from which one arm was freed, revealed the elaborate

smocking with which nurse was wont to ornament the simple frock.

Lastly, Judy's face came in for careful scrutiny.

"How did you pick her up?" he asked.

"She come."

"Which direction?"

"Along the road, trotting along all by herself."

"Then I'll take her back. Seems to me she is uncommon like one of

a pair I sometimes see--beauties, both of them; though how the

mischief----Come with me, missy," he wheedled, stooping and holding

out his arms.

"Out to tea," said Judy.

"Yes, so you are. You been out to tea, ain't you?" he sympathised.

And Judy, satisfied, holding out her arms, allowed herself to be

annexed.

But she was not carried off without a little scene.

In the policeman's arms a sudden recollection of her "manners"

flashed across her mind.

"Bye, bye," she said, holding out one hand in a dignified fashion to

the potman. With the other she still retained the bun.

"Bye, bye, missy," he responded, much gratified.

"Bye, bye," Judy repeated; and then, her vivid face all dimpling

into smiles, she flung herself forward and clasped her arms round

his neck. What to Judy were dirt and knobbliness? Both were

fascinating, both were associated with the delight of having her

own way. With a fervid embrace and a wet kiss Judy bestowed her

gratitude.

There was weeping and wringing of hands and the rush of petticoats

up and down and in and out, and flying figures darting about, when

the policeman, with Judy in charge, arrived at the gates of Mount

Royal. Judy's father had just come from the train, and was trying to

find out from his agitated household what was the matter, when the

tall, dark figure with the little pink one in his arms appeared.

"Oh, Judy!" reproached nurse, pallid to her lips, snatching her

charge from the policeman's arms and agitatedly examining all her

limbs. "Such a disgrace!" she exclaimed, looking angrily at the

policeman.

"I thought I knew her, miss," he said politely, grinning. Nurse had

haughtily snubbed him once or twice in her walks.

[Illustration: "Bye, bye," she said.]

"Out to tea," Judy said triumphantly, as she was caught up into her

father's embrace.

* * * * *

Christopher, breaking away from nurse's attentions, on his return

home, stamped loudly round the nursery floor to attract the envious

attention of Judy.

Judy's attire had been remodelled throughout, as a prelude to the

hour in the drawing-room before bed-time; and she was now sitting on

the window seat in a mood of subdued and passive triumph. "Go agen,"

she had murmured softly two or three times to herself, too much

occupied with the sweets of memory to heed, as she otherwise would

have done, Punch's aggravations.

Stamping round being deprived of its attraction, Punch paused and

approached his sister.

"Poor Doody," he said pityingly.

Judy's eyes flashed in the manner which always made Punch conscious

of wonder that he had felt called upon to speak. He hastened to

appease her.

"Punch's boots a-comin' off," he said.

"Doody don't want no boots," she said shrilly; "never don't want no

boots, Doody don't."

"No," agreed Punch, in the tone of one who humours. "Ain't been out

to tea," he suggested.

"Has!" screamed Judy. "Doody has!"

The blue eyes looked searchingly into the dark ones, and, with a

qualm of disappointment, Punch felt the force of truth.

"Cake?" he asked presently, after silently observing her.

Judy shook her head violently, the violence intended to hide the

mortification of having to confess the absence of the delicacy.

"Punch did," he said. "Cake, an' tea, an'----"

"Bun?" burst in Judy; and then it was Punch's turn to look

disappointed. Buns had not been provided at his entertainment.

"Doody did," went on Judy; "an' milk, an'----"

"Punch had tea," interrupted Christopher.

"An' man," went on Judy, with immense emphasis.

Christopher looked at her solemnly, as he dived into the recesses of

his memory; not a man had graced his tea-party!

"Man?" persisted Judy, searching his eyes with her blazing orbs.

There was a silence.

"Punch are goin' to muvver," the boy then announced cheerfully,

freeing his legs from Judy's petticoats with a vigorous kick.

"Man!" shrieked Judy after his retreating figure, too much taken by

surprise to lift herself so suddenly. Then she, too, got up, shook

herself, and with a dash was through the nursery door.

"Out to tea agen," she sang out, trotting fast along the corridor.

* * * * *

But alas! for Judy. All the doors and gates were fast, and for a

week they were kept carefully closed.

[Illustration: "Man!" shrieked Judy.]

[Illustration: COUNTING NOT THE COST

(_Photo: H. S. Mendelssohn, Pembridge Crescent, W._)]

By the Rev. C. Silvester Horne, M.A.

"When His disciples saw it, they had indignation, saying, To

what purpose is this waste? For this ointment might have been

sold for much, and given to the poor."--ST. MATTHEW

xxvi. 8, 9.

Blessed is the love that counteth not the cost of sacrifice! Thus

I read the meaning of the Master's recognition of this act of

homage--the form in which a devout and eager spirit of reverence

found expression and articulation. This woman, by surrendering

herself to the impulse of adoration and affection, laid herself

open to the criticisms of the self-constituted champions of common

sense, utility, and philanthropy. We shall see, as we look at her

story, how, in the regard of Heaven, what I might venture to call a

genuine and spontaneous extravagance ranks higher than a legal and

mechanical economy.

There is a truth we have not anything like exhausted yet in the

great words of Christ, "He who saves [or hoards] his life shall lose

it." Parsimony, if we knew it, impoverishes as well as extravagance.

If the prodigal had turned miser, he would have remained just as

far from the father's house. We do not accuse the disciples for a

moment of selfishness or greed. If they misconstrued Mary's motive,

let us beware lest we misconstrue theirs. Say they were honest and

genuine, but that they lacked insight and that emancipation from the

commercial spirit which saves men from estimating all precious and

lovely things at their market value.

We need the lesson. No century has needed it more. While love

in self-forgetfulness and holy passion is spending itself in

the tenderest offices that an overflowing heart has suggested,

the disciples are engaged in problems of valuation, working out

calculations in arithmetic--so much ointment at so much per pound.

But that would have been condemned by many who would yet ask

themselves seriously whether their main contention was not right.

Their blunt and rude interruption showed lack of feeling; it was

vulgar and inexcusable. Granted. But if they had quietly sympathised

with the good intention, and yet afterwards had clearly represented

that here love had loved "not wisely but too well," and had done

better if it had selected some more practical method in which to

exhibit its reality, would they not have commanded a very general

assent? Would not nine out of every ten have said that she could

have laid out the money to better advantage, and that it was a

holier thing to clothe and feed the persons of the poor than even to

anoint the person of the Christ?

Now let me say that I do not think we can understand our Saviour's

commendation of this deed of love, and this apparent disregard of

principles of utility and practical philanthropy, unless we take at

once a large and a deep view of life--its purpose and the methods of

its education. The pressure of the material necessities is constant

and urgent, I know; but God does not mean us to believe that the

supreme questions of life are "What shall we eat, and what shall we

drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?"

When Christ propounded His query to the multitudes on the mount,

"Is not the life more than meat, and the body than the raiment?"

He demanded in reality their assent to the proposition that the

spiritual life is the supremely important. The fact of the matter

is, God has never treated man as if he were made to eat and drink

because to-morrow he must die. The world is not designed simply to

promote our physical well-being, and conducted on purely utilitarian

principles, as if it were some sort of gigantic store in which all

men were shareholders, and the sole business of which was to produce

certain annual profits. That mode of regarding the universe is

popular, but false.

Have you ever asked yourselves the question, "What do the spring

flowers mean?" I have sometimes tried to fancy men gloomily riding

to the city and sulkily pointing to the wealth of ephemeral beauty

that has glorified the world, and demanding, "To what purpose is

this waste?" There the flowers bloom, so fragile, so delicate, so

short-lived; here to-day, and faded and gone to-morrow: to-day,

a quivering point of beauty and fragrance, to-morrow touched by

the withering finger of decay. And so "they bloom their hour and

fade," and we say in wonder, "To what purpose was this waste?" What

did it all mean? One sudden, genuine gush of sacred feeling; one

burst of almost overpowering glory that shone steadfast for one

brief hour and then faded into nothingness. Why lavish such wealth

of colour and sweetness on fabrics so short-lived as the flowers

of spring? Ah, why, indeed! Long years before man brake the first

poor spikenard vessel of worship and adoring love at the feet of

the Eternal, God poured His precious gifts of bloom and scent in

bewildering profusion and prodigality upon the listless sons of

earth.

I have sometimes wondered whether man might not have gone on

conceiving of the world as no more than so much food, and clothing,

and shelter, if God had not startled him by this annual miracle of

spring to ask the question, "To what purpose is this waste?" Just

so soon as man found himself appealed to in the higher faculties

and senses, did he begin to suspect himself above the brute; did

he begin to discover beneath the form of things a gracious and

bountiful Spirit, whose attitude to him found voice in these tender

and winsome words of Nature's lips.

Flowers "born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the

desert air"--to what purpose are they? Surely, surely (as Mary's

offering of sweet spikenard) they are God's approach to man, if only

we would accept them as such. That is the inner meaning of this

sudden gush of sacred feeling; that is the purpose of this "waste."

We are reaching, then, this conclusion, that if love is the soul of

life, you must expect no mere dead level of respect, but occasional

inevitable outbursts of feeling, love's sweet surprises; times when

the ordinary prescribed channels through which habitual affection

flows are inadequate, and when there must be room for the sweet

extravagances of love. The strong, deep love of a father may no

doubt be felt in the steadfast care that provides food and clothing,

and shelter, and all things necessary for his child. But, after all,

home would not be home if there were not room for the rarer gifts,

and the moments of sublime _abandon_, when all the love of the heart

breaks forth in unconstrained demonstration of affection.

Life that is love cannot be reduced to formalities; there must

be a place in it for the spontaneous, the unpremeditated, the

irresistible impulse. Love cannot live and thrive amid conventions

merely. It has an etiquette of its own. It must be allowed to make

its own proprieties. If you cannot appoint to it an object, and

command one mortal to love another, neither can you prescribe the

manner of its operation. You cannot control its whims, and freaks,

and fancies. It has ten thousand devices that are all enigmas to the

uninitiate.

"Love only knoweth whence they came, and comprehendeth love."

Its sanities are stark madness to the matter-of-fact man of affairs.

He curtly denominates nonsense what to love is inspiration.

He stares in blank incredulity at the simple and magnificent

prodigalities of love, and begins to wonder whether he is himself

quite sane to-day, and to ask in sheer stupor, "To what purpose is

this waste?"

It would not do, perhaps, to make too searching a scrutiny into

private personal histories, or it might transpire that, after all,

behind even the most stolid of demeanours there lay experiences

which memory treasures still, and which are the vindication to

them of Mary's sublime extravagance. Yes, perhaps those you least

suspect--the level-headed men who are feared for their hard thinking

and steely, immovable stolidity, have secret drawers somewhere, with

strangely unintelligible relics of a yesterday that was the greatest

day of their life--and the least defensible day on any rationalistic

view of it! On that day they lost either their head or their heart,

or both, and love and reverence found expression; and the spikenard

that they broke that day is the _one_ precious memory in what people

with unconscious irony are calling a successful career. Yes, the

one thing they are proud to have done, the one thing they sometimes

think may stand them in stead in a world where wealth and fame will

be as nothing, is a thing which none could justify on commercial

principles--which stands in conflict with the great aims and efforts

of their lives--an action that sprang inevitably from a spendthrift

love, and of which the world in which they move might well demand,

"To what purpose is this waste?" I venture to say that by that very

chapter of their history the possibility is proved that, some day,

they may discover a more amazing loveliness and a more overpowering

love; and may offer even nobler offerings of life and treasure at

His feet, and go forth again, not in shame, but in holy pride and

devout thanksgiving that at last they have learned to love with a

love that counteth not the cost of sacrifice.

I have seen this exquisite story quoted as a defence of mere

ritual. The method is obvious. The hardened lover of simplicity is

represented as one of the disciples; and beholding the beauty of

architecture, and the stateliness of the ceremonial, and listening

to the superb eloquence of the liturgy and grandeur of the music, he

asks, "To what purpose is this waste?"

There is a superficial justification for such teaching. But it is

only superficial. For if from this incident it be attempted to

establish a precedent for permanent elaborate ritual of worship,

it must be said this incident goes to prove its impossibility. For

ask yourselves, What gave this deed its peculiar and unrivalled

power and influence? There is only one answer. It lies in its

solitariness. It was spontaneous. It was unique. It could not bear

repetition. To repeat it were to rob it of its bloom.

We repudiate, then, the idea that the form of this deed can become

the basis of Christian worship. But we are now able to consider the

truth that, when love realises itself thus in deeds of worship, it

often receives assurances that it has done more than it knew. God

interprets our poor intentions so liberally, so largely. He reads

into our broken speech such divine meanings. It is ever so. We give

a cup of cold water to a thirsty bairn; and lo! we have done it

_unto Him_! We utter our coarse earthly strains of music; and, one

day, He bids us hearken! Then there falls upon our ears ravishing

heavenly music; and when we could fall down and worship, He tells us

it is our own.

Heaven's great melodies are perhaps no more than earth's poor

ones, composed in pure love and praise of God, redeemed from their

limitations and imperfections in the home of all true worship.

So Mary struck her trembling chord, and waited fearful; broke

her spikenard, and then marvelled at her own daring; and while,

when love had spent itself, a colder mood began to question the

propriety, and to strike fear to her woman's heart, Jesus spake and

said, "In that she hath poured this ointment on Me, she hath done it

for My burial."

Would she ever have dreamed, think you, that she was doing what

He said? Would she ever have dared to entertain the thought that

He would bear to the grave the incense of her adoration, and that

with the final victory of His resurrection her love and worship

would have eternal association? Would she ever have dreamed, here

in Simon's house, where she was esteemed so meanly and treated so

basely--here, amid the splendour of a rich man's entertainment--that

in the days when the world had no feasts for Him, but only a cross

and a tomb, that then the perfume of her love, the fragrance of her

offerings, would surround His form and sweeten His resting-place.

Never; but so it was, for the Divine Love caught up the simple act

of worship, and gave it eternal distinction. Yea, He who had come to

seek the love of men deigned to associate with the time of His own

immortal sacrifice this sacrifice of hers.

It were, perhaps, to require too much of this story to make it

convey the great truth that in Christ's sacrifice all our sacrifices

have a place. Yet, verily, every true sacrifice hath association

with His. Every death to self is an anointing of the Holy One to

His burial. He gathers up the perfume of all simple deeds of lowly

sacrifice; for this is His reward. Only from the great Love does

our love flow. We love because He loved. His sacrifice is the basis

of all sacrifice; and all true sacrifice of ours hath this relation

to His own. We did not think when we did it of anything but that we

must do it unto Him; and in grace He showed us afterwards that we

had indeed anointed Him--we had in our own poor way honoured the

Divine sacrifice.

It would but mar the solemn influence of such a sacred reflection

to deduce the obvious and inevitable lessons. I forbear to treat it

thus. I can only say, let us pray and let us strive to love Him with

the love that counteth not the cost of sacrifice.

[Illustration: THE GREEN FOLK]

A Complete Story. By Ethel F. Heddle.

CHAPTER I.

ISHBEL.

One is pretty safe to address a man in Skye as Macdonald! If that

fails, then try MacLeod, and if this produces no result, then there

is still Nicolson to fall back on. An error in all three is next

door to an impossibility! But Ishbel had not any of these three

names, though she lived with her maternal grandfather, who was a

MacLeod.

Ishbel was a changeling. Anyone would tell you so in Skye--if,

perhaps, one or two smiled in the telling. Her grandmother, Catriona

MacLeod, said so, and Catriona had the second sight, and saw more

than most people. She was held in Skye to see, indeed, beyond that

veil which mercifully hides the future. Catriona had early said

the girl was a changeling. Her daughter, poor Kirstie, died at the

baby's birth, her father Roderick McNeill, was drowned--tragedy and

sorrow surrounded the baby, and then the little green folk stole it,

and Ishbel was the changeling popularly supposed to be left in its

place.

She was always an odd child, Catriona said, with ruddy tawny

locks, and sloe-eyes, elfish and silent, doing queer, uncanny,

unaccountable things, with moods of sadness and moods of mirth. She

grew up in Skye, and would never leave it, though she had her chance

to do so.

Ishbel lived with Catriona till she was nineteen, and helped her

with her spinning and knitting; she also milked the cows, and worked

about the house. The girl's head was full of her grandmother's

teaching; she believed in the fairies, though she rarely spoke of

them. Her cousin Duncan often found her seated in the fairy-ring on

the knowe, above the sheiling, picking the green grass absently, and

gazing "frae her."

Some day, she thought, she would hear the tap of fairy feet in their

revels, hear a tiny voice which would beckon her to an entrancing

world, very different even from lovely Skye. Very often she thought

she had been on the brink of meeting the little green folk, and then

someone had come and interrupted her. There was that night coming

home over the muir from Portree--the stream, richly brown with the

peat over which it gurgled, the air heather-scented, the mountains

fading into the lovely purple of the night's embrace--everything

hushed, save her own footfall. Ishbel had seemed to hear a voice

calling her then, and had wandered up amongst the heather, her face

eager and expectant. And there above her on the heather knoll, "the

wee folks' knowe," seeming to float between the grey lichen-covered

boulders--surely these were tiny white figures, beckoning to her?

She almost ran, in her eagerness, but, just as she approached,

Duncan's voice hailed her from the high road. What was she doing

there? And was that the way home?

Ishbel almost wept as she descended. For she could see nothing near

the boulders then but waving cotton-grass amongst the bog and

heather. It was lovely September now, and the hill-sides were a

glory of tawny colouring, the fading heather and bracken, purple and

brown, and orange, and gold, and dusky indescribable grey. Sunset

came early, and tinged and stained the loch, the Cuchillans stood

out sharply in their lovely serrated outline, against a background

of pure gold--they were almost friendly and neighbourly, and

approachable; it was in winter that they lowered and sulked in the

mist, or frowned blackly from amongst the lashing swirls of rain.

Ishbel had gone to fetch fodder for the cows, and the fodder was

a great pile of pale yellow bracken, which she bound together

and fastened on her back. Carrying this, she passed up the road,

pausing now and then to lean her load on one of the rough dykes

which bordered the muir. It was nearing evening, and shadows were

creeping over the heather--the burn, amber-coloured under the

sun, looked dark and sullen-brown now, and had begun its hoarse

night-song, for it only sings in the dark. The deer hear and love

this song as they creep down cautiously, light-footedly, turning

startled graceful heads from side to side, and they pause a moment,

poised with listening ear, before they bury thirsty soft noses into

the cool rushing water. The deer did not mind Ishbel! But it was

scarcely dark enough for the deer to come yet. There was still a

chance of the passing tourist from Sligachan, coming from Coruisk,

the far-famed. Ishbel, pausing to rest the high load of bracken

on the dyke--the crushed yellow fern making a lovely setting to

her tawny locks and black sloe-eyes--suddenly perceived two men

approaching, and waited for their coming with something of the

deer's startled look. One was Duncan MacLeod, her cousin, short,

swarthy, black-browed, with a twinkle of cunning in his grey eyes,

and a Highland sing-song voice; and the other? Yes, yes, she had

seen the other at the Portree games, and he had tossed the caber

further than even Colin MacNeil, and his name was Rory MacPhee!

Ishbel remembered him very well, and a little smile melted over her

red lips, and lurked in the depths of her lovely eyes as Duncan made

him known to her. Rory had rented the small farm next to Catriona's,

and he was coming to supper. It was time she, Ishbel, was home.

Duncan did not offer to take the fodder from her, though he thought

he was in love with Ishbel, and meant to marry her. Women were used

to burdens in Skye. But Rory MacPhee, saying nothing, began to untie

the rope at the girl's waist, and he swung the mass lightly over his

own shoulders.

"Och! that is not needful," Duncan said. And what he thought was

"_Amadan!_" (stupid!)

"It is too heavy for a lass."

That was all; but Rory and Ishbel did not meet each other's eyes,

and they walked home silent through the creeping dusk.

By the red peat-glow in the cottage she looked lovelier than

ever; MacPhee ate little, and his mind was in a curious turmoil.

Catriona's remarks, and Duncan's slow efforts at conversation--for

the Highlander is desperately cautious at making friends, and Rory

came from as far away as above Portree, seven miles off--fell on

strangely dull ears.

What had come to him?

Rory asked himself the question all next day, for, amidst even the

sordid duties of examining the new byres and out-houses, there

floated before his mind only one picture--a girl's slim figure in a

short faded green skirt, leaning against a dyke, with her small head

crushed against a background of faded fern, and the shy lovely eyes

looking into his face.

Ishbel! They said she was a changeling.

Well, changeling and all, he loved her!