[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.--NO. 988.] DECEMBER 3, 1898. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
[Illustration: SIGRID.]
_All rights reserved._]
"OUR HERO."
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the
Dower House," etc.
CHAPTER X.
Little rest could be allowed in those days to England's most gallant
sons. Moore had a short time with those whom he loved best--with the
mother especially, who was more to him than all the world beside--and
again he was called away. In this year, 1797, a French invasion was
already looked for, and he had to go, with an engineer officer, to
survey the eastern coast, and to decide on preparations for such an
invasion. After which he was despatched against Irish rebels in our
unquiet sister-isle, there to be once more laid low with a severe
illness.
Despite this attack he made himself so invaluable to the
Lord-Lieutenant, Earl Cornwallis, one of his many personal friends,
that when needed on the Continent by Sir Ralph Abercrombie, he could
not at once be ordered thither. However, the need for his services
became urgent, and English ministers appealed to Cornwallis, whose
reply was:--
"I am sure you know me too well to suspect that any selfish
consideration can weigh a moment with me against the general interests
of the country. You shall have all the troops you ask, and General
Moore, who is a greater loss to me than the troops. But he will be of
infinite service to Abercrombie; and I likewise think it an object
of the state that an officer of his talents and character should
have every opportunity of acquiring knowledge and experience in his
profession."
This was 1799, and ten thousand British troops were sent to Holland
under Abercrombie. On October 2nd that engagement took place, to which
the letters copied by Jack Keene bore reference. Moore received two
wounds in the course of five hours' determined fighting. The first,
in his leg, he quietly ignored; the second, in his face, felled him
to the ground in a stunned condition. He and his men were then nearly
surrounded by a strong body of the enemy, and Moore would have been
made prisoner but that his men carried him off. He was assisted to the
rear, and when his wounds had been dressed he rode ten miles back to
his quarters, so faint with loss of blood that his horse had to be led,
and he could barely keep his seat.
A few days later he very nearly put an end to his own life by
accidentally drinking a strong sugar-of-lead lotion, used to bathe his
cheek. Happily he kept his self-command, and the measures instantly
taken prevented any ill result.
The letter from Sir Ralph Abercrombie to Dr. Moore had been written on
the field of battle, which the commanding officer never left that night.
In the year 1800 Moore was again in the Mediterranean, and then came
the memorable "Expedition to Egypt" under Abercrombie, Moore being once
more under his old commander; and this time Ivor was again under Moore.
In a desperate action, which took place on March 20th, 1801, Moore was
a second time wounded in the leg, and, as before, he fought resolutely
on, disregarding it. Abercrombie, too, was shot in the thigh, but paid
no heed, not even mentioning the fact until, the battle ended, he
turned faint, and fell from his horse. The two friends never met again,
for Abercrombie died of his wound before Moore was able to go to him.
Moore's especial companion, Anderson, was also severely wounded, nearly
losing his arm in consequence. Moore, writing home afterwards, said,
"I never saw a field so covered with dead." But victory was with the
English.
Then came the Peace of Amiens, and Moore returned to England in time to
see once more his father, who was dying of old age and heart-disease.
The Doctor's property was left between his wife and his six children,
and Moore, not satisfied with his mother's jointure, insisted on giving
her an additional annuity.
Thus for years the name of John Moore had been incessantly before the
English public as the bravest of the brave, having become by this time
the name beyond any other to which his countrymen would instinctively
turn in any hour of national peril.
What was it about this remarkable man which so riveted the hearts of
others to him? Not the hearts of women only, though his mother and
sister idolised him, but vigorous men, stern soldiers, poured upon him
a passion of devotion.
Buonaparte was adored and followed unto death by his soldiers, as a
great Captain. Moore, in addition to this, was loved intensely as a
man, with that love which strong men only give to strong men, and not
to many of them. Wherever Moore turned he found this love. His own
brothers lavished it upon him. The Duke of Hamilton was his ardent
friend for life. Anderson was to him as Jonathan to David. The three
gallant Napiers, Charles, George, and William, absolutely worshipped
him. His French servant, François, forgot home and country for his
sake. Private soldiers were ready to rush upon certain death if so
they might save his life. Officers of rank, working with him, became
almost inevitably his personal friends. The younger officers, under
his command and training, so caught the infection of his high spirit,
so responded to the influence of "their Hero," that by scores in after
years they became prominent characters in the Army and leaders in the
nation. He has been truly called "a king among men."
No doubt his striking personal appearance, his indescribable charm of
manner--perhaps too his brilliant and witty conversational powers--had
something to do with the matter. At the date when war again broke out,
Moore, already a General, was only in his forty-third year--a man of
commanding presence, tall and graceful, with a countenance of rare
beauty. But those things which really lay at the foundation of this
extraordinary control over others were,--the force of his character,
the vivid enthusiasm of his purpose, the loftiness of his ideals, the
simple grandeur of his life.
He had no doubt his enemies. What truly great man, who does not pander
to the littlenesses of truly little men, ever fails to make some
enemies? It could not be otherwise. His inviolable integrity, his
blameless name, the splendid disdain with which he spurned everything
false and mean--such qualities as these in Moore made some of a baser
type turn from and even turn against one so infinitely more noble than
themselves. But to men of a higher and purer stamp Moore was as the
Bayard of the Middle Ages had been to a former generation, a knight
_sans peur et sans reproche_, a model upon which they might seek to
shape themselves.
With Ivor, as with many another, to have known Moore was to have been
imbued for life with new aims, new ideals, new views of duty, new
thoughts of self-abnegation. Not so much from what Moore might here or
there have said, as from what he always was. To be under the man was in
itself an inspiration.
Soon after Jack's departure for Sandgate, Admiral Peirce was called
away on duty, and then the Bryces decided to flit eastward. Mrs. Bryce,
who loved sensation, talked of a visit to Folkestone, a very tiny
watering-place in those days, but within easy reach of Sandgate, and of
Moore's Camp at Shorncliffe.
As a next move she offered to take Polly with her. Mrs. Fairbank
demurred, and Mrs. Bryce insisted. Polly had kept up bravely under her
separation from Ivor, but her pretty face had lost some of its colour,
and no one could deny that the change might do her good. Mrs. Fairbank,
thus advised, yielded, and Polly of course was charmed. Who would
not have been so in her place? She would see Jack again, also Jack's
Commander and England's Hero, General Moore. She would be distinctly
nearer to France, and therefore to Denham. She would be in the thick
of all that was going on, and would hear the news of the hour at first
hand. Moreover, Polly was young and loved variety. But what about Molly?
"Molly has her lessons to learn. She and I will be companions each to
the other," Mrs. Fairbank decided.
Nobody saw aught to find fault with in the plan except Molly herself,
and Molly said nothing. Under the circumstances no other seemed open,
unless Polly were made to give up the change which she much needed.
But in later years Molly often looked back with a shudder to those
lonely autumn weeks.
Those were days of far severer imprisonment than are these, dungeons
and chains being everyday matters. Molly had heard enough, even in her
short life, of fettered and half-starved prisoners to cause her to be
haunted by doleful visions.
In the daytime, when, by Mrs. Fairbank's desire, she was always fully
occupied, it was easier to take a cheerful view of life; but Molly's
time of misery began with nightfall. Often she would start out of
a restless sleep, fancying that she saw Roy deep in some noisome
underground cavern, with chains clanking on his wrists, while his big
grey eyes appealed pitifully to her for help. Then she would hide her
face, and would sob for an hour, and in the midst of her woe would come
the sound of the old watchman shaking his rattle as he passed down
the street, and calling out monotonously in sing-song tones, "Past
one o'clock, and a fine starlight night." Or it might be, "Past three
o'clock, and a rainy morning." Those old watchmen--"Charleys," as they
were called--were the forerunners of our present police.
But of all this Molly said not a word to any human being. The only
person whom she _could_ have told was Polly.
In time a delightful letter arrived from Polly, written to Molly,
telling how she and Mrs. Bryce had driven over from Folkestone to
Sandgate, and had seen General Moore and Jack, and had inspected the
preparations there made for a due welcome to Napoleon, when he should
choose to make his appearance on British shores.
"And do but think, Molly," wrote Polly, "General Moore's dear old
mother is down now at Sandgate, where she and her daughter have come
to see again the General. For if Napoleon comes--and some say he will,
and some say he will not--there must surely be hard fighting, and
what that may mean none can tell beforehand. For sure it is, whatever
happens, that General Moore will be in the thickest of the fight. And
Jack tells me that when first Mrs. Moore arriv'd 'twas a touching sight
indeed. She took her son into her arms, before all the Officers who
were gather'd together, and burst into tears, doubtless thinking of the
danger he must soon be in, and the many times he has been wounded. And
not one present, Jack says, who did not testify his respect for her,
nor his sympathy in her love for her heroic son.
"She has been at Sandgate for many weeks, and the General now urges
her return home. For any day the French may make a move, and he wou'd
fain have her away in a place of safety. But Mrs. Bryce and I have
no fear, though all the world is in a great stir, waiting for the
invaders to come. Jack wou'd love nothing better than to see the fleet
of flat-bottomed boats approaching, that he might have a chance of
fighting them and driving them back.
"I must tell you a story of Mr. William Pitt, who, being Warden of
the Cinque Ports, has lately raised two regiments in this district,
consisting of a thousand men each. He has often ridden over to General
Moore's camp at Shorncliffe, and the two have talked together, General
Moore telling his plans to Mr. Pitt. And one day Mr. Pitt said to
General Moore, 'Well, Moore, but on the very first alarm of the enemy's
coming, I shall march to aid you with my Cinque Port regiments, and
you have not told me where you will place us.' Whereupon General Moore
answered, 'Do you see that hill? You and yours shall be drawn up upon
it, where you will make a most formidable appearance to the enemy,
while I, with the soldiers, shall be fighting on the beach.' Mr. Pitt
was excessively entertained with this reply, and laughed heartily.
"And that reminds me of another little tale which Jack told to me--not
as to Mr. Pitt, but as to Mr. Fox. He was playing a game of cards one
day, no long time agone, and on overhearing some story that was told,
he threw his cards down, and cried out, 'Tell that again! I hear a good
deal of General Moore, and everything good. Tell me that again.' But
Jack could not say what it was that had been told, only he liked to
know that Mr. Fox could so speak of one who is Mr. Pitt's friend. And
though Mr. Pitt and General Moore be so intimate, yet General Moore
will have it that he cares little which side shall be in power, so long
only as the country is well governed. But some say that 'tis like to
be no long time before we see Mr. Pitt once more at the head of the
Government."
To this letter Molly sent a reply in her childish round handwriting,
letting a little of her loneliness slip out, despite herself; and
Mrs. Fairbank, much disturbed in mind on Polly's behalf, wrote also,
suggesting arrangements for the greater safety of the people concerned.
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
RECIPES FOR MENTAL AILMENTS.
_Against fits of fury._--Go at once into the open air, far away from
your neighbours, and shout to the wind, and tell it how foolish you are.
_Against attacks of discontent._--Set out for the homes of the poor.
Look at their narrow rooms, their hard beds, their poor clothes and
shoes. Observe what is put on their breakfast, dinner and supper table.
Ask what their earnings are, and calculate how you would fare with the
same amount. When you get home again you will be no longer discontented.
_Against despair._--Look at the good things God has given you in this
world and remember the better things He has promised for the next. She
who looks for cobwebs in the garden will find not only them but spiders
as well. But she who goes to find flowers will return with perfumed
roses.--_From the German._
THOUGHT AND ACTION.
The ancestor of every action is a thought. Our dreams are the sequel
of our waking knowledge.--_Emerson._
A LESSON FOR A CHOIR-SINGER.
One of the finest choral conductors whom this country has ever produced
was Henry Leslie, whose choir was for many years one of the prominent
features of musical London.
He was an autocrat, very difficult to satisfy, particular to nicety in
regard to every phrase and mark of expression. He did not like to hear
individual voices; the blending of the voices was his aim. There was a
lady with a very rich contralto who gave him trouble in this way--her
voice was heard separately. Mr. Josiah Booth, who was one of the
members of the choir, says that he thinks Mr. Leslie had spoken to the
lady privately, but without result. However, one day he said to her--
"You may have a very fine voice, but I don't want to hear it. I want to
hear the choir."
"We went on singing," says Mr. Booth. "Sitting behind, I could not see
the lady's face, but I guessed she was looking daggers at Mr. Leslie.
At the next pause he fixed her with those searching eyes of his and
said--
"'I've a great deal more reason to look like that than you have.'"
CHINESE DOCTORS.
No pharmacopœia is more comprehensive than the Chinese, and no English
physician can surpass the Chinese in the easy confidence with which
he will diagnose symptoms that he does not understand. The Chinese
physician who witnesses the unfortunate effect of placing a drug of
which he knows little into a body of which he knows less, is not much
put out: he retires sententiously observing, "there is medicine for
sickness, but none for fate." "Medicine," says a Chinese proverb,
"cures the man who is fated not to die." Another saying has it that
"when Yenwang (the King of Hell) has decreed a man to die at the third
watch no power will detain him to the fifth."
Doctors in China dispense their own medicines. In their shops you see
an amazing variety of drugs; you will occasionally also see tethered a
live stag which on a certain day, to be decided by the priests, will
be pounded whole in a pestle and mortar. "Pills manufactured out of a
whole stag slaughtered with purity of purpose on a propitious day" is a
common announcement in dispensaries in China.
BURNT WOOD DRAWING.
[Illustration: SUNSET OVER THE SEA.
(_Burnt wood drawing in oak frame, by E. M. Jessop._)]
Of all the graphic arts this is probably the most useful and durable.
Under its old but ridiculous title of "poker work" it has flourished
from time immemorial; gifted by some unknown genius with the modern
name of Pyrography, it bids fair to become a universal favourite among
the amusements of art-loving amateurs, but, owing to want of support,
has not hitherto been much adopted by the professional artist who alone
possesses the graphic skill, the power of technique and the breadth of
execution which would do justice to such a beautiful art.
When we consider that nothing but fire or wanton mischief can really
damage the pictures which may be produced in this work, and that the
original cost of the materials for its production is so very slight,
one marvels that so fine a medium for wall and furniture decoration has
been so much neglected.
[Illustration: A SUMMER IDYLL.
(_Burnt wood drawing in oak frame, by E. M. Jessop._)]
In the specimens which I have recently had the honour to submit
to H.R.H. The Princess of Wales, and which she was pleased to
greatly admire, the materials used were of the very simplest. To be
epigrammatic, were I asked how I did them, I could only reply, "With a
few boards, two old chisels and a little intelligence."
So now to our wood-work's foundation. In the first place never commence
a drawing on any but sound, well-seasoned wood, as nothing could well
be more trying to the temper than seeing the result of a month's work
curling up like a roll of paper or splitting across in a manner which
places it beyond repair. Any good whitish wood is suitable for burnt
drawing; holly on account of its close grain being the best, but,
like the best of everything, holly of the width required is also the
rarest of woods. Next to holly comes sycamore, a fine hard wood; then
chestnut. In one of the specimens here illustrated (the child's head)
I have used an old drawing-board made of poplar with beech clamps at
either end. Never use wood of less than three-eighths of an inch in
thickness, the thin plaques sold by most shops being quite useless for
works of any size on account of their liability to split and cockle.
By the way, the cockling of a wood drawing can to a certain extent be
remedied by exposing the concave side to heat and leaving it to cool
between two flat surfaces with heavy weights on top.
And now to our tools. For drawings of any size suitable for the doors
of cabinets or rooms, plaques to insert in oak dadoes, etc. (and it is
in these we shall get our finest effects), the little machines heated
by spirits of wine and other mediums are not of much use. It is, in
fact, like using the smallest sable brushes for fresco painting. For
my own work I mainly use wood-carving tools. The broadest chisels and
gouges are the best, and the thicker the steel the better the tool,
as it retains the heat for a longer period. Again, I always heat my
tools in an ordinary coal fire, but it should be quite possible to
get a small gas stove to give all the heat required in a perhaps more
convenient manner.
I might here mention that your most used tool, which should be a broad
blunt chisel, say three-quarters of an inch in width, ought to have its
sharp corners carefully ground down before using it, as it is otherwise
liable to burn ugly little black spots on the drawing.
With these explanations we will now proceed to the drawing itself, and
here it is necessary to give a very strong caution at the outset; this
is, always bear in mind that whatever marks you burn on your wood must
absolutely remain there. There is no way of rubbing out, and to erase
with a knife is to spoil the surface of your wood, as you cannot draw
properly over a scratched surface. For this reason also you can only
copy either your own or other people's drawings in burnt wood-work.
Having selected your copy first draw a careful pencil outline from it
on the wood plaque. We will here, for example, say it is the drawing
of the child's head reproduced. Heat a small tool sufficiently to mark
a very light brown line on the wood (to ascertain heat keep a small
piece of waste wood by your side), then carefully go over the outline
of the head and mark in all the features. Now with soft india-rubber
erase all pencil marks from the parts you have burnt, and make a fresh
pencil indication of the shape of your shadows, and proceed slowly and
carefully with the hot tool to build up coat by coat from the lightest
to the darkest these same shadows, never forgetting that lights cannot
be applied afterwards, but must be left out. A darker shade can always
be added, but a light never. Now once more remove your pencil-marks and
proceed to draw in your figure in the same manner as above described.
Next comes the background to be lightly sketched in by the hot irons;
and, after this, all pencil-marks may be removed and the picture
carefully worked up tone by tone from the copy.
[Illustration: FRIVOLITY.
(_Burnt wood drawing in ebony frame, by E. M. Jessop._)]
In holding the tools (the handles of which may be covered with cork,
or some non-conductor), it is necessary to remember that they should
never be used to make pen-like strokes, but more of a pastel effect
must be sought, as the soft-blurred appearance produced by gently
drawing them along the wood gives the effect of old carved ivory, which
is one of the chief charms of a fine burnt wood drawing. For instance,
in the drawing of "Sunset over the Sea," I spent many hours in simply
drawing a heated chisel slowly along the wood from end to end until I
got the yellowish tone which now goes so well with its green oak frame.
Here and there a white light had to be left. Its position was indicated
to me by a pencil outline. For this drawing I had no sketch, it being
entirely executed from memory. The main difficulty was to get the
flat tones, without which it is impossible to indicate atmosphere and
distance.
In the "Summer Idyll," given on the opposite page which is in size some
thirty-six by ten inches, a great deal of the background effect was
produced by using a small gas flame. This has to be done very slowly
and carefully, as one is apt, if at all careless, to burn too deeply
into the surface.
In conclusion, I may say that burnt wood drawing to be properly done
requires both time and thought, it being a much more satisfactory
result to produce one fine specimen by a month's labour than several
odds and ends, which can only be compared with the daubs so often
exhibited in shops as "painted by hand."
As to the applications of burnt wood work they are practically endless.
Look, for instance at the mouldy, rickety, ill-designed, so-called
antique chests so often sold at four times their original cost. For
a very small sum a good carpenter will make you a really serviceable
article with a framework of oak and white wood panels, which you can
decorate with hot irons in such a manner as to make a truly beautiful
piece of furniture. Again, for corner cupboards and cosy corners,
panels of doors, etc., where is its peer to be found?
My last word is try but one carefully executed plaque, and I feel sure
that you will not rest until you are making your home truly beautiful.
ERNEST M. JESSOP.
⁂ The original drawings from which these illustrations are taken were
recently exhibited by desire to H. R. H. The Princess of Wales at
Marlborough House, and H. R. H. was pleased to say that she had derived
great pleasure from her inspection of them.
(_All copyrights of drawings reserved by the artist._)
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "Sisters
Three," etc.
CHAPTER IX.
"Mrs. Saville was right--Peggy is a most expensive person!" cried
Mrs. Asplin in dismay, when the bills for repairs came in, but when
the Vicar suggested the advisability of a reproof, she said, "Oh,
poor child; she is so lonely--I haven't the heart to scold her," and
Peggy continued to detail accounts of her latest misfortune with an
air of exaggerated melancholy, which barely concealed the underlying
satisfaction. It required a philosophic mind to be able to take damages
to personal property in so amiable a fashion; but occasionally Peggy's
pickles took an irresistibly comical character. The story was preserved
in the archives of the family of one evening when the three girls had
been sent upstairs to wash their abundant locks and dry them thoroughly
before retiring to bed. A fire was kindled in the old nursery which was
now used as a sewing-room, and Mrs. Asplin, who understood nothing if
it was not the art of making young folks happy, had promised a supper
of roast apples and cream when the drying process was finished.
Esther and Mellicent were squatted on the hearth, in their blue
dressing-gowns, when in tripped Peggy, fresh as a rose, in a long robe
of furry white, tied round the waist with a pink cord. One bath towel
was round her shoulders, and a smaller one extended in her hands, with
the aid of which she proceeded to perform a fancy dance, calling out
instructions to herself the while, in imitation of the dancing-school
mistress. "To the right--two--three! To the left--two--three! Spring!
Pirouette! Atti--tude!" She stood poised on one foot, towel waving
above her head, damp hair dripping down her back, while Esther and
Mellicent shrieked with laughter, and drummed applause with heel and
toe. Then she flopped down on the centre of the hearth, and there was
an instantaneous exclamation of dismay.
"Phew! What a funny smell! Phew! Phew! Whatever can it be?"
"I smelt it too. Peggy, what have you been doing? It's simply awful!"
"Hair-wash, I suppose, or the soap--I noticed it myself. It will pass
off," said Peggy easily; but at that moment Mrs. Asplin entered the
room, sniffed the air, and cried loudly--
"Bless me, what's this? A regular Apothecaries Hall! Paregoric! It
smells as if someone had been drinking quarts of paregoric! Peggy,
child, your throat is not sore again?"
"Not at all, thank you. Quite well. I have taken no medicine to-day."
"But it is you, Peggy--it really is!" Mellicent declared. "There was no
smell at all before you came into the room. I noticed it as soon as the
door was opened, and when you came and sat down beside us--whew! simply
fearful!"
"I have taken no medicine to-day," repeated Peggy firmly. Then she
started, as if with a sudden thought, lifted a lock of hair, sniffed
at it daintily, and dropped it again with an air of conviction. "Ah, I
comprehend! There seems to have been a slight misunderstanding. I have
mistaken the bottles. I imagined that I was using the mixture you gave
me, but----"
"She has washed her hair in cough mixture! Oh, oh, oh! She has mixed
paregoric and treacle with the water! Oh, what will I do! what will
I do! This child will be the death of me!" Mrs. Asplin put her hand
to her side, and laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, while
Mellicent rolled about on the floor, and Esther's quiet "He, he, he!"
filled up the intervals between the bursts of merriment.
Peggy was marched off to have her hair re-washed and rinsed, and came
back ten minutes later, proudly complacent, to seat herself in the most
comfortable stool and eat roast apple with elegant enjoyment. She was
evidently quite ready to enlarge upon her latest feat, but the sisters
had exhausted the subject during her absence, and had, moreover, a
piece of news to communicate which was of even greater interest.
"Oh, Peggy, what y'think," cried Mellicent, running her words into
each other in breathless fashion, as her habit was when excited, "I've
got something beautiful to tell you. S'afternoon Bob got a letter from
his mother to say that they were all coming down next week to stay
at the Larches for the winter. They come almost every year, and have
shooting-parties, and come to church and sit in the big square pew,
where you can just see their heads over the side. They look so funny,
sitting in a row without their bodies. Last year there was a young lady
with them who wore a big grey hat--the loveliest hat you ever saw--with
roses under the brim, and stick-up things all glittering with jewels,
and she got married at Christmas. I saw her photograph in a magazine,
and knew her again in a moment. I used to stare at her, and once she
smiled back at me. She looked sweet when she smiled. Lady Darcy always
comes to call on mother, and she and father go there to dinner ever
so many times, and we are asked to play with Rosalind--the Honourable
Rosalind. I expect they will ask you to go too. Isn't it exciting?"
"I can bear it," said Peggy coldly. "If I try very hard, I think I can
support the strain."
The Larches, the country house of Lord Darcy, had already been pointed
out to her notice; but the information that the family was coming down
for the yearly visit was unwelcome to her for a double reason. She
feared, in the first place, lest it should mean a separation from Bob,
who was her faithful companion, and fulfilled his promise of friendship
in a silent, undemonstrative fashion, much to her fancy. In the second
place, she was conscious of a rankling feeling of jealousy towards
the young lady who was distinguished by the name of the Honourable
Rosalind, and who seemed to occupy an exalted position in the
estimation of the Vicar's daughters. Her name was frequently introduced
into conversation, and always in the most laudatory fashion. When a
heroine was of a superlatively fascinating description, she was "Just
like Rosalind;" when an article of dress was unusually fine and dainty,
it would "do for Rosalind." Rosalind was spoken of with bated breath as
if she were a princess in a fairy tale, rather than an ordinary flesh
and blood damsel. And Peggy did not like it; she did not like it at
all, for, in her own quiet way, she was accustomed to queen it among
her associates, and could ill brook the idea of a rival. She had not
been happy at school, but she had been complacently conscious that of
all the thirty girls she was the most discussed, the most observed, and
also, among the pupils themselves, the most beloved. At the vicarage
she was an easy first. When the three girls went out walking, she
was always in the middle, with Esther and Mellicent hanging on an
arm at either side. Robert was her sworn vassal, and Max and Oswald
her respectful and, on the whole, obedient servants. Altogether, the
prospect of playing second fiddle to this strange girl was by no means
pleasant. Peggy tilted her chin, and spoke in a cool, cynical tone.
"What is she like, this wonderful Rosalind? Bob does not seem to
think her extraordinary. I cannot imagine a 'Miss Robert' being very
beautiful, and as she is his sister, I suppose they are alike."
Instantly there arose a duet of protests.
"Not in the least. Not a single bit. Rosalind is lovely! Blue eyes,
golden hair----"
"Down past her waist----"
"The sweetest little hands----"
"A real diamond ring----"
"Pink cheeks----"
"Drives a pony carriage, with long-tailed ponies----"
"Speaks French all day long with her governess--jabber, jabber, jabber,
as quick as that--just like a native----"
"Plays the violin----"
"Has a lovely little sitting-room of her own, simply crammed with the
most exquisite presents and books, and goes travelling abroad to France
and Italy and hot places in winter. Lord and Lady Darcy simply worship
her, and so does everyone, for she is as beautiful as a picture. Don't
you think it would be lovely to have a lord and lady for your father
and mother?"
Peggy sniffed the air in scornful superiority.
"I am very glad I've not! Titles are so ostentatious! Vulgar, I call
them! The very best families will have nothing to do with them. My
father's people were all at the Crusades, and the Wars of the Roses,
and the Field of the Cloth of Gold. There is no older family in
England, and they are called 'Fighting Savilles,' because they are
always in the front of every battle, winning honours and distinctions.
I expect they have been offered titles over and over again, but they
would not have them. They refused them with scorn, and so would I, if
one were offered to me. Nothing would induce me to accept it!"
Esther rolled her eyes in a comical, sideway fashion, and gave a little
chuckle of unbelief; but Mellicent looked quite depressed by this
reception of her grand news, and said anxiously--
"But, Peggy, think of it! The Honourable Mariquita! It would be too
lovely! Wouldn't you feel proud writing it in visitors' books, and
seeing it printed in newspapers when you grow up? 'The Honourable
Mariquita wore a robe of white satin, trimmed with gold!'"...
"Peggy Saville is good enough for me, thank you," said that young
lady, with a sudden access of humility. "I have no wish to have my
clothes discussed in the public prints. But if you are invited to the
Larches to play with your Rosalind, pray don't consider me! I can stay
at home alone. I don't mind being dull. I can turn my time to good
account. Not for the world would I interfere with your pleasures!"
"But P--P--Peggy, dar--ling Peggy, we would not leave you alone!"
Mellicent's eyes were wide with horror, she stretched out entreating
hands towards the unresponsive figure. To see Peggy cross and snappish
like any other ordinary mortal was an extraordinary event, and quite
alarming to her placid mind. "They will ask you, too, dear! I am sure
they will--we will all be asked together!" she cried; but Peggy tossed
her head, refusing to be conciliated.
"I shall have a previous engagement. I am not at all sure that they
are the sort of people I ought to know," she said. "My parents are so
exclusive! They might not approve of the acquaintance!"
(_To be continued._)
SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.
BY "THE NEW DOCTOR."
PART V.
THE HAIR.
It is often a great consolation to a girl who has but a plain face to
possess a fine head of hair. One can understand how annoyed she must
feel when her hair starts combing out in handfuls, and she sees her one
good possession getting less and less every day.
There are very many causes why the hair should comb out, and as it is
absolutely necessary to know which cause is at work before attempting
to cure it, we will discuss briefly the chief causes that are common.
Undoubtedly the gravity of hair combing out is greatly exaggerated. If
you comb out a few hairs every morning and save up the several combings
to see how much hair you lose in the month, you will be surprised and
annoyed at the result. Many girls do this and fancy that there is
something wrong with the hair and that they are going bald.
It is natural for the hair to comb out. The life of a hair is of very
varying duration, but it only lives a certain time. At the expiration
of this time it dies, and a new hair springs from the same root. If it
were not for this, what do you think would be the state of the hair at
fifty?
Now let us look at the causes of the hair falling out excessively and
the resulting condition--baldness.
When the health is disturbed, the hair often falls more rapidly than
before. After severe illnesses it is not uncommon for the hair to fall
out wholesale, often producing absolute baldness. In both these cases
the hair almost invariably comes back as strong as before when the
health has returned.
In men, age is a cause of baldness, and there is no reason to think
that this cause acts less powerfully in the fair sex. Absolute baldness
is not common in women, but their hair gets thinner and shorter after
they have passed the meridian.
The fashion of tying the hair with a ribbon or fillet will cause the
hair to fall out by compressing it and therefore interfering with its
nutrition. If you remove the fillet occasionally, it will do no harm
to the hair. Curling the fringe with hot tongs is a very common cause
of bald foreheads. If the tongs are used properly, that is, if they
are not overheated, they will do little or no damage to the hair. But
usually women curl their hair with tongs that are nearly red-hot,
thereby singeing and killing the hair, which consequently falls out,
and in the end leaves the forehead bare.
The commonest causes (and fortunately the easiest to remedy) of the
hair falling out are affections of the scalp.
Dandruff, scurf or seborrhœa, as it is better named, is a condition of
the scalp in which the sebaceous glands, which secrete the oil which
lubricates the hair, are out of gear. They secrete too much oil of a
very inferior quality. The hair loses its lustre, becomes brittle,
usually dark in colour, breaks, falls out, and becomes covered with
scurf. What this is exactly due to is not known. It is probably the
result of a microbe. It usually becomes manifest about the age of
thirteen or thereabouts, and may exist throughout life. It can hardly
be called a disease, but if neglected may lead to the various forms
of eczema that attack the scalp. The treatment for this condition is
to wash the hair about once a week with the following lotion: Borax,
one tablespoonful; carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful; glycerine, two
tablespoonfuls, and water to the quart. After washing and drying the
head well, rub into the scalp a very little sulphur ointment.
Often a girl will come complaining that her hair falls out from one
part of her head, leaving a bald patch. This is called "alopœcia."
Of its cause nothing is known. It is very common in girls when about
fifteen years old, but it may occur at any age. The hair always
grows again on the bald places, but it may not do so for a year or
more. Painting the bald spot with a tincture of iodine is as good as
anything, but it is Nature, and not drugs, that cures the affection.
The colour of the hair is extremely variable, and not uncommonly it
changes from one colour to another in a very short time. The hair,
like every other coloured organ in the body, obtains its colour from
the iron in the blood. One would therefore think that taking iron or
improving the circulation would darken the hair. It will not do so. In
anæmia, where the iron in the blood is very deficient, the hair remains
unaltered!
Severe emotion or sorrow will cause the hair to fade. Why it should do
so we do not know, any more than why Father Time should meddle with it.
The only way in which the colour of the hair can be altered voluntarily
is by external applications. No hair dye is really satisfactory, and
most of them are dangerous. The hair will, however, sometimes change
its colour completely without any external help.
The hair may lose its lustre from many causes. Dandruff is the
commonest cause of this, but a very fertile factor in the causation
of brittle lustreless hair is the constant employment of pomatums and
greases to the hair. Nature supplies you with hair-oil of first-class
quality. Every hair has two glands to secrete this oil (sebum). If you
use an artificial grease (which can only be of a tenth-rate quality
when compared with the natural substance), do you suppose the glands
will go on working for nothing when the fruits of their labours are
despised? Not they. They will strike work at once, and though they will
resume their function if the external application is discontinued, it
is better not to interfere with them at all. Girls with their long
hair, however, need some form of application to keep the hair clean
and glossy, and there is no objection to their using a really good
substance, if they apply it to the hair itself and not to the scalp.
You should never apply anything in the way of oil, grease, or pomatum
to the roots of the hair, if it is healthy.
The applications of most value for the hair are the following:--
1. _Brilliantine._--This is a pleasant emulsion, and it is very useful
when the hair shows a tendency to fall out.
2. _Bay Rum._--Occasionally I have seen this do good to the hair.
Usually, however, it is better avoided.
3. Applications containing _Cantharides_ are supposed to promote the
growth of the hair. Possibly they do, but the action is not due to the
Cantharides.
4. _Rosemary_ is a nice clean preparation for the hair, and there are
many good lotions containing this drug.
5. _Marrow fat, Bear's grease, etc._--The solid fats are much used, and
if you do not object to their messiness, they are not without merit.
6. _Petroleum jelly, vaseline, etc._--These are simple,
non-irritating, more or less inert substances, which may be applied to
the ends of the hairs when a simple lubricant is necessary.
[Illustration: ANGELIE.]
ANGELIE.
BY WILLIAM T. SAWARD.
There are clouds on the mountain's brow, Angelie!
And our soft blue skies are frowning now, Angelie!
O say it is well in that far-off land,
Where the mountains rise from the sea-girt strand;
Our daily prayers are to Heaven for thee, Angelie!
We listen for thee at the morning prime, Angelie!
With the Matin-bell and its holy chime, Angelie!
And at night, under Heaven's blue canopy,
When the angels have lighted their tapers for thee,
A silver voice comes over the sea,
"It is well, it is well, with your Angelie!"
O the clouds may cover the mountain's brow, Angelie!
And hide their wreaths of eternal snow, Angelie!
And the fiend of the storm may shriek at will,
And the lightning leap from hill to hill,
For the night is past and I come to thee,
My bride, my beautiful Angelie!
[Illustration]
"SISTER WARWICK": A STORY OF INFLUENCE.
BY H. MARY WILSON, Author of "In Warwick Ward," "In Monmouth Ward,"
"Miss Elsie," etc.
CHAPTER I.
"We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect,
Although our woman-hands should shake and fail."--_E. B. Browning._
Sister Warwick was slowly rousing to the consciousness of the birth
of another working-day. Her first sensation was weariness, her next a
thought of surprise that the night had been passed without a summons to
the side of one of the many beds in her ward, the third, and this with
fully-awakened faculties, that her good Staff-nurse Carden was holding
towards her the welcome tea-tray that her kind thoughtfulness never
failed to bring with this earliest report of the "night duty."
Margaret Carden's hospital career had fulfilled the expectations of
those who had watched it with loving, interested eyes. She had quietly
and conscientiously worked her way from her probation through the three
years of training, had done well, if not brilliantly, in her exams.,
and was now back again in the ward that was her "first love," so to
speak. She was a staff-nurse on night duty.
She was very happy to be here. She loved little Sister Warwick--loved
and respected and reverenced her. She could see through the brusque
exterior that nettled some of the others, and could fully appreciate
the noble heroism of her consistent, hard-working, unselfish life.
Sister Warwick was one who always felt the full responsibility of the
life she had to live. Seven years before, after the governors of the
hospital had offered her the coveted position of Sister of one of these
hospital wards, she had written to her mother--
"It is very trying work beginning to be a Sister--more so than you can
possibly imagine. To feel the whole weight of your domain weighing on
you, a family of thirty to care for, and nurses to guide and train, is
very appalling, very full of care."
And now, though she was used to her position, if experience was
teaching her the wisest way to carry her cares, custom did not lighten
them.
To-day she greeted her friend Carden with a smile and a "Good morning!
What sort of a night have you had in the ward?"
"All has gone comfortably, Sister, except that Susie and Patty have
both been troublesome again."
"Susie fretting for her mother, and Patty crying with the pain?"
"Yes, Sister, and really disturbing the others by being very noisy,
poor mites."
"Perhaps there is some naughtiness in their crying. We must think what
we can do. And Mrs. 13?"
"She is distinctly weaker, but she says the pain is less. How patient
she is!"
And whereas within hospital walls it is the rule, not the exception,
for the patients to show touching bravery and endurance in their pain,
such an exclamation from a nurse was a special tribute to Mrs. 13's
heroism. It was partly because before both Sister and nurse there rose
in that moment a picture of what that poor woman's life had been. A
dressmaker for some second-rate theatre, she had spent her days with
ten or twelve other women in a room without a window, with the gas
burning, and only the fireplace for ventilation.
"After tea, Sister, the women used to drop from their seats and faint
away on the floor. We seemed not to mind after a bit, somehow."[1]
That had been the spiritless summing-up of the description which had
so stirred the hearts of her listeners. And now she lay dying of the
terrible disease that still baffles medical science, and seems to have
no cure--and her patience did not fail!
Nurse Carden continued her report of the other cases, and then, before
leaving, said anxiously:
"You will be able to take your hours 'off duty' this afternoon, Sister?
You know you did not last week."
Sister Warwick smiled. This staff-nurse of hers was bold in her
determination to take care of her. None of the others ventured,
except, perhaps, Nurse Greg; but she was promoted now, a Sister like
herself--on her own level, in fact.
"You will, Sister," urged Margaret Carden again. "I know you are
getting tired out."
"Not quite that," answered Sister Warwick, amused and touched. "But I
do want a taste of the outside world, and if I possibly can, I mean to
go."
With that the night nurse departed more contented, not hearing the sigh
that followed the words, not knowing that it was want of confidence in
her day staff-nurse--Nurse Hudson--that tied the Sister with so many
anxious thoughts to her ward.
Sister Warwick and Sister Cumberland, which was the new title Nurse
Greg had lately assumed with the donning of her dark stuff dress, met
on the staircase in their bonnets and cloaks before eight o'clock. As
their custom was, they walked together to the shortened morning service
in the old parish church near the hospital gates. They had both learnt
that the few quiet moments they spent there were "well invested," and
they never passed out again into the whirl of their busy lives without
an earnest prayer, first
"for the sick ...
God's prisoners, laid in bonds by His own hands,"
and then for themselves, that they,
"By prayer, and sympathy, and smile,
The burden of the weary might beguile."
How better could they step into the daily routine than thus equipped?
Breakfast in their own rooms was followed by hours of occupation.
Sister Warwick preferred to take her share of actual nursing with the
rest.
Before the house-physician's visit was over a piteous wail from bed No.
12 rang through the ward.
"It do hurt so! I can't bear it--I can't!"
Sister Warwick knew that Patty had been spoilt at home, and that her
pain was really bearable. She had tried petting. Now she felt that
firmness with a flavour of severity would have to be applied.
Earlier in the morning, and in a happier moment, Patty had said
insinuatingly--
"You don't know how I like eggs, Sister, or you'd give me one!" and she
had answered--
"I will give you one, dear, but not while you do not try to be good and
quiet. Patty must learn to bear her pain bravely like the rest. Anyhow,
we will see what Mr. H---- (the house physician) says."
And now, with this stormy outburst of weeping, came Sister Warwick's
opportunity. She turned to Mr. H----, who was standing close by, and
propounded this all-important egg-question.
He came with due gravity and looked down upon the sobbing child. His
kind eyes were twinkling with amusement. He was well aware of Patty's
character for tempestuosity. His voice was impressive almost to
sternness.
"Yes, Sister," he said, "if she is a good girl, I think we may let her
have a good egg, and shall we say if she's a bad girl, she shall have a
bad egg?"
The solemn tones overawed Patty. She stopped crying and stared, and
tried her hardest to think whether the punishment for her naughtiness
was as terrible as it sounded.
With poor, home-sick, tired Susie, Sister Warwick had to try other
measures. Susie was old enough to be reasoned with, and withal was
not a coward in her pain--she was plucky there. But the peace of the
ward and of the older patients must not be sacrificed to these wayward
children.
So Sister Warwick, seated at her table in the ward, and having filled
in her charts and completed other matters of business--such as signing
a pass for a nurse's holiday--took a sheet of paper and wrote a letter
as if to Susie's mother.
The words ran--
"Susie frets so for her home and for you, and is so especially unhappy
after visiting day, that I must beg you not to come again until she can
be quite good when you leave her."
She went to Susie's cot and read the sentence without a smile. Susie's
eyes dilated, her lip quivered as she listened.
"Shall I post it, Susie?"
"Don't! Oh, please, Sister, don't!"
"Well, dear, it shall depend upon you whether it goes. See, I am going
to pin it here on the curtain, where you can look at it. If you are
good it shall not be sent."
And sent it never was.
* * * * *
There was much to do for Mrs. 13, and distressing though the work might
be, admiration for her endurance and for the simple trust with which
she accepted all her pain, as "the touch of God's finger laid on her in
love," could only make the Sister's labours a pleasure and a privilege.
It was different when she turned to a bed at the end of the ward,
a little apart from the others, where lay, unconscious, one of
those sad cases, repulsive and loathsome, in which "the King's
image" is disfigured almost beyond recognition by a life of sin and
self-indulgence.
* * * * *
At one time Sister Warwick had found it hard to be as careful and
tender with these--pity she never failed in. But one day the thought
came to her that perhaps these poor souls were included in "the least
of these My brethren"--that perhaps these words might mean sometimes
those farthest removed from Him. After that the work for them was
infinitely easier.
At one o'clock she was in her own room again, to find someone waiting
for her there--a young student. His hands were loaded with "a sight for
sair een"--a great bunch of buttercups and grasses.
"My mother is up in town to-day, Sister," he said, "and she asked me to
bring these to you. They were picked only this morning and so are not
at all battered, as you see."
"They are delightful; a real bit of the country for my poor 'children'
to feast their eyes on."
Sister stretched out her hand for the golden posy, then an instinct
prompted her to look more directly at the boy's face. His mother was
her friend; she had promised to be an elder sister to this only son of
hers, and she saw that her elder-sisterliness was wanted now.
She gave it--how wisely and strongly, yet tenderly, the young doctor
only knew. It was a crisis in his career. He was afraid! How could he
go on with the seeming inconsistencies that thronged him in his work?
and there were other things.
Well, gradually it all came out. Somehow Sister Warwick understood,
and she helped him to sort apparent contradictions and to smooth
or explain difficulties. Not all, of course not! There must remain
unfathomed mysteries in every profession. But he went away with a new
light on his young face, and Sister Warwick with a sigh--not of regret
but of humility--turned to her little table and her waiting lunch. She
glanced up at the clock. Why, her half-hour had gone! The consulting
physician might be here at any moment. She must put on a clean cap
and apron and be ready. This done, there was left just time for a
few mouthfuls of ham and bread and for a draught of milk, then the
probationer's voice at her door was saying--
"Dr. W---- is here, please, Sister."
There was less for the doctors to do that day than usual, and it was
not later than half-past two when, in bonnet and cloak, Sister Warwick
began the little programme she had made for these "off hours."
Passing through the hospital gates, she took her way eastward until she
reached the entrance to Pleasant Court.
Alas! Was there ever such a misnomer?
Insanitary, overcrowded, stifling, filthy, she wondered how any
could live in such an atmosphere, and thought with pity of that
poor ex-patient she had come to see, who had begged to come back
here--"because it was home"--to die!
She climbed up the creaking stairs to an attic room, and her gentle tap
was answered by a weak "Come in, please."
It was good to see how the wan face of the sick woman lit up at sight
of her visitor, and to hear the glad "Oh, Sister, is it you?"
The poor, bare room was well swept and tidy, and the woman herself was
as clean and orderly as she knew how to be. Months of hospital days had
taught her much, and she had a husband tenderly anxious to please her
by "doing for her" as carefully and as long as he could. Sister had
been expected "one of these days," and she was touched to find, when
she set to work to wash and dress an unhealed wound, that a ragged but
clean towel was laid ready for her use afterwards.
Surgical duties performed, she sat beside Mrs. Sutton with her wasted
hand in hers, listening to her laboured breathing and turning over a
possibility in her mind.
"We'll try it!" she said suddenly out loud. And then, smiling at the
woman's surprised expression, she went on. "What do you say to our
getting a breath of fresh air together? Shall we have a drive?"
"Oh, Sister! Not really? Could I?"
Sister Warwick certainly had a way of sweeping aside difficulties when
her mind was set to an end. She went to the nearest cab-stand, picked
out the driver with care, and came back with the hansom to the entrance
of the court. It could go no further.
A boy was found to hold the horse, and together she and cabby carried
Mrs. Sutton down the old stairs. She was comfortably wedged into the
corner of the seat with pillows, and a footstool was found for her
feet. Then Sister gave the man her instructions--
"It is to be a shilling drive, please, and take us to see a bit of
something green."
"Right you are, Nuss! Embankment's the place for we!"
Away they went--the air cool in their faces--until the sick woman began
to draw long breaths of enjoyment, and even a little colour crept into
her pale cheeks. Under the trees, with the glittering water on one side
and patches of green grass within railings on the other. There was a
laburnum in blossom. Some of the windows of the houses were bright with
scarlet geraniums and marguerites. A donkey-cart came towards them
laden with ferns and plants in bloom.
Mrs. Sutton's eyes feasted on it all. A few happy tears rolled down
her cheeks. She had not hoped or thought to see these things until she
rested in "the Park of God." And the sky was so blue! Heaven would be
clearer to her imagination after this.
But Sister Warwick began to wonder when their driver meant to turn
homewards. It was a very long shilling's-worth already, and she had not
wanted to spend more out of her slender purse. At last she pushed up
the little trap-door.
"I think we had better be going back now," she said.
"Very well, Nuss. If you please."
But they had had at least a four-mile drive before they drew up at the
court again and helped the tired but happy woman to her room once more.
When, with rough tenderness, he had given all the assistance he could,
Sister Warwick followed the man on to the little landing. She offered
him half-a-crown.
"I know it ought really to be more," she said.
He put back the coin.
"It's only a shilling, Nuss. I only meant it to be a shilling all
along. Just let it be a shilling's-worth--now doo ee."[2]
She let him have his way. How could she resist him? And he stumped
down the stairs smiling and proud, as if he had received a favour that
afternoon. Well, perhaps he had!
* * * * *
There was time for Sister Warwick to pay another and a very different
visit before she was due at the hospital for the Sisters' dinner. A
visit to another court, but how different! What a contrast!
It is hard to believe that such dear old places are still left standing
in the very heart of the great city. Sister Warwick passed through an
archway into a flagged square and mounted a flight of steps leading to
a quaint, old-fashioned house.
She turned before ringing the bell to look straight away through the
large old iron gates on the opposite side of the square, at a long,
delicious stretch of green--grass below, trees above. And far away--she
fancied it might be really a quarter of a mile--a great flight of stone
steps led down to the outer world again.
To those who live in the heart of the country--in the midst of all its
delights and, above all, of its peace--this may not sound much to charm
the gaze; but here, in the rush of the unending roar night and day, to
find a comparative stillness is refreshing beyond everything.
To some natures the noise of London seems always dreadful. And it is
true that the traffic never really ceases night or day, except perhaps
for two or three hours on Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning.
Even in this quiet square the sounds went on--cart succeeded cab, and
omnibus followed on--without intermission. But it was all muffled and
distant. The peace of it fell upon Sister Warwick's tired spirits.
Inside the house, too, there was more of this old-world feeling of
un-hurry and rest. She was led through panelled passages to the long
low drawing-room with its wide window-seats and great chintz-covered
couches.
Her friend, whose home it was, rose to greet her, and she was at once
taken in hand, thrust into the softest lounge, plied with tea, and
told to "laze." She was not even permitted to talk; but her thoughtful
hostess, having supplied all her wants, went to a little chamber-organ
at the far end of the room and played softly and quietly such things as
refresh body and soul in one--bits of Beethoven, Handel, Mendelssohn.
She passed from one to the other, and Sister Warwick lay and listened
with closed eyes--all her responsibilities and anxieties wiled from her
for the time.
Was this unusual hour of rest sent to brace her for what was to come
that night and the following day? She thought so herself when, later,
she looked back at the events of those forty-eight hours.
* * * * *
At the Sisters' dinner that evening, Miss Jameson, the Sister of the
Nurses' Home, gave her a summons to the Matron's house for a discussion
on some improvement to be made in the nurses' uniform. She was to go
when her ward work was over--medicines superintended, prayers read, the
change of nurses made for the night.
She hurried back to it all, and with quiet steps was passing between
the long rows of beds sooner than was her wont.
Nurse Hudson was settling the patients for the night. A long, thin,
languid-looking girl was sitting up in bed No. 10 while her pillows
were being arranged and her sheet straightened.
Sister paused to look. The smile she had for the patient quickly faded
to sternness as she turned to the nurse.
"What are you doing?" she said in her sharpest tones. "Allowing a
typhoid to sit up! Nurse, you know better than that!"
She laid the girl down on the pillows again herself, and then stood
silently by while the bed was finished.
Nurse Hudson flushed crimson. But she had no excuse ready, and
presently her superior passed on down the ward, registering in her
indignant mind another of many carelessnesses she had noticed. She
knew that Ellen Hudson was particularly anxious for her own pleasure
to get away punctually that evening. But to risk a case in order to do
her work more quickly--the selfishness of the act hurt the Sister's
pride in the nursing profession. So thoroughly angry did she feel that
she wondered whether she could command herself sufficiently to speak
a calm reproof before the nurse left the ward that evening. She was
very conscious that a biting sarcasm in her fault-finding had often
alienated the confidence of her nurses, and she was now striving hard
to mete out to them a more kindly and less impatient justice.
Mrs. 13 was watching her with loving eyes as she went to and fro.
"Patty has been a better girl this afternoon, Sister," she said, when
she came within hearing, "ever so much better. I expect she is afraid
of the bad egg!"
The laugh did Sister Warwick good, and Patty fell asleep that night
with the sound of commendation in her ears, and with a virtuous
determination "to be a better gairl to-morrow, too."
* * * * *
"Ain't the buttery-cups beeootiful, Sister? They minds me of home. I
was a country girl onst, and picked my hands full of them when I was
little. But, bless ye, I ain't been out of London since I married. I've
'most forgotten what the country looks like."
It was Granny 20 who was speaking, as Sister bandaged her leg and
helped to tidy her for the night.
"We will put that right before long, Granny, see if we don't. You shall
pick flowers and get sunburnt with the best of us. Fancy not seeing the
grass and the flowers, and hearing the birds sing, for fifty years! How
could you bear it?"
"Well, it's true, Sister. I ain't been further than London Bridge all
that time. And there! bless ye, I'm 'most afraid to try it now."
But Sister Warwick thought of the beautiful grounds round the
Hospital Convalescent Home, which was not so very far away. Granny
20 was getting well fast--a credit to them all. She should renew her
acquaintance with "great Nature's pictures" before very long.
The day had been hot; but a cool mist or fog covered the shadowed
houses as Sister Warwick lay down that night. Nurse Carden was on duty
again; with that knowledge the Sister fell quickly asleep, at ease for
the safety of all.
(_To be concluded._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A fact.
[2] A fact.
THREE SOUPS.
OXTAIL SOUP.
_Ingredients._--One oxtail, one large carrot, two onions stuck
with cloves, one turnip, four sticks of celery, four mushrooms,
half a parsnip, a bunch of herbs, two blades of mace, twelve black
peppercorns, three ounces of butter, one dessertspoonful of red currant
jelly, two quarts and a half of water, a wine-glass of sherry, three
ounces of fine flour, salt.
_Method._--Wash the oxtail and chop it; put it in a saucepan and
cover with cold water; bring to the boil and throw the water away. Fry
the oxtail gently in the butter until it is a good brown; prepare the
vegetables and slice them and put them in a saucepan with the oxtail,
water, herbs, mace, salt and peppercorns; put on the lid and simmer
gently for five hours. Strain the stock and skim off the fat; pick out
the meat and put it aside to keep hot; pick out the vegetables and
pound them finely, add the stock by degrees, return to the stove and
re-heat; melt the rest of the butter in a small frying-pan and stir in
the flour, fry it a good dark brown over the fire, stir in a little of
the hot soup and add this thickening to the soup; add the sherry and
red currant jelly and the pieces of oxtail, and serve.
KIDNEY SOUP.
_Ingredients._--One pound of ox kidney, half each of carrot, turnip,
onion and parsnip, two sticks of celery, one tomato, one bay leaf,
one sprig of parsley, one dessertspoonful of Harvey's sauce, a little
browning, one quart of water or stock, one ounce of butter, pepper and
salt.
_Method._--Wash the kidney and cut away any fat; cut it in dice and
fry gently in the butter; prepare the vegetables, cut them in pieces
and put them in a saucepan with the kidney, bay leaf, parsley, water
or stock and salt. Put on the lid and let all simmer gently for four
hours; strain off the soup, pick out the pieces of kidney and put them
aside to keep hot. Return the stock to the saucepan, add the Harvey's
sauce and the browning; put back the pieces of kidney, re-heat and
serve.
MULLIGATAWNY.
_Ingredients._--One large onion, one apple, one tablespoonful of good
curry powder, one ounce of flour, half an ounce of grated cocoanut, a
few drops of lemon juice, one dessertspoonful of red currant jelly, one
dessertspoonful of chutney, salt, one quart of chicken or veal stock,
three ounces of butter, one ounce and a half of cornflour, some well
boiled rice.
_Method._--Skin the onion, slice it and pound it in a mortar; chop and
pound the apple. Mix the curry powder smoothly with half a teacupful of
cold water, melt the butter in a stewpan, stir in the curry powder and
water and the pounded onion; cook and stir until the water cooks away
and the onion browns in the butter; add the apple, cocoanut, chutney,
salt and the stock (warm); put on the lid and simmer for half an hour;
rub through a sieve, mix the flour with a little cold stock, re-heat
the soup and when it boils stir in the flour; add the lemon juice and
red currant jelly; hand well-cooked rice with this soup.
THE RULES OF SOCIETY.
BY LADY WILLIAM LENNOX.