CHAPTER IV.

Produced by Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1009.] APRIL 29, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]

[Illustration: VIOLETTA.

[_Photographic Union, Munich._]

_All rights reserved._]

[Illustration: THE 1000TH NUMBER

OF

_THE_ GIRL’S OWN PAPER]

[Transcriber’s Note: The 1000th number is available

from Project Gutenberg as etext number 60565,

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60565.]

THE EDITOR feels bound to record, for the pleasure of the general

reader of this magazine, some of the charming expressions of goodwill

called forth by the publication of the 1000th Number. He has been

greatly cheered by them, and he knows so well that the readers will

share the pleasure with him that he will unclose to them some of his

recent correspondence, the actual letters themselves being sent to the

printer as MS.

First, from readers old and young, and from every nation under the sun,

he has received hearty congratulations.

One kind girl near London writes:

I must congratulate you on the charming 1000th Number of THE GIRL’S

OWN PAPER. It is a very nice idea, giving the photographs of the

contributors to the paper. I have taken THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER since

it first came out, never missing one week, and I have also every

one of the Summer and Christmas numbers. Although I was away one

year on a sea-voyage, the paper was taken for me. When it first

came out, I was quite a child; my mother took it for me, and I have

always enjoyed reading it. I consider it the best paper published

for either old or young, and would not give it up for anything.

When I saw the 1000th number, I felt I must write and tell you what

an old subscriber you had and one who appreciates THE GIRL’S OWN

PAPER so much. It is not many, I think, could say they have every

week of the paper. Wishing it every success for the future,

Believe me to be faithfully yours, N. H.

Another reader writes:

DEAR MR. EDITOR,—I have just been reading the 1000th Number of

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, and I feel I must write to thank you (and

congratulate you) for the pleasures and benefits which I have

received from it during a very long acquaintance; in fact I knew

it in its very first days, and distinctly remember being keenly

interested in the tale “Zara, or, My Granddaughter’s Money.” I

was really a girl then, and it seems, and is, a long, long while

ago. I can but echo heartily Miss Burnside’s wish that it may live

another 1000 weeks, and yet another; and—who knows?—another on to

that. I should think one great reason for its popularity is that it

suits so many different sorts of minds. There is no doubt that when

catering for our mental food, you have remembered the old saying

that “variety is charming.” More, it is also wholesome. With every

good wish for a yet wider circulation of our dear paper, and the

welfare of our Editor,

Believe me, truly yours, A. M.

_Postscript._

I hailed thy birth, dear “G. O. P.,”

With truest joy and pleasure;

I said the gods have given me

At last “a perfect treasure.”

I watched thee grow with loving eyes

Into a world-wide favour;

Small wonder was it girls should prize

Thy teachings of sweet savour.

The years have gone, and thou hast gained

In wisdom, strength, and beauty;

And, best of all, the power retained

To make us do our duty.

Also one from the country:

DEAR EDITOR,—I must write to thank you for presenting to us (to me)

“Portrait Gallery of Contributors” to our dear GIRL’S OWN PAPER.

It is so nice to see their faces, to really know what those that

give us pleasure, profit, etc., are like. Very nice to see our

dear Editor’s face. We now know the one who for so many years has

laboured much for us—your “girls.” No words will come to me to

express all the gratitude I feel to you and all your helpers. God

bless you, and all the others, and richly reward you, even here.

You cannot see the great pleasure with which THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

is read as each month comes; and re-reading it and all those that

have gone before is just as great; but let this letter just let you

know how one heart is often cheered and encouraged to go on through

its perusal. I did not mean when I began this letter to write about

myself, only to try and express my loving thanks. Forgive all I

have written, and let me sign myself

One of your grateful girls, ELLIE.

Scores of girls in their teens, some of them only recent subscribers,

write enthusiastically and in good taste; but as there is perforce much

similarity in them, it is not desirable to print them.

However, the two following are original:

DEAR AND HONOURED SIR,—I can hardly call myself one of the girl

readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, seeing that I am on the shady

side of seventy years old, and a wife of many years standing; but

still I consider that I may take to myself the pleasant things you

say in your article in the 1000th Number. You will think so too

when I tell you that I have read almost every word in the nineteen

volumes, and possess the said volumes all bound. I quite agree with

the critics in what they say of the value of the publication, and

also with them hope that you and your staff may long continue to

instruct, amuse, and advise the “many millions” of the girls of

the world. You see that if I were to subscribe myself “A Constant

Reader,” I should not be telling an untruth; but I will only say

Yours gratefully, R. C. R.

DEAR MR. EDITOR,—Having been a constant reader of your GIRL’S OWN

PAPER for many years, I have long been very desirous of thanking

you and those who contribute to it for many pleasant and enjoyable

hours I have spent in reading its pages; it contains something to

suit all.

I sometimes think I ought to discontinue magazines and books of the

sort, but when I look on my dear old friend, THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER,

I am constrained to say, How can I give thee up? So it comes on as

usual, and is looked forward to and read as eagerly as ever.

May it go on and prosper in future as it has in the past.

Thank you also much for the nice Portrait Gallery; it gives me much

pleasure to look at it and make comments on faces mentally, some

brimming over with loving kindness, and others so thoughtful, and

all good.

Dear Mr. Editor, please forgive me for intruding on your very

valuable time.

Believe me,

Very faithfully and gratefully yours,

One who at eighty-three has never tired of THE GIRL’S OWN.

Another old reader who has every number mentions this with great pride,

and adds, “I wonder how many could say the same.” This is also the

wonder of the Editor, but he fears that it would be impossible to find

out.

* * * * *

From our many and valued contributors, we have received hearty

congratulations, but as their letters have a distinctly personal

tendency, we can only quote from them.

A quite _new_ writer on our staff says:

Until I received my monthly number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER this

morning I did not realise what an important one it was. Allow me

to add my congratulations to the many you have already doubtless

received on the success attending your venture. I find THE GIRL’S

OWN PAPER a household word wherever I go, and quite as much

appreciated in Ireland and Scotland as in England. I think you have

solved the problem how to instruct as well as amuse our daughters

and young people most wonderfully, and feel proud to be on your

staff. I have been delayed in sending you the rest of my papers by

fresh bereavement and continued illness. In a short time, however,

I hope they will be in your hands. With repeated well wishes of a

longer life and even more success to the magazine.

A quite _old_ writer on our staff says:

My congratulations on the issue of No. 1000 of our dear GIRL’S

OWN PAPER in her pretty new dress. You must look back on the

nearly twenty years of healthy, useful, and refining life that

your and our paper has passed through with infinite pleasure

and thankfulness, for it has been and it is a blessing both to

the girls and their elders. It was with no little emotion that

I looked at No. 1000, for to my connection with THE GIRL’S OWN

PAPER I am indebted for one who has been from the beginning of our

acquaintance the best and truest of friends to me that I am proud

to call such. May God bless you, and give you in the future to

see more and more abundant fruit for your labours. It seemed so

wonderful for me to be able to say, “I had one complete short paper

and two chapters of another in the second number of THE GIRL’S

OWN PAPER, and the 1000th Number has in it a paper of mine also.”

Didn’t I feel proud when I saw a paper of mine in _the_ number? I

have grown, I will not say gray, but very white in the service of

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, and it will cost me a terrible pang when I

am no longer able to write anything worthy of a place in the dear,

familiar pages. I am trying to get new subscribers to our paper. I

got two at the beginning of the volume. If only each reader could

get one more! The paper ought to be a greater favourite than ever,

for it is prettier, and has never been in every way so good as it

is now.

One who has written but very seldom writes:

MY DEAR OLD FRIEND,—Amid the many cries of congratulation from

important people and numerous friends, let my small voice be

heard. It seems to me a great triumph, in spite of opposition, to

have sailed calmly on and made your thousandth port unattended by

serious rivals.

My own idea of celebrating such an event is a dinner given by “the

staff” to the Editor, and I for one would make a struggle to form

one of such an interesting and pleasing company.

What happy memories for me are included in that span of 1000

Numbers, _quorum pars parva fui_.

Another very occasional contributor says:

This wonderful number of the GIRL’S OWN PAPER will quite overwhelm

you with congratulations, I am sure, for it is a record one! For

myself, I am humbly delighted with it, and I never hope to have a

greater honour than to be associated with so many infinitely more

worthy names than my own.

This number will be treasured in the annals of the family,

especially, too, as I see dear friends’ faces as well therein, and

I am next but one to my father’s life-long friend.

You must have taken such an amount of pains to collect all the

photographs, and our thanks are immensely due to you for all your

kind trouble and taste in doing so. While most heartily echoing the

first four lines of the last stanza of our valued mutual friend,

Miss Helen Burnside,

Believe me, yours sincerely, ——.

An old favourite story writer—we wonder if our readers can guess the

writer by the style!—sends the following:

Many thanks for the lovely number! I wish I could live in the

Vicar of Wakefield’s room on the first page. How nice if we could

all dine there on a summer evening!

Is it 1000 weeks ago since you started the GIRL’S OWN PAPER? Old

days come back—I go into Cassell’s and see you for the first time.

And then I think of the old kindness and faithful friendship, and

feel inclined to cry a little! You have done a wonderful work for

girls; you have directed their feet to that narrow path in which

alone they can find peace. It is a path that runs beside the Living

Waters. Because it is so narrow the women of to-day are demanding

a wider range, and so go a-wandering. Yesterday I received a copy

of the —— from the editor, who asks for a portrait and sketch. In

it there is rather a strong paper on the Religion of Women, or,

rather, their irreligion. In my sketch, I ventured to touch on the

true freedom that can only be obtained through restraint, and on

the discipline of the interior life.

I think we can see very clearly that Almighty God has blessed

you in your work, and I feel sure that you will be helped and

strengthened to the end. This is my prayer for you.

One of our musical contributors sends a spirited setting (we have great

pleasure in printing it in this Number) of Miss Burnside’s “Success and

Long Life to the ‘G. O. P.,’” published in the 1000th Number, with the

following kind words:

BEST OF FRIENDS,—I enclose a little memento of the 1000th Number,

over which and its editor we pray for the best of luck.

The enclosed “phrases” may seem rather trite, but equally trite is

fast friendship, ripened affection and a grateful heart, of all of

which accept this token from

YOUR OLD CONTRIBUTOR.

A brother Editor, who has for many years afforded us friendly counsel

and encouragement, but who is now, alas! no longer near at hand, sends

the following:

I congratulate you on your thousand weeks, and on the promise which

the energy and attractiveness of your thousandth issue give you of

a thousand more. It is no small achievement to have held together

so sympathetic a team of writers, and to have carried forward such

a work so long with general approval.

I miss my chats with you and ——. By way of consolation, the last

fortnight I have been clearing out arrears of MSS. and old letters.

How they gather in the dust! They make me realise how much is past,

and also how much wider and more various is an editor’s work than

the part he gives to the public. This you know well, but for you is

the future! May it be riper, richer, happier in all its years.

From the Editor of an important and long-established magazine, under

whom we were trained, comes the following genial letter:

A thousand thanks for your 1000th Number, which is as bright and

genial and clever as its Editor, and that’s saying a great deal for

it. Your greeting does my heart good, but it brings me no sting

of reproach. I often think of you, my dear old friend, and of the

pleasant times we had together in the dear old days. Such is the

force of habit that I still think of you as a youngster, and I

thank your portrait for confirming that impression. Good luck to

you, and to your thousand-week-old baby, and when she scores her

second thousand, “may I be there to see” and to rejoice with you.

Your affectionate old chum, ——.

Last, but not least, we must mention, with sincere gratitude,

a letter of congratulation from our painstaking printers. Also

great indebtedness is due to the Officers of the Society for their

expressions of congratulation, as also to the Committee of the Society

who are the owners of the magazine.

Now thank we all our God,

With heart, and hands, and voices,

Who wondrous things hath done,

In Whom His world rejoices;

Who from our mother’s arms

Hath bless’d us on our way

With countless gifts of love,

And still is ours to-day.

O may this bounteous God

Through all our life be near us,

With ever joyful hearts

And blessèd peace to cheer us:

And keep us in His grace,

And guide us when perplex’d,

And free us from all ills

In this world and the next.

WHAT THE PRESS SAYS:

“THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER—the most successful paper ever published for

girls, alike from the pecuniary point of view, and from the point

of view of supplying girls with literature equally wholesome and

welcome—has just reached its thousandth number. Long may it live.”—_The

Queen._

“With the thousandth number of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, dated February

25th, is given a detached “Portrait Gallery,” containing the likeness

of 105 contributors to that excellent periodical, among whom are the

Queen of Roumania, Princess Beatrice, and (as it is fairly claimed)

‘many queens and princesses of prose, poesy, and music’—not to speak of

princes.”—_The Guardian._

“Without any trace of mawkish piety, it has always set before its

readers the ideal of first things first, and has never descended to the

depths of sensationalism to secure a wider circulation.”—_Methodist

Times._

“I congratulate THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, which celebrates its thousandth

birthday. It still leads.”—_Sketch._

“The idea of its publication was a very happy one, and it has been

thoroughly well carried out with sense, with catholicity, and with

quickness of perception.”—_British Weekly._

“The Editor says—‘Success shone upon us from the very first.’ That

that success may never wane will be the hope of many thousands of

present readers and of past readers who are no longer girls—women who

realise that their lives were not only made brighter and happier by the

Magazine, but better, fuller, and more useful.”—_Brighton Herald._

“Let us congratulate the Editor and the Publishers of THE GIRL’S OWN

PAPER upon the success which is indicated by the G. O. P. (as its

readers affectionately call it) attaining its thousandth number. As

the interests of girls have widened—and between the years 1880 and

1899 they have widened greatly—the scope of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER has

correspondingly enlarged, and there would appear to be no subject which

young women can present to the consideration of the Editor of this

favourite organ upon which they will not receive the most sympathetic

and judicious advice.”—_The Queen._

SUCCESS AND LONG LIFE TO THE “G. O. P.”

_Words (in the 1000th Number) by HELEN MARION BURNSIDE. Music by M. B. F._

1. Suc - - cess and long life to the “G. O. P.”

As she starts on her voyage a - gain;

Let us speed her forth with a three times three

O’er a sun - ny and tran - quil main.

A thou - sand times has our gal - lant ship

Her course sped o - ver the seas; . .

Thro’ win - try gales sped the sil - ver sails,

Or hap - ly the sum - mer breeze. . .

CHORUS

Then suc - cess and long life to the “G. O. P.,”

’Tis with hands all round, and a - cross the sea,

That we speed her forth with our

[1]three . . . . times three! . . .

2. A thou - sand times have her sails been set

O’er a car - go of gold - en grain;

A thou - sand times may she bear it yet,

And a thou - sand to that a - gain!

For her freight has ev - er more pre - cious grown,

Each time we have watch’d her start, . .

With the va - ried cheer that has grown so dear

To ma - ny a home and heart. . .

CHORUS

Then suc - cess and long life to the “G. O. P.,”

’Tis with hands all round, and a - cross the sea,

That we speed her forth with our

[1]three . . . . times three! . . .

3. Suc - - cess and long life to the Cap-tain staunch,

May his hand, so kind - ly and strong,

Yet for many a year the good ship launch

He has guid - ed so well and long.

Suc - cess and long life to her faith - ful crew,

Long, long may they ral - - ly round, . .

And one and all, at their Cap - tain’s call,

Be “rea - dy and will - ing” found! . .

CHORUS

Then suc - cess and long life to the “G. O. P.,”

’Tis with hands all round, and a - cross the sea,

That we speed her forth with our

[1]three . . . . times three! . . .

[1] Signal for the waving of over 43 millions of girls’ pocket

handkerchiefs.—M. B. F.

SHEILA.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen

Sisters,” etc.

CHAPTER IV.

EFFIE.

The two girls remained quite still for a few minutes, looking curiously

at one another. Mrs. Cossart, who had brought Sheila up to her

daughter’s bright, pretty sitting-room, had been obliged to leave them

after speaking a few phrases of introduction, as there were visitors

awaiting her in the drawing-room.

Sheila saw, half reclined upon a couch beside the fire, a girl with a

pinched face, dark hair and brown eyes, which looked out rather sharply

through a pair of “nippers.” The girl was thin, but she did not look

exactly ill. There was something a little defiant in her air as she

raised herself and spoke to her visitor.

“So you are Sheila? Come here and sit down, and let us talk. I have

heard a lot about you, and I suppose you’ve heard plenty about me. I

wonder what kind of things the Tom Cossarts say about me in private. I

always think they call me a humbug.”

“No, they don’t,” answered Sheila quickly, as she came forward, “I

think they are kind people. They were all very kind to me.”

“I suppose you would have liked to stay there altogether. You don’t

think it will be so amusing, shut up here with me.”

“I can’t tell till I try,” answered Sheila smiling, rather puzzled by

Effie’s sharp speeches. “I liked being in River Street pretty well.

But—well—it didn’t seem much like home. This house is much nicer. I

think if you like having me, I shall like being here. I hope you will

like me, Effie.”

Sheila spoke simply and impulsively, and Effie smiled, and her face

looked pleasanter than it had done as yet.

“Oh, I daresay we shall get on. I’m not so cross as I expect you’ve

been told. Once I was just cram full of fun, but being ill takes the

life out of you. Sometimes I hate everything and everybody, but then I

get better, and things seem different. Have you ever been ill? Do you

know what it’s like?”

“Not much,” answered Sheila, “I’m very strong. Oscar has been ill

oftener than I. Tell me about yourself, Effie? I want to know

everything. Your mother wants me to be a sort of sister to you. Sisters

ought to know everything about each other.”

Effie, nothing loath, began a long history of herself. In a few days’

time Sheila had discovered that the way to keep her most satisfied

and entertained was to let her talk about herself. Poor child, it was

scarcely her own fault. Her mother never tired of asking her about her

every symptom, and listening to her accounts of how every hour had been

passed. She talked almost ceaselessly of Effie to everybody who would

listen. She had almost lost her identity in that of her last surviving

child. It seemed to Sheila that poor Effie had had enough doctors and

enough experiments in treatment tried upon her to kill anybody, and

when she ventured to say as much to Effie herself, the girl at once and

cordially agreed.

“I hate the very sight of them. I feel as though I’d never have another

near me. I mean not to care now whether I get better or not. The harder

I try, the worse I am. I’m just not going to care about anything again!”

That was decidedly one of Effie’s moods—a sort of defiance of

everything and everybody. At other times she would be gentler,

sometimes she was depressed. Then she would have a spell of high

spirits, in which she often overdid herself, and brought on one of her

attacks of breathlessness and oppression.

Sheila looked on and listened and wondered. Sometimes she was quite

fond of Effie, sorry for her, and eager to do anything she could. At

others, again, she felt a decided longing to shake her, and grew fairly

out of patience at the way she had of bringing every subject started

round to herself again. Others had noticed this defect in Effie. Her

cousins had named it in Sheila’s hearing, but they had never spoken of

it to the girl herself, and Sheila never meant to; but one day almost

in spite of herself, the words sprang to her lips.

“Effie, do you ever think about anything or anybody but yourself? I do

think you’d be so much better if you would. I don’t know if you know it

or care; but you talk about yourself from morning to night. It does get

so tiresome, and I’m sure it’s bad for you!”

Effie stopped short in what she was about to say, and stared at Sheila

hard. The girl coloured under the sharp gaze. Sheila was very placable

by nature, and hated anybody to be angry with her; but she had not

learned the lesson yet of thinking before she spoke.

“I beg your pardon if I vexed you,” she said; “but——”

“That’ll do,” said Effie shortly; “I don’t want to hear any more! You

can go now! You’d better take that ride you’ve been wanting to so long!

I don’t want anybody with me who thinks it tiresome to talk to me!”

Sheila escaped from the room, half inclined to laugh, and half to

cry. Shamrock had arrived at Cossart Place two days ago, and she was

eager to have a gallop upon her; but Effie had not been well, and she

had not liked to leave her. She fled away now to her own room, and

put on her habit. Her cheeks were glowing with the excitement of her

little quarrel with Effie, and with the prospect of her ride upon her

favourite. She thought most likely she would get a scolding from her

aunt on Effie’s account; but, after all, was it not a good thing for

somebody to warn Effie of her besetting weakness? Sheila was sure she

did not want to be selfish. She had many kind thoughts and plans for

other people. Only she had got so into the way of being the first

consideration with everybody about her. It was enough to spoil anybody.

When she was dressed, Sheila slipped down the almost unused staircase

of the old part of the house; and made her way direct to the

stable-yard. Sheila had obtained her wished-for quarters, and had

two pleasant rooms of her own in the block of old building, which

she liked so much better than the great modern addition, where the

reception-rooms were, and where the family had their quarters. Her

belongings, and a good many of Oscar’s, were stored here, and made

her rooms home-like and bright. When Oscar came to see her, they felt

almost in a separate house of their own. On the whole, Sheila was very

pleased with her new life. She was kindly treated, and things were all

smooth and easy. So long as she pleased Effie, that was all anybody

expected of her; and so far Effie had seemed to like her companionship.

But Sheila began to wonder how things would be if she got into Effie’s

black books. She fancied that her Aunt Cossart could be pretty severe

to anybody who offended or distressed her darling.

However, what was done could not be undone, and Sheila’s nature was

hopeful and elastic. She ran to the coachman, and begged him to have

Shamrock saddled for her, and laughed and shook her head when he

suggested that a groom should attend her.

“Oh, no, I always rode alone at home, if my father or Oscar could not

come with me,” she answered; “Shamrock is perfectly safe. I want to

explore the country. Some of the roads look quite pretty.”

She was soon mounted on her favourite, who expressed pleasure at

having her pretty mistress on her back once more. Sheila was equally

delighted, and rode gaily along the lanes, the sunshine throwing

dancing lights and shadows across her path. She followed one winding

lane after another, feeling joyfully the freedom of her independence,

after being so many days shut up in the house, with only an occasional

run into the garden; and she could hardly regret the little tiff with

Effie which had brought it about.

“I’ll ride down to the works and see Oscar!” cried Sheila, as she

paused upon the brow of a little hill, and saw the town and the

chimneys lying like a map before her. “I should like to see him at his

treadmill, poor boy; but he seems to like the work pretty well. He is

a good boy, and never complains. I should, I know, if I were in his

shoes.”

Sheila’s plan was put into speedy execution, and before long she had

ridden into the enclosure surrounded by her uncle’s buildings, and had

asked for her brother.

Oscar came out to her with a smile on his face but surprise in his eyes.

“Are you all alone, Sheila? How did you get leave to come?”

“I didn’t ask. Why should I? I just came. Effie was cross, and sent me

away, and I got Shamrock saddled, and here I am!”

“Oh, but I think you should have asked Aunt Cossart first! They say she

is very nervous about girls riding, and would never let them go alone.

Besides, through the town it isn’t perhaps quite usual. It’s not like

being at home, Sheila.”

“Oh, well, I hadn’t thought of going to the town when I started, Oscar,

so you needn’t look so solemn! Nobody knows I’m out; so Aunt Cossart

can’t be getting anxious. I want to see what you are doing, so that I

may picture you better.”

North came up at this moment, and had a kindly welcome for his young

cousin. He rather laughed at her independence, but was ready enough

to have her horse taken care of whilst she went to see Oscar’s

“treadmill,” and saw various interesting things at the works. Her

pretty appealing little ways amused him, and he was quite ready to

make something of a pet of her, as were most other people. She forgot

all her troubles, laughed, chatted, and talked to the work-people,

the clerks, and everybody she met, until finally a great bell booming

out overhead proclaimed the hour of one; and Sheila realised that she

should be late for luncheon.

Oscar put her up, and she started forth at a rapid pace, and covered

the two miles between the works and Cossart Place in very good time;

nevertheless she saw a visible commotion at the door as she cantered

up the drive, and was aware that both her aunt and uncle were on the

look-out, as well as several servants.

“Did they expect me to return on a shutter?” questioned the girl of

herself, with a feeling of mischievous glee. She was in good spirits

from her little jaunt, and was amazed by the agitated whiteness of her

aunt’s face, as she dismounted and ran up the steps into the hall.

“I’m sorry to be late; but I overlooked the time. I was at the works,

seeing Oscar and the people there. I hope you haven’t waited! Effie

sent me off to have a ride, and it’s so delightful having Shamrock

again! I did so enjoy it!”

Mrs. Cossart said not a word but turned again to the dining-room. The

servants were about, and she had no intention of saying what was in her

mind before them.

Mr. Cossart shook his head and said reprovingly—

“You have made us very seriously uneasy, Sheila. You ought not to have

gone off like that without leave—and alone, too. We want you to be

happy; but you must not be a modern unladylike girl, galloping alone

over the country, and into the town too. I hope nobody saw you who

would know you. What would they have thought of such proceedings?”

“I don’t know—probably nothing. I used to ride about everywhere at

home,” answered Sheila, feeling rather aggrieved at the way her very

small escapade was being treated. She took her seat at table; Effie’s

was vacant.

Mr. Cossart asked if she were not coming down. “Was she not so well

to-day?”

“Effie has been upset!” said Mrs. Cossart coldly. “She is not well

enough to come down!” And she gave a look at Sheila which sent the

blood into her cheeks. She knew very well that she was in disgrace;

but her spirit rose against what seemed to her to be injustice; and

she talked on gaily all through the meal, not apparently heeding the

silence of her elders.

When she rose from table her aunt summoned her to the little boudoir

sacred to her own use; and once within the door, the storm broke over

her head.

Mrs. Cossart did not profess to know what had passed between the

girls; but she knew that Sheila had said unkind things to Effie, and

had reduced her to tears and made her very unhappy and agitated. That

sort of thing could not and must not be. Effie was in no state to be

upset. Probably she would have a return of the asthma and a succession

of bad nights. Sheila must remember that ill-health was a terrible

trial, and she must be kindly and gentle and unselfish. In vain Sheila

strove to explain how very little it was she had said, and that she had

apologised afterwards. Mrs. Cossart was rather like her daughter in one

way; she liked to keep the ball of conversation in her own hands. She

wanted to talk, not to listen. In the end Sheila grew angry. She was

not used to being found fault with. She felt she was being unjustly

treated, about Effie, about her ride, about her lateness for lunch.

She had done nothing wrong. No harm had happened. It was horrid of her

aunt to make such a to-do. The penitence she had felt at the outset was

quickly gone, and when she finally flew up to her own room, it was to

shed a tempest of angry tears and resolve that she would never, never

care one bit for Effie, and that her aunt was a hard, unjust woman,

whom she could never care to please.

“I shall never be happy here, and I’ll tell Uncle Tom so. I’ll tell

Cyril how they treat me. I’ll get away and live somewhere with Oscar.

I’ve never been scolded so before, and I won’t stand it. If I’d done

wrong, I should be sorry, but to tell Effie she talked about herself

too much, and to take a ride on Shamrock!—no, I won’t be sorry about

that! I won’t, I won’t!”

She changed her dress, and began to wonder what she should do next.

It was dull all alone up here, though the room was bright and pretty

enough. She stood looking out of the window, and presently she saw

Cyril’s figure approaching the house by the short cut through the

garden. He had promised to come and see her soon, and surely this was

his expected visit. Sheila dashed the last teardrops away from her

eyes, caught up a bunch of violets and fastened them at her throat, and

looked carefully to see if she “looked as though she had been crying.”

She spent a few minutes removing all traces of tears from her face, and

by that time all anger had subsided, and she was ready to smile and

be herself again, though a little load lay upon the background of her

spirits. But no message came to her from Cyril, and she went restlessly

out into the passage, and along to the corridor of the modern wing.

Then she stood still and listened.

Effie’s door was close at hand, and it stood just ajar, though the

heavy curtain veiled the room. Sheila heard a sound of voices, and went

a step nearer. Yes, that was certainly Cyril’s voice, talking to Effie.

She bit her lip and stood hesitating. Should she go in, or should she

not? Had it not been for her aunt’s severe strictures she would never

have thought of staying away. She was lonely by herself. And she wanted

so much to see Cyril. Yes, she would go in. They could but send her

away if they did not want her.

The next moment she was within the room, standing a moment hesitating

on the threshold. Cyril was sitting beside Effie’s couch, talking

kindly to her as it seemed. Effie’s face looked as though a storm had

passed over it, but she was smiling at Cyril, and when both turned at

the slight sound of Sheila’s entrance she exclaimed quickly—

“Oh, come in. Cyril came to ask whether you got forgiven for being

late. Did you get a scolding? Mother was in a great state about your

riding alone, but I see you’ve got in all safe.”

“Of course I have,” answered Sheila laughing, with a shy little look at

Effie, as much as to ask if she had forgiven the plain speaking of the

morning.

(_To be continued._)

FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

Those who are interested in the protection of birds, and object to

their being killed to serve as mere ornaments for hats and bonnets,

will be glad to read from the _New York Times_ an account of the recent

inventions and changes brought about by the great demand for feathers

for the decoration of masculine headgear during the late war.

The trade in feathers amounts to many millions of pounds annually, and

the supply of the birds furnishing them is decreasing so rapidly, that

it was essential that substitutes should be found; and the American

inventor has proved himself equal to the occasion. The supply of

ostrich feathers from California is so ample that it has brought the

price of feathers down to a reasonable figure, but still not low enough

for the low prices that are asked for them. So there are plenty of

good ostrich feathers manufactured of celluloid, of which the quills

are made, while the barbs are of silk waste. These are so skilfully

dyed and curled that only an expert could distinguish them. Other

expensive feathers and plumes are made out of silk and cotton waste;

and enormous quantities of poultry feathers are utilised, and are so

exquisitely dyed and painted that these imitation plumes are more in

demand than the real ones of the wild birds. A remarkable machine has

been invented, and is in use for plucking the feathers from the dead

poultry, which strips them of their feathers in just half a minute.

Then the plucked feathers are passed rapidly along to another small

room, where a current of air sorts the very fine from the heavy ones;

and the very lightest and softest are used for pillows; but all the

others find some use in the millinery trade. This state of things has

made poultry quite wonderfully profitable.

[Illustration: TWO SPRING GOWNS.]

The first things I must mention are the white muslin, and white and

cream washing silk blouses, which seem to be quite as fashionable this

year as they were at any time during the last two years. They are made

this year chiefly with a very small bishop’s sleeve and a tiny cuff.

Tucks with lace insertion between them seem to be the style, when some

form of yoke is not chosen. This last way of making both dress bodices

and blouses is very evident in all the new models. The shape is narrow

and long, extending over the shoulders, and tucks are the most popular

decoration. Lace insertion is also seen on cambric and cotton shirts,

and I notice that vertical stripes are much used for all the cambric

ones. The muslin blouses have a fitted under-bodice of muslin, or

_batiste_ in colour, to wear underneath; and the skirt should be of

cashmere, to match this in colour. The neck and waist-band may be of

moire, or of satin, either to match the skirt, or in white. The latter,

however, is said to make the waist look large. In a sense, blouses are

not as fashionable as they were, for they are no longer seen in the

evening as they were. A pretty evening gown, with the bodice and skirt

alike, is more distinctly in the last mode.

In the way of dresses, everything just now seems to be of cloth, and

very fine ones are made up for evening dress. Many rows of stitching

seem to be the method of trimming most followed; and strappings

of the same cloth for day dresses. Cashmeres and figured mohairs,

gauzes, and plenty of new grenadines are in prominent view; the latter

are beautiful in their designs, floral patterns as well as stripes

being seen. Coloured silks will be more worn than black ones, as

under-dresses for them; and I hear that deep flounces will be the new

way of making up.

It has always been a funny thing to me to see the way in which men

will bravely attack the corset, and issue orders against it. These

attacks are made periodically, at intervals of about eight or ten

years; and all kinds of accusations are hurled against the offending

corsets during the assault. But, like Tennyson’s ever-quoted “Brook,”

they go on for ever. Here and there one may find some woman who has

dismissed them, but, as a general rule, women are not much affected

by the clamour. Lately two fresh attacks have been made, one by the

Russian Minister of Public Instruction, who, after paying many visits

to schools and gymnasia for girls, has decided that the corset is not

conducive to the health of its wearers. So he has issued an order

to the pupils of the higher schools and gymnasia, as well as to the

students at the Conservatories of music and art, prohibiting the

wearing of them, and with the order goes a long paper, in which are

the reasons for the prohibition. At the same time, on the other side

of the Atlantic, a brave assemblyman in Wisconsin, has introduced a

resolution into the State Legislature: “Resolved that three members be

appointed to form a committee to draft a bill to protect the health of

the misses, old maids, and married women of the State of Wisconsin,

by making a law to prohibit tight lacing.” Now, who is to find out

the tight lacers? One pities the police if they are to perform these

duties! And while I am mentioning this, I must not forget to chronicle

that the new spring makes of corsets are distinguished by straight

fronts, the chief shaping being done at the sides and hips.

The reign of the toque seems to be more secure this spring than ever.

Indeed, the bonnet, _pure et simple_, with strings, is nowhere, except

for very elderly people. _Plateaux_ of straw and crinoline are much

used to pinch into any becoming style; and all kinds of fancy straws

in every hue are prepared for toques. Many floral toques are seen,

and only one kind of flower is used to make them. It has been quite

remarkable this year how early the most summery-looking hats have been

worn. Rose-covered ones were seen as early as the beginning of March,

and plenty of white ones in the Park. All the new toques are full and

high in the front, with some scraggy-looking tips straying upwards; and

to many people they are not becoming, the essence of a toque being, I

think, the snugness and closeness of its fitting to the head.

In the way of colours for cloth costumes, I see all shades of grey,

stone and drab, petunia, and blue of several shades, but I should say

that greys are the most popular. Mauve toques and hats are really

becoming a kind of uniform; they are so much worn; and every second

woman wears violets.

It is said that all woollens will speedily become more expensive as

wool itself has gone up; the reason of which lies in the prolonged

drought of last year. Cotton is also said to be in the same case, and

from the same reason. Let us hope that this will not last long enough

to incommode us.

The two sitting figures in our illustration show the prevalent styles

of the present spring. The one on the left wears a gown of electric

blue, and a short jacket with rounded fronts. This and the narrow

flounces on the skirt are braided with black braid. The revers on the

jacket are of cream-coloured satin, covered with cream lace. On the

right hand, the other sitting figure wears a purple cloth dress, which

is scalloped with white; the front is of white cloth, with white lace

at the neck. The hat on the left is one of the newest ones, with a

square-topped crown, and the brims slightly turned up on both sides.

[Illustration: IN SHEPHERD’S PLAID.]

“In Shepherd’s Plaid” shows us one of the prettiest of this season’s

models, and so youthful-looking that it will be becoming and suitable

for quite a young girl. It is made of silk; the yoke of the bodice is

of deep rose-coloured silk, with _écru_ lace edging. At the top of the

sleeves are bands to match, and the rosy hue is repeated at the waist

and at the top of the flounces on the skirt, which are also trimmed

with two rows of black velvet. Black velvet rosette bows are on the

bodice. A small white hat is worn with white tulle trimmings and white

tips, and velvet bows under the brim. It will be seen that all the

dresses worn are slightly trained, and that fashion has banished the

comfortable short skirt which we have enjoyed for the past year. From

what I notice, however, some women are not disposed to leave it off so

easily, and I daresay we shall see it made for really useful gowns.

[Illustration: THE NEW BLACK VELVET JACKET.]

The new black velvet jacket is shown in our next illustration; made in

black velvet, very short—as all the new jackets are—and beautifully

cut and fitted. These little jackets have been so much the fashion in

Paris that we are sure to see many of them here, and very useful they

promise to be. The revers are of white satin, and a ruffle of chiffon

is worn round the neck. The toque is of white drawn tulle, with roses

and white ostrich tips. The second figure wears a grey cloth gown,

with a very short jacket, much pointed in the front, which is crossed

over, and fastens at the side. The bodice is rounded out in front, the

opening being filled in with lace and chiffon. The skirt and jacket

are machine-stitched in many rows, and have bows of ribbon velvet.

The hat is also a new shape, and is like the one in the first sketch,

but is rather more sloping in the crown. The shapes of the sleeves

at the wrist are fully shown. They are long and generally rounded,

so as to fall over the hands. These tulle and chiffon ruffles are

going, I think, to take the place of the feather ones which we have

worn for some time. They are so pretty that the pity is that they are

so perishable, especially in our grimy London. The tendency is so

much towards wearing white this year that our purses will be quite

depleted, if we are to follow the fashion, and keep ourselves daintily

clean on all occasions.

IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

BY RUTH LAMB.