The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1018, July 1, 1899
    
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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 1018, July 1, 1899

Author: Various

Release date: August 21, 2021 [eBook #66102]

Language: English

Credits: Susan Skinner, Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. XX, NO. 1018, JULY 1, 1899 ***




[Illustration: THE GLEANER.

_From the Painting in the Salon by JULES BRETON_]




[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1018.]      JULY 1, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

BY EDWARD OXENFORD.

[Illustration]

_All rights reserved._]


    They stand at twilight by the rippling ocean,
      A youth and maiden, as they plight their troth,
    And perfect faith and infinite devotion
      Have made their dwelling in the hearts of both.
    They will be wedded when his cruise is ended,
      “And that will not be long, love!” murmurs he;
    But whether lives shall be hereafter blended
      As yet remains a secret of the sea!

    Across the waters now his ship is sailing
      Erect and stately, for the wind is fair,
    And she who watches knows that love unfailing
      Is ever present with her dear one there!
    When from her sight his form at last is hidden,
      “It will not be for long, love!” murmurs she;
    But whether meeting hence shall be forbidden
      As yet remains a secret of the sea!

    The years pass onward, but no tidings reach her
      Of him who still is to her brave heart dear;
    But, hoping still, she prays that Hope may teach her
      To bear the burthen of her growing fear.
    She trusts to his last words, despairing never,
      “Your promise, love, you yet will keep to me!”
    But whether now his lips are hushed for ever
      Remains, untold, a secret of the sea!




THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.


CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER DOOR OPENS.

Why did Lucy Challoner start when she entered her own kitchen, well
knowing that a visitor was there, for whose presence she had given full
permission?

She started, because when one expects to see a moon-faced, shy youth,
with a shock of red hair, it does give one rather a shock to be
suddenly confronted by a tall jovial man of thirty, wearing a full
black beard!

What ought Lucy to have done? Perhaps she ought to have walked forward,
saying that this was not the person to whom she had made her kitchen
free, inquiring who he was, and bidding him go about his business.

But poor Lucy was not a business-like and self-confident mistress, and
she was so thoroughly disconcerted and taken aback that, with a single
exclamation of surprise, she beat a hasty retreat.

Upstairs in the dining-room she considered the position. She could hear
the voices in the kitchen. It seemed to her that there was smothered
laughter on the part of the man. She could hear Jane speak with a
defiant angry tone. Some kitchen utensils were moved sharply and
noisily, as by the hand of an offended person.

It was very clear that the carpenter sweetheart had been discarded, and
that this stranger had filled his place so promptly that Jane had not
thought it worth her while to go through any ceremony of transferring
his privileges. Of course she had known well enough that her mistress
would be no party to such a rapidly moving panorama of courtship. Or
was there any genuine courtship in the matter at all, or was the form
of a professed “engagement” the mask under which mere promiscuous
acquaintances were encouraged? Who was this man? Lucy could not but
remember his free laughter and loud talk on what had evidently been the
evening of his first appearance. Now when she had unwittingly surprised
him in her kitchen, he neither blenched nor offered the slightest
explanation or apology. As Lucy sat, reflective, she heard him laugh
again.

However, this evening he did not stay till the usual hour of nine, but
went off as soon as the spring twilight darkened into dusk—went off
with slamming of doors, and stamping of feet, and whistling, as he
mounted the area stairs.

Lucy lit her lamp. She resolved not to summon Jane to her presence, but
to wait till she brought the supper tray. Perhaps she wished to give
Jane an opportunity to come and offer some voluntary explanation and
apology. Perhaps she wished to calm her own nerves. Perhaps—and this is
the most probable—she deferred simply out of dread of a scene. Lucy had
always felt that Jane was an unknown quantity in the house, so she had
no prevision as to how the servant would act in any crisis.

The maid moved about the kitchen noisily. It was evident that supper
was to be served in very good time. If Lucy was afraid of Jane, Jane
was clearly not going to be afraid of her.

She came upstairs with a very firm step, and looked straight at her
mistress as she put down the tray. Lucy’s heart was beating very fast,
but she controlled her nerves enough to say with a perfectly even voice—

“Jane, I must ask you for some explanation about the change of your
weekly visitor, for——”

Jane interrupted her.

“Please, m’m,” she said, “there’s no need to ask me anything. I’ve come
to give you notice—to bid you suit yourself before this day month.
Ever since I’ve been here I’ve been thinking I’d like service in the
country—with some lady as is a lady, and doesn’t come a-poking her nose
into my kitchen when she knows I’ve got a friend there. I like a lady
as looks after her work at the proper time, not having to go out of a
morning to earn her bread. It’s not your fault, m’m, I dessay, but it
ain’t pleasant for a girl.”

In face of this impertinence, Lucy rallied her spirits and dignity.
Cost what such effort may afterwards, it is not at such moments that
any spirited woman fails or shrinks.

“Very well, Jane,” she said. “Under these circumstances, I need ask
you no questions. This spares me a painful task. But as your senior,
even but by a few years and a little experience, I trust that you will
deeply consider your ways. You have not treated me well. That may not
matter much now. But I fear that you are not acting in a way to secure
your own womanly respectability and happiness. If you seek a reference
from me, I shall have to tell any inquirer what has happened.”

“Very well, m’m. Please, m’m, you’ll remember it was me that gave you
notice.”

“I shall remember,” said Lucy. Not another word was exchanged.

The event gave Lucy a sleepless night, partly because it had excited
her beyond her ebbing strength, and partly because she could not help
forecasting ways and means with which to meet this fresh domestic
difficulty.

To live in the same house with somebody so flatly antagonistic
as she felt Jane intended to be, was a hard trial for a lonely
and over-strained woman. Lucy realised that Jane was capable of
insolence—that her outburst had not been a mere fit of temper, but
a revelation of the coarse, cruel nature seething beneath the dull
exterior. It might not have been wise, but if Lucy had been a free
woman, she would have paid Jane her wages and let her go at once, so
as to clear the atmosphere. But Lucy was not a free woman; she had her
engagements to fulfil, her work to do.

She had hoped to take advantage of the fine weather to take Hugh a
little out of town on Saturday afternoons, thus giving him fresh air
and enjoyment, and also snatching an opportunity to make a study or
a sketch. But now the four Saturday afternoons which would pass over
before Jane’s departure were all the leisure in which to seek a new
supply of domestic help. This “month” of Jane’s would bring Lucy to the
edge of the summer holidays at the Institute. Had all gone on right
with Jane, Lucy had meant to get her decent old charwoman to spend her
nights in the house and give the girl company and security, while she
and Hugh went down to Deal for two or three weeks. She had a secret
consciousness that she was “running down” in a way which needed both
the fresh sea breezes and the strong, calm presence of Jarvis May’s
brave widow. She had hoped to persuade Miss Latimer to make one of the
party. That lady herself would have respite from her one or two little
engagements, and she had not had a seaside holiday for two or three
years. Lucy meant to give the invitation as a favour to herself, since
Miss Latimer’s presence would ensure her the more leisure and freedom
for sketching. For in that seaside holiday she had hoped to lay in a
store of sketches—as many as she could possibly work up before the
darkening days of next winter would be brightened by Charlie’s return.

Now all these plans of hers must be knocked on the head! She tried to
be thankful that if she failed to secure satisfactory help during the
coming month, then the holidays would at least give her leisure to do
her own housework for awhile. She had accustomed herself to remember
that, as Jeremy Taylor tells us, every trial has two handles, or at
least that we have two hands, and that, when anything happens to our
displeasure, it is the part of a wise and submissive spirit to handle
it on that side in which we can find some comfort or use. But it seemed
to poor Lucy as if this “handle” was so slight that it was ready to
break in her trembling grasp. She knew that trials which loom large
in the mists of our own minds are sometimes wonderfully reduced in
magnitude if we can get them outside ourselves, and state them in plain
terms. So she tried to rally her courage and spirits by asking what was
this trouble, after all? She was simply parting from a servant whom she
had never liked, and who had proved herself to be a girl of low type.

That was how Lucy resolutely put it, and then it seemed little enough.
She would not let herself add that she was already worn out under the
awful anxiety of her husband’s illness, the strain of the separation,
the practical solitude, the unremitting duties which would allow of no
rest nor recreation. She left these in her sub-consciousness. When we
know that no hand but ours is on the helm, we can face anything except
the full realisation that we ourselves are stunned and reeling in the
storm.

It seemed to Lucy that as she and Miss Latimer were not to have their
holiday together at the seaside, the next best thing would be to
invite Miss Latimer to spend her holiday in the little house with the
verandah, so that they might at least enjoy each other’s society. Miss
Latimer accepted the invitation eagerly, adding the information that
she had got to leave the house in which she had been living, as the
family were quitting town.

“Come and stay with me, then, till you are comfortably suited
elsewhere,” Lucy wrote back in reply. “I wish I could ask you to stay
till Charlie returns. But it would give you too long a journey to your
pupils.”

Miss Latimer’s answer soon came.

“I gladly accept your invitation in its new extended form,” she said.
“I wish we could be together in this London which can make separation
so easy. I should not mind the length of the daily journey to my pupil,
but my income is too small to bear deduction of a railway fare.”

Lucy pondered over that letter. Sometimes when Hugh had gone to bed,
she sat in her parlour, too tired to work and sick with loneliness.
Why should not Miss Latimer stay with her, paying what she had paid
hitherto, less the railway fare? She wrote to Miss Latimer, making
this proposal, and saying, “Why not? Are we not sensible women?” Miss
Latimer came and talked it over, and decided to accept the plan; then
she and Lucy agreed that, as in this instance there was a breathing
spell before they were deprived of household help, they would try what
“advertisement” would do.

So Lucy put a very explicit advertisement into three daily papers,
which had columns both of “Situations Wanted,” and “Vacant.” Applicants
were to call “on Saturday afternoons only.” When the first Saturday
came, she gave Hugh his painting book with which to amuse himself, took
her needlework and sat expectant.

All that came to the house was repeated postman’s knocks. Every post
brought circulars—printed, typewritten or lithographed—from different
registry offices. But not one servant, suitable or the reverse, put in
appearance!

Lucy thought this experience must be special and peculiar. So she
resolved to repeat the process next week. At the same time, she thought
she had better take more active measures. Therefore she began to con
the columns of “Situations Wanted,” determined to write to every
advertiser whose statement of her capacities and requirements held out
any hope.

Lucy had often carelessly glanced over these columns in days gone by.
Then it had seemed only as if there were plenty of people “waiting to
be hired” for every purpose. She had felt quite sorry to think how much
hope deferred and disappointment must be involved. But when one came
to scan this newspaper page for an express purpose, it was wonderful
into what a small number the hopeful cases shrank! “General Servants”
in themselves were few enough, but even those who were so described all
added “where another is kept,” or “where boy cleans knives and boots.”
Lucy knew by experience that it was useless to approach these. There
were “lady-helps” by the score. Some of these were only prepared to
work “where there is a servant.” The others specially stated that they
would do “nothing menial.”

There were, however, two advertisers who described themselves as
“useful helps,” “well educated and highly recommended,” and who laid
down no conditions save concerning “a comfortable home” and a “salary”
not higher than the wages Mrs. Challoner was prepared to give. The
one, “Miss L.,” called herself thirty-two, and gave an address in a
suburb on the northern edge of London. The other described herself
as twenty-six, and gave her name as Miss F., Parsonage Cottage, in a
little town not very far away.

To both these addresses Lucy wrote. She detailed her own position,
and added that she would be anxious to make every concession to
give comfort and leisure to any well-educated woman whose household
co-operation she could secure. She particularly requested a prompt
reply in any case, and enclosed stamped and directed envelopes.

Day after day of the second week passed. No reply came from either
“Miss L.” or “Miss F.” Presently Lucy noticed that she received a
circular from a registry office, established in the country town from
which Miss F. had issued her advertisement. She also discovered that
both “Miss L.” and “Miss F.,” while apparently ignoring answers to
their advertisements, were still repeating those advertisements. Also
she found another advertisement word for word like “Miss L.’s,” but
this time requesting that answers should be directed to “Miss N.”
somewhere in the S.W. district.

“Surely things are not what they seem!” thought Lucy. She wrote again,
but much less sanguinely this time, to the one or two advertisers,
whose case seemed in the least likely to meet her requirements,
and began to wonder whether her own advertisements would bring any
applicants on the second Saturday.

But lo! on the Friday afternoon a prospect of relief opened up from a
wholly unexpected quarter.

Miss Latimer had gone out to tea.

As Lucy and Hugh, on their return from the Institute and the
Kindergarten turned hand in hand into Pelham Street, they saw a neat
brougham standing in front of the little house with the verandah.

Lucy knew at once what guest this was. The Challoners had only one
“carriage visitor,” and even she was not a “carriage person” in the
strictest sense. For a month every year, generally the month of
blossoming trees, picture galleries and distinguished strangers in
London, Mrs. Bray hired a brougham. As for the rest of the year, for
six months of it she never left her own house, for two months more she
and Mr. Bray went to Bath or Buxton or Harrogate, and for the remaining
three she limited herself to hobbling promenades in the Gardens near
her home, where she could lean on the arm of her faithful Rachel, or
indulge herself in the dissipation of a chair and a chairman.

In her “carriage month” the old lady put herself in step with the
latest ideas in fashion, art, and science, picked up one or two new
acquaintances to fill the gaps left by death among old friends, and
punctiliously returned every call which she had received during the
season of her seclusion or limitation.

“Here is Mrs. Bray come to see us, Hugh,” said Lucy. Whereupon the boy
joyously echoed “Mrs. Bray!” and set off at a canter. Lucy hastened
her steps after him. But as the child reached the little house with
the verandah, he did not rush at the door, or even pull the bell,
but turned aside to the brougham. It was evident that the object of
interest was still in its interior. Yes, there she was, Mrs. Bray
herself, throwing up her hands in delight on catching sight of Lucy.

“Oh, how fortunate that we should appear just as you arrived!” cried
Lucy.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes, my dear,” said the old lady. “Your
servant would not let me in; she said ‘the missis was awful partic’ler,
and she’d never had no words with her, except about lettin’ folks into
the house too easy.’” (Jane’s accent and grammar did not lose in Mrs.
Bray’s imitation.) “What harm she thought a poor limping, half-blind
old dame is likely to do, I don’t know. But it is clear that you’re an
awful dragon, my dear. I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”

Lucy had given Hugh the latch-key wherewith to open the door, and while
Mrs. Bray spoke, she was making her way into the hall, aided by Lucy’s
arm.

“This is very annoying,” said Lucy. “I leave you to imagine under what
circumstances I have been ‘partic’ler’ about ‘folks’ coming into the
house. I fear Jane has done this out of pure malice.”

“My dear, I thought so at once,” returned Mrs. Bray, “and I was
a perfect match for her; for I showed no annoyance, and I highly
commended you, saying that if all ladies were as prudent we should not
hear of half the robberies which take place.” Mrs. Bray gave a quick
little nod of triumphant self-satisfaction.

“And, my dear,” she went on, “that’s not the sort of girl for you to
have about your house. A creature who will turn her own misdemeanours
into nettles to sting you with, is capable of anything. She should be
at once sent off about her business.”

“She is going off about it,” answered Lucy. “The moment she knew she
had done something which I could not pass over in silence, she gave me
‘notice.’”

“Hoity-toity,” cried Mrs. Bray; “and I hope you’ve got somebody else,
and will be able to release her before her date?”

Lucy shook her head with a sad little smile. “But don’t let me talk
kitchen,” she said, “I want to hear your impressions of the Royal
Academy.”

“It’s been open for just a fortnight,” said Mrs. Bray, looking keenly
at her. “Of course, you’ve been? I know all about your bothering
Institute classes, but there was Saturday.”

“Last Saturday I had to stay indoors in hopes of interviewing
servants,” Lucy answered cheerfully, “and I shall have to do the same
to-morrow.”

“There now, my dear, you see that kitchen will come into our talk,”
returned Mrs. Bray, shaking a playful finger at her hostess. “You can’t
shut it out. It underlies all our living, and we ought to speak about
what really concerns and interests us. It is called underbred to shrink
from ‘talking shop,’ but after all it is the only talk worth engaging
in. You verify my words, my dear, for you wanted to turn from the
kitchen to pictures, that being ‘the shop’ you prefer. But the kitchen
comes first, my dear. At bottom, the pictures depend on the kitchen.
The greatest artists would tell you so, though they’ve left off
glorifying copper pots and carrots as the good old Dutch school used to
do.”

By this time Lucy had set out her little afternoon tea-tray, and had
summoned Jane to bring the kettle with boiling water. Everything else
she did herself, yet she was not too pre-occupied to be amused by her
visitor’s expression while the handmaid was in the room. It was the
expression of a person unwillingly in the presence of a noxious animal.
What pained and puzzled Lucy was, that this and Mrs. Bray’s earlier
diatribe seemed to have had a good effect upon Jane so far as making
her move more softly and speak more respectfully. It acted as all her
own justice, patience, and consideration had failed to do.

“A horrid girl,” was the lady’s comment as Jane departed.

“You see her at her very best,” remarked Lucy, with a constrained
little laugh. “You seem to have had a good effect on her. I must have
made some mistake in dealing with her.”

“She sees that I know her at her exact worth, or rather worthlessness,”
retorted the old lady, “and worthless people respect one for that at
least as much as the worthy do for one’s just appreciation. But don’t
distress yourself about your ‘mistakes,’ my dear. I’m only a visitor,
and you are that hateful thing, a mistress; that gives her a different
point of view. Above all, I come in a carriage, which, doubtless, she
thinks is my own. My dear, make up your mind to the fact that to the
common people ‘the real lady, whom it is a pleasure to serve,’ is the
woman with money—the woman who does nothing, but expects everybody to
wait upon her and to put her first. In their eyes, nobody who works for
her living is ‘a real lady.’”

“I don’t think we need attribute these things to the ‘common people,’”
said Lucy quietly. “I notice the same feeling among the mass of women
of my own class.”

Whatever the old lady had originally meant, she was too keen and alert
to deny the truth of Lucy’s proposition. She adroitly parried it.

“My dear, the common people form the mass of every class. There are
more of them in the lower classes simply because the lower classes are
the larger. Sometimes, too, the others are too cowardly to put their
creed into words, though they are faithful enough to it in deeds.
But of course I don’t know much about the young women of our class
nowadays. I thought you had changed all that, and that all of you were
running after ‘careers.’”

Lucy laughed. “I don’t think that makes any difference,” she said. “A
very plain distinction is generally drawn between the young woman who
selects a career for her pleasure and her ‘interest in life,’ and the
other who does the same thing for her livelihood.”

“And I daresay nobody emphasises that distinction more strongly than
some of your most advanced women,” said Mrs. Bray, whose searching
observation, despite her professed ignorance, had probably taught her
all that Lucy could tell her and a good deal more too. “So that’s
the present-day way of it, is it? Well, my way would be that every
girl should have her own father to give her a dowry suitable to her
position, and her own husband who would do all the rest. I suppose
that’s Utopia. We all have Utopias, and that’s mine. What does a woman
want with a career, except for a living? Her grandmother and her
great-grandmother (if she had any, poor dear!) found enough career in
making the most of what the gods—I mean the men—provided.”

“But even girls who don’t need a livelihood may find it hard to occupy
themselves,” Lucy mildly suggested. “It seems cruel to deny work to any
human being.”

“Perhaps so, my love, but it’s very mean of them to want to be provided
for as women and working women at one and the same time. Let them be
one or the other, whichever they choose; they’ve a right to freedom of
choice, but they ought not to be both. Why, to be so is to be the very
worst form of—what is it Mr. Bray calls the men whom labourers don’t
like?—black caps? No, blacklegs—yes, the very worst form of blackleg.
It’s not ladylike. But here am I, rattling away about all sorts of
women’s social questions (which are but branches from the kitchen after
all), and forgetting the kitchen itself. Do you know, my dear, the
minute you said that this hussy is leaving, it occurred to me that I
know somebody who can come in her place, who will probably suit you to
a T, and who will regard me as a special providence if I get her the
situation.”

“Oh, Mrs. Bray,” cried Lucy, “you make my heart leap with delight. This
is so unexpected. Surely it is too good to be true!”

(_To be continued._)




THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.


CHAPTER VII.

VISITORS FOR MARION.

The weather was now getting much warmer, the days were long and sunny,
and the evenings light until late; so the girls began to make certain
changes in their housekeeping arrangements. To begin with, the choral
society which they had been attending on Wednesday evenings all the
winter ceased in April, so they had late dinner every evening except
Saturday and Sunday. There was some talk of their joining a tennis
club; but both Jane and Ada were generally too tired to play after
their day’s work, and, as the prudent Marion pointed out, if they
joined a club it would mean that they would rush off to play directly
they came home for as long as it was light, and get no solid food until
past eight o’clock, when it would be too late to see about dinner.
Jane thought that this would not matter in the very least, as it would
soon be getting too hot for anyone to think of eating; but she was
over-ruled by her two elders, who insisted that, as none of them got a
solid meal in the middle of the day, it would be a fatal thing if the
one big meal were postponed altogether. So she was obliged to give in
and be content with what tennis she could get at friends’ houses on
Saturday afternoons. This was not very much, and she had a good long
walk to get it; but she thought it was better than nothing.

Early in May came a short note from Mrs. Holden to Marion.

        “May 6th.

    “MY DEAR MARION,—Are you ever at liberty to receive visitors, or
    are you perpetually busy? Do let me know if I may come over and see
    you next Saturday afternoon. I want to have a talk with you, and I
    have to come up to West Hampstead to look over some houses in your
    neighbourhood. I have written to a house agent for some addresses.
    Our neighbourhood here is getting so terribly built over, and it
    is too low down to suit Arthur, who suffers occasionally from
    bronchitis, so we are thinking of making a move in your direction,
    as Hampstead stands high. I shall be so glad to be near you, and I
    hope you will return the compliment.

    “Do not think I intend to worry you to go house-hunting with me,
    for I should not dream of allowing such a thing. Arthur is too busy
    to come over with me; but my brother Tom is home on leave just now.
    I forget if you ever saw him—I think he was at school when you used
    to stay with us. It will do him good to have some sensible domestic
    occupation such as house-hunting. So I shall come and have a
    delightful cosy chat with you on Saturday if you will have me, and
    he shall look over the houses whilst we are discussing the affairs
    of the State. (By the way, why did some scones I made last week
    come out of the oven _freckled_? Don’t forget to tell me.) Whilst
    we are discussing the affairs of the State, Master Tom can look
    over the houses and select the most suitable for me to inspect when
    you are tired of hearing me chatter.

        “In haste,
            “Yours ever,
                “MADGE HOLDEN.”

Marion laughed heartily over this letter, and read it out to the other
two.

“What does she mean?” asked Ada in a perplexed tone. “How can the
scones be freckled?”

“I have a vague recollection of something of the sort happening to
some of mine once,” said Jane; “but I have known so many accidents and
failures that I can’t possibly recollect them all. Oh, I know! How
stupid of me! Of course, the carbonate of soda and cream of tartar were
not properly mixed into the flour, and so wherever there was soda a
brown patch was the result, as it always makes things darker when used
alone.”

“Bravo, Jennie!” said Marion. “I shall tell Mrs. Holden that you will
write yourself and reveal the mystery of the scones. I am sorry you and
Ada will not see her and her brother as you are going to the concert.”

“Have you ever seen her brother Tom?” asked Ada.

“No, I don’t remember having done so. But I heard of a schoolboy
escapade of his years ago. His mother was entertaining visitors on a
dark winter afternoon just at dusk; they had rung for the gas to be
lighted, but the servant was a long time in coming. In the meantime
they were considerably startled by a light that kept flashing in at
the window and then disappearing. When everybody was well startled the
cause was discovered. Master Tom and some boon companions were at the
schoolroom window above amusing themselves by drawing a dark lantern up
and down. Hence the phenomenon.”

“How like a boy!” said Jane sedately.

On Saturday afternoon Mrs. Holden appeared, resplendent in a bonnet
made of primroses, and with her a tall, sunburnt young fellow, whom she
introduced as her brother, Tom Scott.

“But you must not stay, you know, Tom,” said the lively lady. “You
really must go and see about those houses, and we shall only bore you
with our domestic talk.”

Mr. Scott smiled languidly. He was ensconced in Jane’s own
particular rocking-chair and showed no disposition to move, but
looked appreciatively round the sunny little sitting-room and at his
bright-eyed little hostess, who sat by the work-table at the window
with a bunch of sweet-smelling spring flowers in a vase beside her.

“I find this climate so trying after India,” he remarked.

“Nonsense, Tom! Marion, he is too lazy for anything! How far is it to
Thornicroft Gardens?”

Marion said that it was only two streets away.

“We must have tennis,” said Mrs. Holden; “so, if the houses are nice,
one of those might do, as I understand the gardens at the back have
several courts. I am thankful Tom is an engineer: so if there is
anything radically wrong with the house he will detect it, so I have
not that responsibility! Now, Tom, do start off; and, if you are good,
Marion will give you some tea when you get back! Be quick!”

So off he went, and for the next half-hour Mrs. Holden poured her
domestic experiences into the ear of the sympathetic Marion.

“Tell me about calves’ heads,” she began eagerly.

“Whatever do you mean?” cried Marion, laughing. “You are like a child
asking for a story. ‘Tell me about fairies.’”

“Well, you know what I mean!” she said impatiently. “I want to know all
about them, how much they cost, and if it would be feasible to have
one, and if they are nice. But I won’t have one if the cook is likely
to make a hash of it!” she said energetically.

“Well, your cook might make a hash, and a very good hash too; but that
is no reason why you should not have one. You need only have half a
head, which will cost you about 3s. or 3s. 6d. Have it boiled the first
day and served with white sauce over and bacon round alternately with
slices of tongue, and hashed the second day.”

“But don’t you have to skin it, or do something like that first? I
read something about skinning it in my cookery-book, and it puzzled me
dreadfully.”

“All that is done at the butcher’s. It is as well to blanch the head
by putting it in boiling water, bringing the water to the boil, and
throwing it away. Then put it in a pan, with enough water to cover and
vegetables to flavour, and cook gently about two and a half hours.”

“That was just what I wanted to know. I understand about skinning the
tongue and cutting it in pieces to put round the dish; but what are you
to do with the brains?”

“Tie them in muslin and cook them for half an hour separately in water
or stock, divide in small pieces and put round the dish. Before you go
I will give you a nice recipe for hashing the remains. By the way, was
the dinner list of any use?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Here is this week’s then,” said Marion, as she went to her desk and,
opening it, gave the list to Mrs. Holden. “You see we have just been
having calf’s head ourselves.”


DINNER LIST.

_Sunday._

    Veal and Ham Pie.
    Salad.
    Citron Cream.
    (Supper.) Anchovy Eggs.

_Monday._

    Spring Stew.
    Gooseberry Fool.

_Tuesday._

    Lettuce Soup.
    Roast Leg of Lamb.
    Mint Sauce.
    New Potatoes.

_Wednesday._

    Cold Leg of Lamb.
    Salad.
    Swiss Roll.

_Thursday._

    Calf’s Head with White Sauce.
    Lemon Jelly.

_Friday._

    Hashed Calf’s Head.
    Cheesecakes.

_Saturday._

    Cod and Mayonnaise.
    Cucumber.
    Cold Sponge Cake Pudding.

“You see, we have cold dishes rather often now the weather is getting
warmer,” said Marion as Mrs. Holden put down the paper. “Here is the
food bill:—”

                                   £  s. d.

    1 lb. fillet of veal           0  1  0
    Half a ham, 3½ lbs.            0  2  4
    Leg of lamb (Australian)       0  3  1
    Half a calf’s head             0  2  9
    1¼ lb. neck of veal            0  1  0
    Cucumber                       0  0  4
    2½ lb. new potatoes            0  0  5
    3 lb. potatoes                 0  0  3
    2 lb. cod                      0  1  0
    Sponge cakes                   0  0  6
    Milk                           0  1  9
    Pint of gooseberries           0  0  3
    1-pint packet lemon jelly      0  0  4
    Small bottle olive oil         0  0  5½
    ½ lb. tea                      0  0 10
    1½ lb. butter at 1s. 4d        0  2  0
    ½ lb. loaf sugar               0  0  1¼
    2 lb. Demerara                 0  0  3½
    1 lb. fat, for rendering       0  0  2
    Fourteen eggs                  0  1  0
    Four lettuces                  0  0  8
    Eight loaves                   0  2  4
                                  ============
                                  £1  2 10¼
                                  ============

“By the way, I have made a discovery. Oh, I know it will be no news
to you; but I was proud of it, I assure you! It is, that there are
several quite cheap pieces of veal that one can buy—breast of veal, for
instance, and neck—for 8d. a pound. I always had looked upon veal as
quite dear. But I don’t know how to cook these joints. You can’t make
veal cutlet of them, can you?”

“No; they would not do for that. But the ‘Spring Stew’ that you see
there is a dish made of neck of veal, new potatoes, spring onions and
lettuce.”

“Many thanks. It is of no use trying to get my people to eat cold meat;
they simply won’t. Tom is so accustomed to the good cooking of his
native servants that he is a dreadful handful. I am so glad you taught
me how to make a good curry; that at least is always appreciated.”

“Is he graciously pleased to commend it?” asked Marion, laughing.

“Yes, indeed. He has a most extraordinary opinion of your talents, as
he said he did not know such a thing as a good curry was to be had in
England. Was that not rude? Now, I will not talk ‘cooking’ any more. Do
play me something. I see the piano is invitingly open. It is ever so
long since I heard you. Or will it tire you?”

“I am not tired at all,” said Marion, and went to the piano. “What
shall it be? Something calm and soothing, I suppose, and not at all
suggestive of domestic worries.”

So Marion played a delicious “Lullaby” of Rubinstein’s, and Mrs. Holden
lay back in the rocking-chair to listen—a graceful figure in blue.

“Thank you so much!” said a voice behind her as she finished.

Marion started slightly, and looked round to find that Mr. Scott had
come back again, and had been let in by Abigail without her noticing
the fact.

Mrs. Holden laughed mischievously.

“I have not had such a treat since I went to India,” said her brother.
“Pray do not stop. You don’t know how much I enjoy it,” and he sat
down prepared to listen to more.

So Marion played on. This time it was the “Spinn lied” from the “Lieder
ohne Worte.”

“Tom, you are positively improving,” said his sister critically, as she
finished and Abigail came in with the tea-things. “Just before you went
away, I remember taking you to a Saturday concert at St. James’s Hall,
and you annoyed me by coming out in the middle. Marion’s playing seems
to have worked a sort of charm.”

“Oh, nonsense, Madge, you must not give me such a bad character! I am
very fond of music really, Miss Thomas,” he said, turning to Marion;
“but I always prefer it at home. Somehow, a concert always makes me
feel very sleepy towards the end. I don’t know if it is the heat, or
what.”

“You ought not to mind the heat, surely,” she suggested, smiling.

He laughed.

“Well, at all events, it is not nearly so enjoyable.”

“Well, what about the house, Tom?” asked his sister, as she drank her
tea and ate Marion’s crisp little home-made cakes appreciatively.

“Green Lawn, in the next street but one, has just the number of
rooms you want. Everything about it seems all right, and there is an
excellent tennis lawn. Could you move by Lady Day?”

“Yes, I must. Did you see no others?”

“What was the good of looking at others until you had signified that
this would not do,” he remarked sagely.

“Marion, can you come and look at it with us?”

“Yes, certainly,” and she went to put on her hat.

“You need not stay longer if you want to be off,” said Mrs. Holden to
her brother when Marion had left the room. “We shall manage quite well
by ourselves. I know men don’t care for fussing about over houses, and
you said you wanted to go down to the club.”

He seemed to think the club could wait, for he made no haste to be off;
and soon Marion came in again, looking very charming in her pretty hat
with pink primulas.

So the three walked through the sunny streets to Green Lawn. It did not
take very long to look over the house, and Mrs. Holden was delighted
with it, and quite decided to take it if her husband liked it as well
as she did.

“So we shall soon be having you for neighbours, and how delightful that
will be, my dear! I only hope I shall not worry you by incessantly
running in to ask advice. I really must be self-denying, and not run
into the Rowans too often. Come and have dinner with me next week and
talk it all over. Which day can you come? Come next Thursday if you
can. You don’t mind coming so far now the evenings are so light, do
you? Tom can see you home.”

Marion protested that she was quite equal to seeing herself home; but
Mrs. Holden insisted, and so it was arranged. By this time they had
arrived at the station from which Marion’s friends were going back to
Camberwell, so they said good-bye.

When she got home, she remembered that Mrs. Holden had not got the
recipe that had been promised; so she wrote it out at once and posted
it to her lest she should want to use it before they met next Thursday.

_Hashed Calf’s Head._—Cut the remains of a cooked calf’s head into
neat pieces. Chop a large onion and cook it in three tablespoonfuls
of vinegar for ten minutes; add a dessertspoonful of Chutney and two
tablespoonfuls of flour mixed with a gill of cold stock. Stir until it
boils, stir in a pint of the stock in which the head was cooked; season
well and colour with browning. Put in the slices of head, and simmer
very gently for half an hour.

(_To be continued._)




FRUIT PUDDINGS.

By the Author of “Summer Puddings,” “Savouries,” etc.


So many people get tired of the ordinary way of serving fruit simply
stewed or as a tart, that I hope the following collection of recipes
of different and dainty ways of utilising fruit may be used to vary
somewhat the monotony of a wholesome article of diet.

_Apple Pudding._—Six apples peeled and cut up in pieces, one quince,
half a teacupful of water, two tablespoonfuls of sugar, the rind of
half a lemon, one teaspoonful of lemon juice and a piece of butter the
size of an egg. Put all into an enamelled pan and stew to a soft pulp
and rub through a sieve. If the apples have been cooked very soft and
are free from lumps, then it is not necessary to put them through a
sieve.

Into the pulp stir three eggs, well beaten, a quarter of a pound
of stale bread or cake crumbs grated, a dash of nutmeg, and two
tablespoonfuls of milk. Pour into a tin mould previously well buttered
inside and dusted with crumbs and bake in a good oven for quite an
hour, turn out and serve with fine sugar over the top.

_Apple Soufflé._—Butter the outside of a pie-dish and cover with pastry
made as follows—

Six ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, two teaspoonfuls of sugar,
and the yolk of an egg. Rub butter, sugar, and flour together, then
mix to a paste with the beaten yolk and a little water. Roll out in
the usual way, cut to the size of your dish, cover, and put into a
good oven to bake, and slip off, and then you have a dish of paste.
Meanwhile peel and core one and a half pounds of apples, and stew them
with a quarter of a pound of sugar and juice and grated rind of half a
lemon till quite soft; then stir in half-a-dozen ratafia biscuits and
a penny sponge cake crumbled down, the yolks of two eggs and a drop of
water. Cook on the fire again for a minute or two, then pour into the
pastry-dish and spread over the top the whites of the three eggs beaten
to a stiff froth with a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, dust sugar on
the top and ornament with ratafia biscuits and preserved cherries to
taste, then place in a nearly cold oven to slightly brown.

_Apple Fritters._—Make a batter of a pint of milk, two well-beaten
eggs, and flour enough to make a thick batter. Pare, core, and chop up
into small pieces six apples, mix into the batter and fry in spoonfuls
in boiling lard deep enough to cover the fritters. Fritters can also be
made by slicing pared and cored apples, dipping them into thick pancake
batter and frying them in butter.

_Apple Dumplings._—Six apples pared and cored, six ounces of dripping,
one pound of flour, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one quarter of a
teaspoonful of salt, two ounces of sugar.

Put flour, powder, and salt in a basin, rub in the dripping lightly,
then make into a stiff paste with water. Divide into six pieces, roll
out and place an apple on each, fill up cores with sugar and work paste
round each apple till covered, brush over with milk, place on a greased
tin and bake from half an hour to three-quarters.

_Apple Meringue._—Stew six apples pared and cored till soft, then stir
in a small piece of butter. When cold add a cup of grated bread-crumbs,
the yolks of two eggs, a tip of salt, sugar to taste, and a small cup
of milk.

Butter a dinner plate, cover it with short crust or puff paste, make a
fancy border, and bake till done. In the middle pour the apple batter,
and heat up. Take the whites of the eggs, beat stiff with half a teacup
of fine sugar and a few drops of essence of lemon, pile on the top of
apples to cover them, place in oven to set but not to brown. Sprinkle
pink sugar over the top and serve hot or cold.

_Apple Pudding_ (American).—One quart of milk, four eggs, three cupfuls
of chopped apples, the juice of a lemon and half the grated rind,
nutmeg to taste and a pinch of cinnamon, one quarter of a teaspoonful
of carbonate of soda dissolved in a little vinegar, flour enough to
make a stiff batter. Beat the yolks of the eggs very light, add the
milk and seasoning, then the flour; stir hard for five minutes, then
beat in the apples, then the whites of the eggs beaten to a stiff
froth, and lastly mix the soda well in. Bake in two square shallow
tins, buttered, for one hour. Cover with a buttered paper when half
done to prevent it hardening. Eaten hot with a sweet sauce.

_Apple Meringue Pudding._—One pint of stewed apples, three eggs (yolks
and whites beaten separately), a half cupful of fine sugar and one
dessertspoonful of butter, one teaspoonful of nutmeg and cinnamon
mixed, one teaspoonful of lemon juice. Add sugar, spices, butter and
yolks to the apples while hot, pour into a buttered dish and bake for
ten minutes. Cover while still in the oven with a meringue made of the
stiffly-beaten whites, two tablespoonfuls of castor sugar and a little
almond essence. Spread it smoothly and quickly, close the oven again
and brown slightly. Eat cold with cream and sugar.

_Apple Omelette._—Six apples, one tablespoonful of butter, nutmeg to
taste, and a teaspoonful of rose-water.

Stew the apples as for sauce, beat them smooth while hot, adding the
butter, sugar and nutmeg. When perfectly cold put in the yolks beaten
well, then the rose-water, and lastly the whites whipped stiff; pour
into a warmed and buttered pie-dish. Bake in a moderate oven till
delicately browned.

_Brown Betty._—One cupful of bread-crumbs, two cups of sour chopped
apples, half a cupful of sugar, a teaspoonful of cinnamon, and two
tablespoonfuls of butter chopped into small bits.

Butter a deep pie-dish, put a layer of apples at the bottom, sprinkle
with sugar, cinnamon and pieces of butter, then crumbs, then another
layer of apples, sugar, and so on till the dish is full, having
crumbs on the top. Cover closely and bake in a moderate oven for
three-quarters of an hour, then uncover, sprinkle with a little sugar
and brown quickly.

_Apple Batter Pudding._—One pint of rich milk, two cups of flour,
four eggs, a teaspoonful of salt, a quarter of a teaspoonful of soda
dissolved in hot water.

Peel and core eight apples, and arrange them closely together in a
pie-dish. Beat the above batter till light and pour it over the apples
and bake for one hour in a good oven. Unless the apples are very sweet,
the cores should be filled up with sugar.

_Apples and Tapioca._—One teacupful of tapioca, six juicy sweet apples,
a quart of water and some salt.

Soak the tapioca in three cups of lukewarm water in a pan, put the pan
back on the range and let it just keep warm for several hours till the
tapioca becomes a clear jelly. Peel, core, and pack the apples together
in a dish, fill the centres with sugar, cover and steam in the oven,
then put the tip of salt into the tapioca, and pour it over the apples,
return to the oven and leave till quite cooked—about an hour. Serve
with cream. If there is any objection to the appearance of the pudding,
then a beaten white of egg can be spread over it just before removing
from the oven.

_German Apple Tart._—One and three-quarter pounds of apples, quarter of
a pound of dates.

Peel, core, and cut the apples into small pieces, stone and quarter the
dates, and put them in a pan with a very little water and stew till
soft. Then stir in two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one ounce of butter,
one teaspoonful of ground cinnamon, half a teaspoonful of ginger. Beat
smooth, then turn out to cool.

Make a short crust of half a pound of flour, two ounces of castor
sugar, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, a small teaspoonful of baking
powder, and a quarter of a pound of butter. Rub all together and work
into a dough with the yolk of one egg and half a teacup of milk. Divide
the dough into three pieces, roll out for bottom and sides a little
thicker than the piece for the top. Line tin, fill up with the apple
mixture, smooth on top, then lay third piece of crust over it, pinching
the edge to the side crust, then bake in a moderate oven for half an
hour. Beat the white of the egg to a stiff froth, sift in two ounces of
castor sugar, a drop or two of lemon juice, and then spread evenly on
top of the tart when nearly cool, and leave to set.

_Apple Mould._—One and a half pounds of apples, pare, core, and cut in
quarters, put in a pan with half a pound of sugar and four ounces of
butter. Stew till soft, but keep the pieces whole, lift them on to a
sieve and let the syrup run into a dish. Butter a pudding-dish, line
it with thin fingers of bread, lay in the pieces of apple, cover with
slices of bread, brush over with egg, pour over some syrup, and bake in
a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour. Turn out and serve with
sauce.

_Apple Charlotte._—One and a half pounds of apples, peel, core, and
cut up, and put on to stew with very little water and three ounces of
sugar. When soft rub through a sieve, then put back into the pan, add
four ounces more sugar and simmer till thick, taking care not to let
the pulp burn.

Cut some stale bread into fingers, dip into melted butter, and arrange
them round a well-buttered pudding mould, lapping one edge over the
other and pressing firmly down, cover the bottom with rounds of bread
in the same way, shake in some bread-crumbs, fill up with the apples,
place more rounds of bread on the top, put into the oven and bake for
an hour. Turn on to a dish, let it stand a few minutes, then draw
off the mould and dust sugar over. By allowing the mould to remain a
little, there is less danger of it sticking.

Before leaving the recipes for apples, I would like to give an
excellent way of stewing. Pare the apples, quarter them, take out the
cores, and cut the quarters into thin slices, then put them into a pan,
put sugar over them to taste, shake it down through the fruit, then put
a piece of white paper over, tucking it well round the edges to keep in
the steam, then put on the lid, and set the pan at the side of the fire
and shake occasionally till it heats.

The steam generated by the moisture of the apples is quite enough to
prevent burning, and if care is taken in shaking the pan well there
is no fear of burning. Stew slowly till soft. By using no water, the
flavour of the fruit is much finer and the apples become a clear jelly
and are most delicious to taste.

_Gooseberry Fool._—Take a quart of green gooseberries, put them, after
topping and tailing them, into a pan with four ounces of loaf sugar
and stew them as directed for the apples—without water. When soft, rub
them through a sieve, and then stir into the purée half a pint of thick
cream, stir all together, add more sugar if required, then when cold
pour into a crystal dish. Garnish with whipped cream on the top.

_Gooseberry Pudding._—One pint of nearly ripe gooseberries, six slices
of stale bread toasted, one cupful of milk, half a cupful of sugar, and
one tablespoonful of melted butter. Stew the gooseberries very slowly
so as not to break them. Cut your bread to fit your pudding-dish, toast
the pieces, then dip while hot into the milk, then spread with butter,
and cover the bottom of the dish with some of the pieces; put next a
layer of the cooked gooseberries, sprinkle with sugar, then put more
toast, more fruit and sugar, and so on till the dish is full. Cover
closely and steam in a moderate oven for half an hour. Turn out and
pour a sauce over it or eat with cream.

_Gooseberry Flummery._—Take six ounces of rice and wash it, then put it
into a pan with two pints of milk, and let it cook slowly till it gets
soft and thick, then add two ounces of sugar and stir well. Let it get
cold, then butter or oil a mould and cover the inside with a layer of
the rice about an inch thick, leaving the inside empty till the rice
sets. Then fill up with gooseberries stewed thick and soft with sugar
and no water, and let it stand till quite stiff and cold. Turn upside
down carefully—just before serving a little time—and draw off the mould
carefully so as not to break the rice. This can also be steamed after
putting in the fruit and served hot with custard sauce.

_Flummery of Currants._—Take two pints of red currants, squeeze
them and take the juice, add a little raspberry juice, and add
three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar and six ounces of rice flour to
it; cook all over the fire and stir continually. Boil for five minutes,
then pour into a mould which has been dipped in cold water. Let it
stand till cold and set, then turn out.

_Raspberry Mould._—Have a mould—a plain one—or a small bowl lined with
strips of stale bread, packing them closely together. Then have some
raspberries stewed with enough sugar to sweeten them, pour into the
mould, cover the top over with fingers of bread, seeing that the mould
is quite full, put a plate or saucer on the top with a weight on it and
set away till cold. Then turn out. This is all the better for being
made the day before it is required so as to give it time to soak up
all the juice into the bread; then it is a pretty pink shape. Any kind
of fruit—juicy—can be used in this way, but raspberries or red currants
are the nicest.

_Lemon Pudding._—Take two tablespoonfuls of cornflour and wet it with
a little cold water, then add boiling water to make a thick starch,
add five spoonfuls of sugar, the juice and grated rind of two lemons
and the yolks of two eggs well beaten. Pour into a dish and bake for
ten minutes, then heap the stiffly-beaten whites on the top, dust with
sugar and brown very lightly in the oven for a few minutes.

_Compôte of Oranges._—Pare the rind of three large oranges, cut the
fruit across into halves, removing the pips and white skin and pile the
fruit in a glass dish. Boil the thin rind with half a pint of water
and six ounces of loaf sugar, till the syrup is clear and thick, then
strain it over the fruit. Garnish with little spoonfuls of whipped
cream.

_Pear Meringue._—Take a dozen and a half pears, peel them and put into
a pan with sugar and a very little water and stew till tender, but
avoid breaking them. Lift them carefully and arrange them neatly in a
glass dish. Boil up the syrup with more sugar till thickish, add a drop
or two of cochineal—pear syrup is always rather a dull colour without
it—and pour over the fruit. Take the whites of three eggs and whip them
very stiff, add six spoonfuls of castor sugar, spread roughly over the
pears and brown slightly in the oven or with a salamander.

_Rhubarb Cheesecake._—Stew a bunch of green rhubarb till soft, then
beat it smooth with a fork, draining nearly all the syrup away. Add
to the pulp the juice of two lemons, grated rind of one, a scrape of
nutmeg—if liked—and sugar to taste, then add three well-beaten eggs.
Have a pie-dish lined with pastry—or a deep plate will do—pour in the
mixture and bake in a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour.
Serve cold.

_Prune Pudding._—Half a pound of prunes. Stew till soft, then remove
the stones and add sugar to taste, then the whites of four eggs beaten
stiff, put into a dish and bake to a pale brown.

_Orange Fool._—Juice of four sweet oranges, three eggs well beaten, one
pint of cream, sugar to taste, and a very little cinnamon and nutmeg.

Put all into a pan and set it on the fire till the mixture is as thick
as melted butter, keep stirring, but do not let it boil, then when a
little cool pour into a glass dish. Serve cold.

_Queen’s Mould._—Skin and cut into small pieces enough young rhubarb to
fill a quart measure, put into an enamelled pan with one and a quarter
pounds of sugar, the grated rind and juice of half a lemon, and twelve
almonds blanched and chopped; boil fast and skin and stir till all is
a rich marmalade, then add half an ounce of gelatine dissolved in two
tablespoonfuls of boiling water. Rub a mould with oil, pour in the
rhubarb, and set aside to cool and set. Turn out and serve with cream.

_Rhubarb Scone Pudding._—Make a plain paste of half a pound of flour,
two ounces of butter, a dessertspoonful of castor sugar, a pinch of
salt, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar, half a teaspoonful of baking
soda. Rub all together, then add enough sweet milk to make a nice firm
paste, roll out the size of a dinner plate, butter the plate, lay the
paste on and ornament the edge, and bake in a moderate oven till done.
Fill the middle with stewed rhubarb—any stewed fruit is good—cover with
the whites of two eggs beaten stiff, dust the top thickly with castor
sugar and return to the oven to let it get a pale brown.

    CONSTANCE.




[Illustration: ROSES.

    [_From photo: Photographic Union, Munich._]




LAST YEAR’S ROSES.

BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.


[Illustration]

    They are only last year’s roses
      In my mother’s china jar,
    But their faint and subtle fragrance
      Wafts me back to days afar;
    And I shut my eyes a moment,
      And I see my mother pace
    Up and down the garden borders
      With her stately old-world grace,
    While she plucks the perfumed petals
      Beds of glowing bloom among—
    Oh, the roses, those sweet roses,
      That I knew when I was young!

    They are only last year’s roses
      In the old blue china jar,
    But I hear my mother singing
      Songs I loved in days afar:
    Yes, you sing amongst your roses,
      And I grant them fresh and fair,
    But they are not quite so fragrant
      As those old-world roses were;
    And your songs are not as sweet, dear,
      As the songs my mother sung,
    And you cannot make pot-pourri
      As they used—when I was young!




AN ALBUM OF BIBLE PLANTS.


It occurred to me some years ago that, out of the five or six hundred
trees and plants mentioned in the Bible, the leaves of a large
proportion of them might easily be obtained, dried and arranged in
an album, and that such a collection might be made of great use in
teaching Scripture, illustrating the meaning of various texts and
throwing a light on obscure passages.

My album of Bible trees and plants is often in request. I have found
great pleasure in collecting the various specimens, and am still hoping
to secure other trees to complete the book.

At first one is apt to think that only eastern travellers can obtain
the requisite leaves, but a little reading and Bible study will
convince us that very many Scripture trees and plants are quite common
and easily obtainable by anyone living in the country. I subjoin a list
with which we may begin our book.

Almond (Eccles. xii. 5); apple (Cant. ii. 3); ash (Is. xliv. 14);
barley (Ruth i. 22); bay-tree (Ps. xxxvii. 35); box-tree (Is. xli. 19);
bramble (Jud. ix. 14); briar (Mic. vii. 4); chestnut (Gen. xxx. 37);
corn (Num. xviii. 27); elm (Hos. iv. 13); fig-tree (Hab. iii. 17); flax
(Ex. ix. 31); hazel (Gen. xxx. 37); heath (Jer. xvii. 6); mint (St.
Luke xi. 42); mulberry (2 Sam. v. 24); mustard (St. Luke xvii. 6);
myrtle (Is. lv. 13); nettle (Is. xxxiv. 13); oak (Gen. xxxv. 8); poplar
(Gen. xxx. 37); rose (Is. xxxv. 1); rue (St. Luke xi. 42); thistle
(Hos. x. 8); vine (Ps. lxxx. 8); wheat (Ex. ix. 32); willow (Lev.
xxiii. 40).

A perfect leaf or spray of each tree should be laid between sheets of
blotting-paper under a heavy weight, the paper being dried daily till
the specimen is fit for insertion in the book.

The album may be of any shape we please, but about twelve inches by ten
is a convenient size and shape for the purpose.

When the leaf is fixed upon the page the Latin and English name
should be written beneath it and the Bible texts in which the tree is
mentioned.

I find strips of gummed paper hold the leaves most securely, and
instead of using stamp paper, which is too thin for the purpose, I
cover a sheet of notepaper with thick gum and allow it to become quite
dry; it is then ready for use and affords a large supply of tiny strips.

Besides the texts I like to add all I can learn as to the history and
uses of the various trees and plants.

Here, for instance, is what I have said about the myrtle.

“A plant originally brought from Western Asia but found wild as far as
Afghanistan.

“Among the ancients the myrtle was sacred to Venus; wreaths of it were
worn by the victors in the Olympic Games and by Athenian magistrates.
It was used in medicine, in cookery, and by the Tuscans in the
preparation of myrtle wine, called Myrtidanum, for which purpose it
is still employed. It is, however, chiefly used in perfumery, and a
highly-scented astringent water called Eau d’Ange is distilled from its
flowers. The berries have a sweetish, powerfully aromatic taste, and
are eaten in a fresh state or dried as a condiment.

“The wood is very hard and beautifully veined.”

This account I compiled and wrote in my album about twenty-six years
ago; perhaps at the present time many interesting facts about the
myrtle might be added.

I have as yet only spoken of the trees and plants of easy attainment
for our Scripture album.

The more interesting specimens such as carob-tree, olive, pomegranate,
palm, oleander and others we may have to wait for, but with a little
thought and patience we may probably obtain even these.

If we happen to know any friends who are going to the South of France
for the winter, they could easily dry some sprays of the plants I
have mentioned, and bring them to us in due time. If we have not this
possibility, then in some florist’s greenhouse we may probably meet
with oleander and palm, and we may grow our own carob-trees by sowing
the seeds in pots, and, sheltered indoors from frosts, they will
germinate and in time produce leaves large enough for the album. The
carob is not mentioned by name in the Bible, but it is a Palestine
tree, and yields the long, brown pods which were the “husks that the
swine did eat” in the parable of the Prodigal Son; they are also
believed to have been the “locusts” which, combined with “wild honey,”
sustained John the Baptist in the wilderness, hence they are often
called St. John’s bread. If we desire to buy the pods, they may be
obtained at most corn-dealers under the name of “locusts.”

Another interesting fact about the carob is this, that the brown hard
seeds used to be the weights jewellers employed for weighing gold,
silver, and precious stones; hence the term “carat” with which we are
familiar.

The long curved pods are eaten, when fresh, by the poorer inhabitants
of Palestine; they are sweet and nourishing.

The oleander is not mentioned in the Bible, but it grows so abundantly
on the shores of the Lake of Galilee that it has some claim to be
admitted into our collection.

We may grow our own date plants if we will; the seeds germinate very
freely at any season if kept warm and in moist soil. The leaf does not
divide into leaflets and become a true palm leaf until the plant is
five or six years old. If we desire a small palm leaf that will at once
fit into our book, any florist will be able to supply a spray of _Cocos
veitchii_, a small and delicate species just fitted for the purpose.

These hints will enable anyone to form a Bible plant album, and many a
pleasant and profitable hour may be spent in reading about each tree,
and the passages in Scripture where they are mentioned are invested
with a deeper interest from our knowledge of many facts which otherwise
would have passed unnoticed.

    E. B.




NOCTURNE.

FOR PIANOFORTE.

MATTHEW HALE.


[Music]




SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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


CHAPTER XIII.

MATERNAL DISPLEASURE.

“Where is Sheila, Effie?”

“Gone for a ride along the New Road with Lady Dumaresq and her
brother,” answered Effie with a slight toss of the head.

Mrs. Cossart looked annoyed.

“She had no business to go without my permission.”

“Much Sheila cares for that!” snorted Effie; but then with perhaps
a better impulse she added, “Well, you were out, you know. And Lady
Dumaresq sent up to ask her, and they had ordered a horse for her. I
suppose she couldn’t very well have refused. She seems to belong more
to them than to us.”

Mrs. Cossart’s ordinarily placid face darkened; that was exactly her
own feeling, and she did not like it. The Dumaresqs were undeniably
the “best” people at the hotel. The mother had arranged to spend this
winter in Madeira partly that Effie might have the opportunity of
making friends on equal terms with persons of a higher social standing
than were attainable at home. It had even passed through her mind that
Ronald Dumaresq would be a good match for her daughter. Hitherto she
had never thought of Effie’s leaving her, but something the last doctor
had said had put the notion into her head.

“Take her away and throw her with a lot of strangers. Let her mix with
other people and get fresh interests. She has been too much shut up and
thrown upon herself. Her nerves want bracing, and there is nothing like
change of scene and companionship for that. You say she has never had a
‘disappointment,’ so much the better. She may find the right man for a
husband one of these days, and in some respects that would be the best
thing possible.”

So Mrs. Cossart, for the first time in her life, was rather disposed to
make schemes for her daughter’s matrimonial settlement.

“Didn’t they ask you too?” she asked. “It would only have been polite.”

Effie made her little defiant gesture with head and shoulders.

“I don’t think grand people who are thought so much of are very polite.
I suppose they think themselves too grand. Besides, they know I don’t
like the horses here. But don’t you trouble about me, mother. I am
all right. I don’t want a lot of strangers to run after. I don’t care
to make myself cheap, like Sheila. I am quite happy with my books and
work up here, and the garden to walk in. I never was one for always
gadding. I think it’s charming to sit here in the sunshine and watch
the sea. I get tired of all the silly babble that amuses Sheila. It’s
more interesting to think one’s own thoughts. I have lots of thoughts.
Perhaps I shall write them down some day when I’m stronger. I shouldn’t
like to be always hanging on to other people. I’m not made like that.”

“Yes, I am afraid Sheila is very forward; I shall have to put a stop
to her goings on, I think. People are beginning to talk about her. She
was brought to be a companion for you, and she is always off with other
people.”

“Oh, don’t think I want her,” cried Effie, laughing. “I get quite
enough of her as it is, I assure you! We are good enough friends, but
Sheila has such a shallow mind. I get tired of her. I like to go deeper
into things; but when I talk she always either laughs or goes rattling
off about some tennis match or cricket, or picnic. I can’t make things
like that the aim and object of my existence.”

“But we want you to get out and see people, dear.”

“Oh, yes, and so I do; and perhaps there will be some more people
by-and-by whom I shall like better. But I was rather glad to be rid of
Sheila this afternoon, as it happens; for the two Miss Murchisons are
coming to tea. I always enjoy them most alone. We like the same things,
and Sheila doesn’t. She spoils it by making nonsense of everything.”

Mrs. Cossart did not reply; she had never opposed her daughter in any
of her plans, and did not like to begin now; but as a matter of fact
the two Miss Murchisons were by no means the companions she would have
selected for her. They were pleasant girls enough, but their father was
a tradesman in Leeds in a good way of business; and though everybody
in the hotel was kind and civil to them, they were not in the swim in
any sense of the word. One of the pair was delicate, and perhaps that
had formed a bond. She could not play tennis, or go down in the evening
to play in the billiard-room, or scramble up the steep roads either on
foot or on horseback. Anyhow, Effie had taken a fancy to these girls,
and would have them to her rooms, or go to theirs and spend hours in
talking. Mrs. Cossart got an impression that they mutually told each
other every detail of their respective illnesses, and all they had gone
through; and she was beginning to understand that that sort of talk
was bad for Effie; yet having herself encouraged it for so many years,
she found it very difficult either to break herself of the habit or to
break it in Effie.

The guests, in fact, appeared almost before there was time for more
words, and Effie visibly brightened. Mrs. Cossart lingered awhile
listening to the talk; but presently she betook herself to the garden
to find her husband, who was greatly enjoying the easy life in the
exquisite climate, where it was never cold and seldom too hot, and
where he could sit out in sunshine or shade with his paper and pipe
from morning to night, enjoying interludes of talk and friendly gossip
with other elderly gentlemen of like tastes and habits.

They wandered about a little and finally betook themselves to the level
garden outside the front door, and before long there was a clatter
of horse-hoofs, and the riding party returned. Sheila, as usual, was
bubbling over with fun, and her gay laugh rang out again and again as
she dismounted and came along with Ronald in attendance.

“Thank you so much, Lady Dumaresq, it has been a delightful ride!” she
cried, turning back towards their companion who was bringing up the
rear more slowly. “What dear, little, plucky horses they are, though
they do pull! They do like to get off the cobbles on to a proper road.
And what a funny little village that is at the end of the road! Didn’t
the people look wild and queer?”

“I believe they are rather a wild lot,” answered Lady Dumaresq,
smiling; “but you must be thirsty, little girl. Come with us and have
some tea. Guy and Aunt Mary are sure to have it all ready for us.” Then
seeing Mrs. Cossart she added, with one of her gracious smiles, “You
will let us give the baby her tea, will you not, since we have ridden
her so hard?”

“Thank you, you are very kind,” answered Mrs. Cossart, rather stiffly,
for she never could get used to what she called “grand people,” though
she longed to be friendly with them, and was secretly pleased when
Lady Dumaresq spoke to her in presence of other guests. But why was it
Sheila whom these people had taken up, making a pet and baby of her,
and encouraging her in all her little spoilt-child ways? If it had only
been Effie now, the mother would have been brimming over with delight;
but Sheila was quite spoiled enough as it was; it was a thousand pities
she should be made so much of here.

Effie was able now to appear at luncheon and dinner, and her mother
took care that she was always well dressed and looked her best. Sir Guy
Dumaresq had the seat at the end of the table farthest from the door;
his own party sat at his right hand, and the Cossarts opposite at his
left. Thus they seemed in a fashion to make one party, and conversation
was usually more or less general.

“Now, Miss Cossart,” said Ronald to Effie that day, “you’ve not done a
single thing since you came. We must really rout you up. Let’s make up
a party and take the funicular railway to the Mount Church to-morrow,
and come down in running carros. It’s the most screaming fun, and
perfectly safe. I know Miss Sheila is just aching to go in one; and you
must come too!”

“There, Effie,” cried Mrs. Cossart, beaming, “isn’t that a charming
plan?”

Effie pursed up her lips and gave her head a little toss.

“I don’t know till I’ve tried. I thought it always rained up at the
Mount. I see the clouds come down every day about noon. But I’ll come
if you want me; if I do get wet, I do. I don’t care so very much. If I
do get a bad night afterwards it won’t kill me, I daresay!”

“Oh, we’ll take care of you!” cried Ronald, laughing. “Guy is going;
and he isn’t to get wet either; so we’ll make love to the clerk of the
weather. But the mornings are almost always fine even up there. It’s in
the afternoon the clouds come down.”

Sheila was delighted to think of going on this excursion. So far,
although they had now been several weeks in the island, she had seen
very little. The Cossarts liked to take things quietly, and there was
plenty of time, they kept saying, to see everything.

The few rides with Effie had not been particularly exhilarating, as
she had been nervous and dissatisfied with the horses, and though
Ronald had gone prospecting about, the Dumaresqs and Miss Adene had
been content for the most part with the pleasures of the garden; and so
Sheila’s opportunities for sight-seeing had been but few.

However, nothing could have been more favourable than the weather the
next day. Fine as it almost always was down in Funchal, there were days
when the hills and mountain peaks were wrapped in cloud, and those who
ventured up their sides were speedily wet through. But to-day all was
clear and bright and sunny; and as the little railway train climbed
puffing up the steep track, the air seemed to grow more and more clear
and buoyant, and Sheila laughed aloud from pure gladness of heart.

All the Dumaresqs were of the party, including little Guy, who clung
close to Sheila, and who was her especial care. Miss Adene went with
them, “to keep them in bounds,” as she said, and Ronald and Effie
completed the party. Perhaps Ronald felt he had rather neglected the
delicate girl, whose pleasures seemed few and far between; for he
constituted himself her cavalier that day; gave her his hand over
any rough ground; pointed out the various objects of interests, and
promised to be her companion in the running carro for the descent.

The air felt fresh and almost cold when they left the train. Sheila
drank in long breaths with keen delight.

“It is almost like being in England again! I do love the lazy heat down
below; but it is delightful to get up here where one feels like running
and jumping!” and forthwith she and little Guy began chasing each other
in and out amongst the trees and zigzag paths, till Miss Adene called
to them that they were going up to the church, and told them to follow.

After they had seen the big bare church with its curious images, they
got some very curious thick strong coffee at the little hotel, and then
Ronald went in search of carros sufficient for all the party.

“Miss Adene, you’ll go with me and little Guy, won’t you?” said Sheila.
“I’ll hold him on my knee and take care of him. You’ll trust him to me,
won’t you, Lady Dumaresq, and you can take care of Sir Guy!”

“Mayn’t I be allowed to take care of my own wife?” asked Sir Guy,
laughing; and Sheila laughed and blushed and answered quaintly—

“I think you always do take care of one another, Sir Guy.”

From the Mount Church a cobble-paved road ran sheer down the steep
hillside into the town lying beneath. The running carros were baskets
on runners, holding two persons, and managed by two men, who held
them back and steered them by ropes, running alongside or behind, and
calling out to all other passengers to get out of the way. For the
road was a public highway, and bullocks dragging up loads on sledges,
or men, women, and children with their market produce or purchases on
their heads, would be constantly met or passed coming up or going down.

The sensation of the running carro is very strange at first. It glides
off with a gentle motion, gathering velocity as it gets its momentum,
till at last it seems flying downwards in a perfectly irresponsible
way; and only the clever steering and checking of the runners saves
the traveller from the feeling that he must of necessity be flying to
inevitable destruction.

Sheila’s nerves were strong, and she and little Guy laughed aloud as
they flew downwards; whilst Miss Adene had had experience of these
methods, and took the descent quite calmly.

“I wonder how Effie likes it!” cried Sheila in one of the pauses, where
the runners have to be greased, or the basket-work might be in danger
of charring, so tremendous is the heat generated by the friction.

Effie, however, seemed to have got on well as they joined company at
the bottom of the slide, and found bullock carros waiting to take them
home. She was more animated than usual, and declared that she had not
been frightened at all after just the first; and Ronald said she had
stood it like a brick.

When they got home Mrs. Cossart was eager to hear Effie’s story, and
very pleased at her pleasure in the day’s outing.

“It is quite right and proper that you should go with Sheila when they
ask her. You got on very well with them, did you not?”

“Oh, yes, very well indeed. Mr. Dumaresq never noticed Sheila at all
when I was there. He is really very intelligent. I enjoyed talking to
him. He has plenty of sense, though he has such good spirits. I like
him very much.”

Mrs. Cossart was well pleased. The thought which had lately come into
her head seemed now to take firmer root. Certainly a marriage into
some really good family would be an excellent thing for Effie; and
her handsome dowry ought to be an inducement which no young man would
altogether overlook.

So the mother’s eyes were very jealously on the watch the next days and
weeks; and often her heart swelled within her with anger and jealous
displeasure. For it was impossible to ignore the fact that Sheila was
the favourite. However well Effie was dressed, however she was put
forward and “trotted out” by her mother, it was Sheila’s merry laugh,
Sheila’s saucy or appealing speeches, Sheila’s big soft eyes that
seemed to win her way everywhere.

“I wish I had never brought that girl!” cried Mrs. Cossart one evening
in exasperation to her husband.

“What girl, my dear?” asked Mr. Cossart mildly. “I thought it was doing
Effie so much good. She is another creature.”

“Yes, Effie, if it were only her; but there is Sheila! I am out of all
patience with her! I declare if there is a good opportunity I will ship
her back to England. It is too bad the way she is going on!”

(_To be continued._)

[Illustration]




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

FLORENCE.—The glands under your arm have inflamed and broken down,
and you ask us to tell you what has caused this. There are many
possible causes, but we will confine our remarks to the commonest, and
therefore most likely causes. The use of these glands is to filter off
from the lymph any impurities it may contain. Let us briefly glance
at physiological considerations to enable us to understand why these
glands are so extremely commonly inflamed. Your right arm is affected.
Very well. The blood reaches your right arm and hand by the arteries.
Part of the blood returns to the heart by the veins, part of it exudes
through the walls of the smallest arteries. This part is not red but
colourless, and is called lymph. This lymph bathes and nourishes the
tissues, giving them food, and taking away with it their impurities.
This lymph flows back through colourless vessels called lymph-channels,
which end in the veins of the neck; but we said that the lymph takes up
impurities in its passage. These impurities are partly physiological
and partly unhealthy; the latter consist of germs. If these germs were
sent into the blood-stream there would be disastrous consequences,
and to prevent this the lymph-glands are placed in the course of the
lymph-channels just before these enter the blood-stream. All the lymph
is forced through these glands as through a filter, and any germs it
may contain remain in the glands, and are quickly destroyed by the
elements of the glands, which are there for this purpose. But suppose
you have an abscess on your hand; that abscess is swarming with germs,
and the lymph in its passage will carry away a vast number of these
injurious microbes, and will take them to the glands of the armpit.
The germs remain in the glands and give the glands extra work to do.
The glands will enlarge and become inflamed. If the infection of the
glands is very virulent, the glands may, as it were, die at their
post and become abscesses. Now we can proceed. The commonest cause of
inflamed glands in the axilla is inflammation and suppuration about the
hand or arm. An abscess, a small dirty wound, or anything of a septic
character on the arm or hand will produce inflammation of the glands
under the arm. In these cases, as soon as the primary condition is
remedied the glands regain their normal condition. But suppose that the
primary wound was a stab in the hand from a hat-pin, which in some way
had become infected with the germs of tubercle; then the glands will
also become infected with tubercle, and this brings us to the second
commonest form of inflammation of lymphatic glands, the so-called
strumous or scrofulous glands. This is an exceedingly common affection,
especially in children. Good diet and cod-liver oil will help to enable
the body to withstand this disease. Sea air, and especially the air of
Margate, Folkestone, or Cromer will do more than anything else to cure
this affection in its early stages. Sometimes, in the later stages, or
in cases where the malady has been neglected, operation is necessary to
prevent excessive scarring or exhaustion from continued discharge. It
is imperative when glands have broken down, and are discharging, that
they should be kept extremely clean and free from external infections
by the use of local antiseptic washes and applications. The arm must
also be kept at rest.

A GIRTON GIRL.—Should persons with organic disease of the heart marry?
is a question which is very much easier to ask than it is to answer. In
this case we have not to consider the dangers of heredity, for though
heart-disease, and still more so, the commonest cause of heart-disease,
rheumatism, is undoubtedly sometimes hereditary, it is not sufficiently
so to forbid marriage on this score. Our personal experience is that
heart-disease is not hereditary. Nor is heart-disease an infectious
disease like consumption, which you could communicate to your children
or husband. Valvular disease is so varied in its nature and degree that
it is impossible to lay down laws which are applicable to every case.

GLASBURY.—Influenza is a terrible disease, and it often leaves much
suffering in its train. Indeed, we know of no disease which leaves so
much ill-health behind it. You, it has left with dyspepsia and nervous
weakness—perhaps its commonest legacy. You must be exceedingly careful
of your diet. The wind in your stomach you can relieve by bicarbonate
of soda or by two or three drops of essence of ginger in a wineglassful
of water. At the present time you should feed as well as your dyspepsia
will admit; and, really, to treat indigestion properly does not entail
many privations. Meat and malt wine, or cod-liver oil and maltine would
do you good if you can digest it; or you might derive great benefit
from a course of iron with quinine or other bitter tonic. But you
cannot take the last until your indigestion is relieved.

EVELYN.—If you go to a dental hospital, they will tell you where you
can get artificial teeth cheaply. It is against our rules to give the
name or address of any person.

MOLLY.—Before attempting to cure any ailment, it is necessary to
discuss two questions. The first is—What is the nature of the trouble?
The second is—What has caused it? It is only in certain cases that one
can answer both these questions definitely; but the more clearly he
answers these, the more rational and efficacious will be the treatment
of the malady. And in the treatment itself, the first thing to do is to
remove the cause, if possible. Now what causes your hands to get “hot
and clammy?” There is a possibility that it may be a purely natural
condition, for the palms of the hands perspire more freely than any
other part of the body, and persons vary extremely in the quantity of
fluid which exudes through their skin. Or your trouble may be due to
some unhealthy cause. Persons who are suffering from many forms of
illness perspire profusely. One of the commonest causes is indigestion,
which acts in this way. The stomach lies just below the heart, and
when the stomach is in difficulty it worries the heart, and so
interferes with the circulation. This is the cause of the flutterings,
palpitations, flushes and excessive perspirations, so common in
indigestion. You must therefore see to your digestion; also wash your
hands frequently in warm water with a good soap, and occasionally rinse
your hands in diluted toilet vinegar. Do not wear kid gloves, but if
you require any gloves at all wear thin silk ones. Healthy exercise is
necessary in this as in every other condition.

ELSA.—This correspondent asks us the following question. “My father and
mother died of consumption, and one of my sisters is in the last stages
of the same disease; am I going to get consumption?” We are going to
answer this question at length because it gives us an opportunity for
demonstrating what is meant by hereditary influence in disease; and
also because here is a poor girl worrying herself over a calamity which
may never occur. We say that consumption is an hereditary disease, but
this is not accurate. The disease is not hereditary, but the tendency
to it is. Consumption is a chronic infectious disease caused by the
presence of the tubercle organism in the body. It may and does strike
down anybody; but those who are sprung from a family with a tubercular
history are more liable to be attacked than others. We have a great
deal of evidence to show that nearly one-tenth of the human race
becomes infected with tuberculosis, but only a very small proportion of
those infected succumb, or indeed ever show symptoms of the disease.
Now it is presumable that those who do show symptoms have some extra
factor which prevents their throwing off the disease. For instance,
persons who suffer from chronic bronchitis, or who are barrel-chested,
or who are run down in health, etc., are less likely to successfully
combat the disease than are others. It is therefore one of these extra
factors which is hereditary; it may be a peculiarly-shaped chest, for
instance. Nobody is born with the tubercle germ inside her. So if every
relative of yours died of consumption, you can prevent yourself from
contracting the disease by running away from the tubercle germ and
living in a spot where this worst of all human pests does not exist.
Unfortunately this germ is almost ubiquitous. It swarms in every city
and town, and lurks by rivers and in sandy wastes. It does not inhabit
the ocean or the high latitudes or the tops of mountains. The sea-coast
is much less impregnated with this germ than are the inland parts. The
germ apparently dislikes the north wind, and is therefore comparatively
uncommon on our East coasts. Therefore, if you have a special dread of
consumption, live in a land where the tubercle bacillus does not thrive.

ATHENA.—Occasionally it is possible to restore the original form to a
nose which has been broken. Where there is great lateral deformity, the
question of correcting the displacement is well worth considering. In
the minor grades of distortion of the nose, due to old injuries, it is
scarcely worth while to have an operation done. In recent injury the
nose should always be “set” at once, for in this case deformity can be
almost always prevented. But remember that, if you have had your nose
“set” after a recent injury, and still deformity does occur, you must
not lay the blame on the surgeon. All operations on the nose or any
other part of the face should be done by a specialist, if possible.

OLGA BERTHA.—The probable cause of your trouble is anæmia and nervous
exhaustion. We cannot enter at length into the treatment of this
condition as we have done so many times already. You had better give
up bicycling for a time till you feel stronger again. Drinking large
quantities of water does dilute the blood, but only for a second
or two, for if more water than is necessary is drunk, though it is
absorbed into the blood it is thrown out again immediately by the skin,
the kidneys and the lungs. Drinking large quantities of fluid with
meals is a potent cause of dyspepsia, for the gastric juice cannot
digest anything when it is too much diluted. Perhaps you would derive
benefit from meat and malt wine, or maltine.

NATATOR.—There have been many explanations of the cause of cramp
while bathing, and it is not yet definitely settled which, if any,
of these is correct. The most probable theory is that cramp is due
to over-distention and paralysis of the heart. According to this
hypothesis, the contact of the skin with the cold water causes all the
blood-vessels of the skin to contract and so force the blood which was
contained in them into the internal vessels. As more blood than usual
will be thus thrown into those vessels which are deeply situated,
the blood pressure will rise greatly. The heart has to overcome this
pressure before it can drive the blood through the body. But if the
pressure is exceedingly high, the heart may be unable to overcome it—a
condition which means instantaneous death. But there are two conditions
in which cramp occurs whilst bathing. In the first way, the instant
the bather enters the water she is struck down by cramp, and if help
is not instantly forthcoming she dies in a few seconds. In the second
case, the bather is all right till she has been in the water perhaps
half an hour; she is then gradually seized with cramp. Let us see if
we can reconcile both these conditions to our heart theory? The first
is obvious from the above. In the second case we must presume that
although the blood pressure is raised, still the heart, being healthy
and strong, can overcome it. But after half an hour’s violent exercise
the heart begins to tire, and is now no longer capable of working
against the great resistance. This form of cramp is therefore more
gradual than the first; but both forms are necessarily fatal unless
timely help is at hand. Most of the other theories of cramp refer
the condition to temporary derangements of the nervous system, but
Broadbent, the greatest authority on the heart, is much in favour of
the theory we have just enunciated.

TERROR.—A bunion is an inflammation of the joint of the great toe.
It is almost always due to the pressure of an ill-fitting boot. In
the normal foot the great toe stands away from the other toes, and
so, if boots were made to resemble the foot, the inner border would
be either perfectly straight or slightly curved towards the middle
line of the body. But cobblers have improved on Nature, and they make
boots in which the inner border meets the outer border in a point.
In consequence of this absurdity, the great toe is forced towards
the other toes; its chief joint is partially dislocated and the ball
of the toe forms a projection on the inner side. This ball is part
of the joint, and so the side of the boot actually presses upon the
joint itself. This the joint is unable to stand. A “bursa”—that is,
a sort of water-cushion—is developed above the ball of the toe, and
so protects the joint from pressure. This is Nature’s method of
preserving the human foot from the ignorance and stupidity of its
owner. But although Nature is very cute in her way, she is unable to
cope with the owner of the foot, whose stupidity gets the better of
the struggle, though her foot comes off very badly indeed. Nature has
provided the above-mentioned water-cushion, but the boots are still
tight and misshapen. The “water-cushion” now becomes inflamed, its
edges get thickened, the joint underneath the water-cushion shares in
the inflammation and becomes destroyed. This is a bunion. So, after
all, Nature does get the better of it. She says she will not have
joints distorted and pressed upon, and she has got her way, only she
has had to destroy the joint altogether. The treatment of a bunion
depends upon the stage of the disease. In the early stages merely
wearing properly-shaped boots will undo the mischief. At a later date,
a special boot with a special compartment for the great toe must be
worn. In the last stages, nothing but a surgical operation—no less than
cutting away the joint—will give relief. We cannot too strongly impress
upon you the necessity of wearing rightly-shaped boots which do not
distort the great toe. For a bunion is really a serious disease, and,
moreover, if its cause is not removed, it is a progressive disease,
and will leave you in the end either a cripple for life or with the
necessity of having to submit to a surgical operation of moderate
severity.

CURIOUS.—Pepsin is obtained by scraping the stomach of a pig or calf.
It is the chief digestive agent secreted by the gastric juice. Papain
is a vegetable production, having much the same action as pepsin, but
is not so likely to do harm when taken for indigestion. Peptone is
the name given to the product of albumin (proteid) when completely
digested. You will find an account of the digestion in any book on
physiology.

“ONE OF THE OLD GIRLS.”—We fear that we cannot answer your questions,
for we never have given and never will give the address of any
chemist, physician or herbalist, or of any professional or tradesmen
whatsoever, in this column. As we know of no depilatory which is useful
without being injurious, we could not answer your question under any
circumstances. As a well-known physician once tersely put it, “There is
no depilator which is not a delapidator.”


STUDY AND STUDIO.

GRACE DARLING.—1. If the friend whose verses you enclose is “only
sixteen and has had a poor education,” her attempt does her credit.
There are many defects in composition; for instance, in verse 5 the
second person singular (thy) is interchanged with the plural (you).
The emphasis on the second syllable of “cannot” (verse 1, line 2), is
quite inadmissible, and we think a word must be omitted after “usual,”
as that is not a substantive.—2. Your writing strikes us as very good;
clear and legible, and likely, as you are only fifteen, to become more
“formed” with practice.

GREEN-BELLE.—We cannot say that you should encourage your “little
friend.” The verses you enclose are sentimental, and do not show poetic
ability in any way. If she is, as your letter suggests, quite young,
she should choose a different sort of theme when she wishes to attempt
metrical composition.

S. M.—Life is long, and we cannot decree that you would never write
well enough for publication; yet it would be unkind on our part to
encourage you in any hope that we should be likely to publish your
efforts. The little story in rhyme you enclose is pathetic, but many
of the lines are halting. “And who” (line 23) is an ungrammatical
expression where it stands. The composition of poetry that will find
acceptance is no easy task, so you must not feel hurt by our criticism.

FAITH (Western Australia).—1. Dr. Brewer informs us that the “Siamese
Twins” were two youths, Eng and Chang, born of Chinese parents at Bang
Mecklong. Their bodies were united by a band of flesh stretching from
breast-bone to breast-bone.—2. Your quotation—

    “The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
    No traveller returns.”

is from Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_, act i., scene 3. We appreciate your
letter and request.

PHYLLIS.—1. An easy Latin grammar for beginners is Arnold’s _Henry’s
First Latin Book_, price 2s. 3d. net. Smith’s _Principïa Latina_, part
i., is a little more difficult, but excellent. We do not see why, if
you are of a persevering turn, you should not teach yourself Latin,
and it is an undoubted help towards acquiring any other language.—2.
On the other hand we fear you cannot hope to learn the violin entirely
unaided. You would certainly contract some bad habit, even if you could
contrive to produce the notes.

MARGUERITE.—We believe that New Zealand would be a good place for a
working-class family or a young man or woman to emigrate to, provided
they were capable and thrifty. There are a great many emigration
societies from which you can obtain information. Apply to the Self-Help
Emigration Society, address Secretary, Memorial Hall Buildings,
Farringdon Street, E.C.; and to the Agent-General for New Zealand, 13,
Victoria Street, London, S.W. Thanks for your information.




DAINTY SCENT SACHET IN SATIN.

[Illustration]


The pretty article here illustrated is no sooner seen than coveted by
most of the fair sex, either for their own use or as a tiny present for
a friend. White satin of good quality is used for the front of the bag,
which is further adorned with a delicate spray of ribbon embroidery
arranged in the form of a slightly oblong wreath lightly outlined,
around which diminutive flowers and leaves are placed. Pale blue,
yellow, or green pongee silk is suitable for the back of bag, which is
added when the embroidery has been completed, previous to being filled
with wadding containing scent powder, and being closed with strings of
the delicate ribbon used for the embroidery.

_Materials required._—White satin, pongee silk, each four inches wide
and six inches long, three layers of wadding same size, pot pourri or
other scent powder, half a yard each of cornflour blue, yellow and
leaf-green ribbon, such as is used for ribbon embroidery. A thread of
green filoselle is used for the tiny stems and to outline the wreath,
which should be worked first.

The design consists of this wreath and two groups of flowers
interspersed with green leaves and coloured buds. A pleasing variety
may be produced by using green chenille instead of ribbon for some
of the leaves. If any reader should find difficulty in copying this
particular design, she may substitute any small spray and work it in
any kind of embroidery which she finds easier and thinks suitable. The
effect of the whole chiefly depends upon delicacy of colour, design and
workmanship of whatever kind introduced, and the idea affords scope for
endless individual taste and variety.

The ornamentation should not extend more than two inches from the
lower edge of the satin, so as to escape the gatherings by which the
bag is closed at the top. The simplest way to carry out our design is
to copy the wreath’s outline upon the satin with a lead pencil and to
work in the flowers and leaves afterwards from the illustration. It
is really quite easy to do so in the case of such a tiny spray, and
first attempts may be made by drawing it on paper until satisfied that
the arrangement has been satisfactorily copied. After that the attempt
should be made upon the satin with or without pencil tracing, according
the worker’s ability.

_To work rosette flower._—Take four inches of yellow ribbon, a single
thread of fine sewing silk or cotton, a common fine sewing needle, and
a large-eyed ribbon or crewel needle. Draw or imagine a circle the
size of a small glove button. With the large-eyed needle draw one end
of ribbon through the edge of circle. Take second needle and thread,
sew the end in place with one tiny stitch and gather along one edge of
ribbon, which should be on right side of satin. Then draw second end
of ribbon through to wrong side and draw in the gathering thread very
tightly to form a rosette as small as possible. Stitch the centre in
place, taking the stitches through the extreme edge of gathers only.
Fasten off on wrong side.

To work star, flowers and leaves but few directions are required.
Work with large-eyed needle and a short length of ribbon. Draw ribbon
through to right side of satin, leaving a short end at wrong side. Lay
a bodkin or other flat instrument in front of ribbon; work one stitch
over the bodkin and draw it away. Work three more stitches in the same
way and finish centre with a large French knot worked with silk or
filoselle. The foliage leaves are formed like the star flower petals.
The bodkin is used to keep the ribbon flat and untwisted and from being
drawn too tightly. It is advisable to fasten off the ends of ribbon on
wrong side with needle and thread after each length of ribbon is worked
up.

The reeds, which are most effective, consist of a nicely-worked French
knot, made of coloured ribbon, on the top of a tiny green stem. These
knots may be worked in the usual way, but some workers prefer to make a
tied single knot with an inch of ribbon by hand, and then to draw each
end through the work with the large-eyed needle.

When the embroidery is completed, lay the satin and silk together to
make up the bag, having right side of embroidery inside. Turn down two
inches of silk and satin together at the top of bag. Keeping them in
this position, run the edges together along sides and bottom. Raise
the upper layer of turned-down top and turn it over on opposite side,
and you will be pleased to find a neatly-finished hem ready made, as
it were, without any further trouble. Next turn the work right side
out, lay some scent powder between the layers of wadding, fold them in
half crosswise and slip all together into the bag. Next take twelve
inches of green, blue, and yellow ribbon, and tie them round the bag
about one inch from the top, having first arranged the back and front
into artistic folds, if possible, without the assistance of gathering
threads, which somewhat detract from the desired effect of immaculate
freshness indispensable to work of the highest order.

Last of all, in the centre of embroidered front form a smart,
crisply-made bow, using the three ribbons together so as to produce a
soft bunch of loops and ends bristling out at each side.

Nothing then remains to be done save to admire the pleasing result of
your labour, which, unless I am much mistaken, will greatly exceed your
expectations.

There is one more hint I cannot resist giving you. It is this,
three-sixteenths of a yard of satin is a small amount and only costs
a little money, but it will make ten such scent-bags. What a happy
idea for those of you who work for charity, and make their own little
birthday gifts! Won’t you try it?

    L. E. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note: the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 626: Challonet to Challoner—“Lucy Challoner”.

Page 627: lettter to letter—“over that letter”.

Page 637: Muchisons to Murchisons—“two Miss Murchisons”.

Page 638: Crossart to Cossart—“Mrs. Cossart beaming”.

Missing word “on” inserted—“going on this”.]



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