Produced by Chris Curnow, Pamela Patten and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net










[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1004.]      MARCH 25, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.


[Illustration: “THE DAINTY PORTFOLIO.”]

_All rights reserved._]

Miss Colbourne was expecting a visitor to tea. Not to the ordinary
lodging-house meal which was prepared for herself every evening, but to
a special four o’clock tea, every detail of which was arranged by her
own hands. The little copper kettle was purring on the old-fashioned
hob, the unsteady round table was covered with a dainty white cloth,
and weighted with the silver salver and porcelain cups without handles
that had belonged to her grandmother. Hot cakes were keeping warm in
front of the fire, and there was a special little jug of cream.

The room itself was of a very common type. Carpets and curtains were in
clashing shades of crimson, while a green table-cloth disagreed with
both. There was the usual profusion of china ornaments with various
photographs of the landlady’s friends. Miss Colbourne had inhabited
the room for years past. She objected to the ornaments, but respect
for her landlady’s feelings enabled her to keep silence and to endure
them. Nothing else troubled her. Her own possessions were disposed
inartistically enough; books encumbered the sideboard, more lay in
piles on the floor. She had few pretty things, and had not the knack of
so arranging her surroundings as to make a nest for herself. Her room
reminded the onlooker of a temporary halting place—never of a home.

She had only just finished her preparations, and was in the act of
rolling up an easy-chair close to the fire, when a slight tap at the
door was followed by the entrance of the expected visitor.

Jessie Blaher was a slim rosy-cheeked girl of sixteen, who had been one
of Miss Colbourne’s favourite pupils from the time she was a tiny trot
of seven. Lessons had only been given up when Mr. Blaher removed his
family into the country.

Jessie had not seen her old teacher for more than twelve months. Over
tea and cake they talked of the past and present, of books and men.
Then Jessie helped to wash up and put away the cherished relics. Miss
Colbourne was bringing out some photographs, when she exclaimed—

“Oh, I want so much to see the views of Florence that Lena sent you!”

“Do you mean the illustrations of _Romola_?”

“Yes, please!”

Miss Colbourne walked across to the corner of the room that held her
especial treasures. There stood a bookshelf brought from Bellagio by a
friend, carved out of the olive wood with inlaid work. On the bottom
shelf were arranged her Italian books, one or two rare editions among
them. Above was a fine likeness of Dante and a plaster medallion of
Savonarola, with some trifling objects picked up by friends on their
wanderings. One of the most precious of these treasures was the dainty
portfolio which she now brought forward and laid on the table.

Jessie took it up eagerly.

“Lena amused herself last winter,” said Miss Colbourne, “with
collecting all the views she could find to illustrate _Romola_. She
knows it is my favourite story.”

“And did she make the case too?”

“Yes, out of a piece of Italian silk. These are the Florentine lilies
she has embroidered on the front.”

Miss Colbourne untied the ribbons—green, white, and blue—carefully, and
showed the contents—the Via de Bardi, Santa Croce, the Convent of San
Marco, and many another.

“Lena could not get pictures of all the places,” she said, “so she took
several sketches herself. These in the side-pocket don’t belong exactly
to _Romola_—they are photographs of some of the great pictures in the
Galleries.”

“How well you explain it!” said Jessie admiringly as she put the case
carefully back. “Just as if you had been there! But you haven’t been to
Italy, have you?”

“No,” said Miss Colbourne, “but I hope to go soon,” and her face glowed
with suppressed fervour. “It has been the dream of my life to see Italy
ever since I was a little girl. It seemed impossible then, but now I
think it may be managed next year.”

After Jessie had gone, Miss Colbourne settled down to her books. It was
after eight when Mrs. Coombes, the churchwarden’s wife, bustled in. She
was a stout, pleasant little woman who knew everyone’s business.

“Good evening, Miss Colbourne. Why, bless me, you have let your fire
out! Aren’t you cold?”

“I have been busy and forgot it,” said Miss Colbourne apologetically,
rising to meet her, “and it is rather early for fires, don’t you
think?”

“Oh, I don’t know! It looks pretty dismal without one on a wet evening.
I have just run in to pay for Gertie’s lessons. Mr. Coombes wrote you
out a cheque two or three days ago, but I’ve been too busy to get round
with it.”

While Miss Colbourne was receipting the account, Mrs. Coombes went on—

“I suppose you have heard about Mrs. Bateson? I can’t say that I was
surprised.”

“No,” said Miss Colbourne, turning round, her pen suspended in her
hand. “What is it? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“It seems when she went home in August her mother wasn’t satisfied with
her looks and made her see a physician. He said she is consumptive—one
lung affected—and that she ought to winter abroad.”

“Dear, dear, I am sorry!”

“Yes, it’s a bad business. I don’t know what they can do! A curate with
four children can’t be expected to have means to send his wife abroad
at a moment’s notice.”

“But can nothing be done?”

“Well, Mr. Coombes has been talking to the Vicar, and they are making a
collection. Fifty pounds will be wanted, and so far they have fifteen
towards it. I’m afraid they will never raise it. It’s a pity, because
the doctor said she was a hopeful case—probably the winter away would
save her life. But I must be going, Miss Colbourne; my husband will be
wondering where I am. You do look cold. Why don’t you have your fire
lit again?”

Her visitor gone, Miss Colbourne did not settle to her work again.
Usually she did not find time for all she wanted to accomplish, but
to-night she tried one thing after another without success. At last,
flinging her books on one side, she fell to pacing up and down the room.

After a while she opened the secret drawer in her desk, and taking out
an old-fashioned long silk purse, she turned out its contents—five
ten-pound notes and a little loose gold. She weighed them in her
hands—the savings of ten years. Often had she sat without a fire and
gone without a hot meal to add to that hoard. It explained why she wore
a threadbare jacket and shabby bonnet. With it she thought to turn the
dream of her youth into reality. Once and again she had been on the
point of visiting Italy, but illness and bereavement had barred the
way. Now she was so near attainment that she had planned to go after
Christmas. She did not lock the money up again, but laid it in a heap
on the open desk and resumed her pacing.

She knew the Batesons well. She respected and admired the curate and
sincerely loved his wife. She knew enough of their circumstances to
be sure that, unless help from outside were forthcoming, the doctor’s
advice could not be followed. She felt equally sure that Mrs. Coombes
was right, and that the necessary sum would not be raised by so poor a
congregation.

Must the invalid then face the rigours of an English winter? There
seemed no other solution to the problem. And yet as she turned in her
deliberate walk, there was the little pile of money glittering in the
lamplight that offered quite another solution.

Miss Colbourne was not given to sentiment; she was a woman who had
faced the world and earned her own living for thirty years, and was
not quickly moved by any sudden impulse of compassion. Neither was she
one to grasp at her own advantage. Had it been merely her own pleasure
she was asked to sacrifice, she would have done it willingly. It was
characteristic that this aspect of the question did not trouble her. In
her heart she knew well that this was her last opportunity of realising
her dreams: never again would she possess the necessary funds; youth
had gone, health and strength were both on the wane. To give up now
meant to give up for life. She realised this, but it did not move her;
it hurt her, but it did not shake her purpose. It was not her own
pleasure that she hesitated to relinquish; it was rather a question
of her duty to herself. Miss Colbourne took life very seriously, and
lived up to a delicately poised standard of right and wrong. She had
a few months before refused an invitation to a performance of the
_Agamemnon_, because she did not consider her knowledge of Greek
equal to its perfect comprehension, and she would not pose as a Greek
scholar. The pleasure the spectacle would have given her was not
allowed to influence her decision. In the same way now she hesitated
whether she ought to give up this opportunity of widening and enriching
her mind, cramped by narrow horizons at home. The months she dreamed of
spending abroad would not only increase her mental stores, but send her
back with enlarged and quickening powers to her pupils. “Where,” she
debated, “does one’s duty to one’s higher nature leave off and that to
one’s neighbour begin? Shall I not be a more useful member of society
if I go abroad, and ought I not to consider my work first?”

In her pacings she picked up one of the views that had dropped from
the portfolio and carried it back to its place. It was a quaint
representation of the bonfire of vanities. She handled her treasures
tenderly, and with her handkerchief wiped an imaginary speck of dust
from Savonarola’s medallion. As she did so she wondered whether the
great ascetic would have thought this dream of hers a “vanity” too.
Very lightly did culture weigh in his mind.

This was a new thought; she was called to another kind of self-denial
than that of food and clothing. Might not the culture of the mind be
dearly bought at the expense of another’s life? Myra Bateson’s life,
too, involved the happiness of the little ones gathered about her
knees. The problem grew complex; contrasted with the well-being of this
family group Miss Colbourne felt the insignificance of her own needs.

“I don’t want to believe it,” she said at last, with a half-smile, “but
after all the Mother is more important than the Teacher.”

While Miss Colbourne was thus debating a nice point of morals, Mrs.
Bateson was wearily pacing up and down her nursery, trying to hush the
baby to sleep. But he was cutting his first tooth, and quite fractious
enough to prefer his mother’s arms to the cot. When he condescended
to be laid down, another child awoke, and it was nine o’clock before
their mother descended the stairs. Her husband’s coat, saturated with
rain, caught her eye in the hall, and she carried it off to the kitchen
to dry. He was not in the sitting-room where the supper table, spread
with cold meat and bread and cheese, awaited him. She did not like to
disturb him, but sat down to an overflowing basket of socks till he
should be ready. Perhaps of all those who knew of her illness she was
the least concerned; she was thinking then, not of her journey, but
whether Tommy ought not to give up skirts this autumn. She wished her
husband would not work so late, she was anxious to consult him about so
many things—he ought to have a new overcoat, and she wanted to make him
promise to order it at once.

But the curate was not at work; the rain that had drenched him in his
long walk back from church to his home in the suburbs seemed to have
affected him mentally. He sat, a limp, huddled-up figure, in his study
armchair; he heard his wife come downstairs, but he was not ready to
meet her gentle eyes and join in easy talk.

Over six feet in height, his face had not lost its boyish look, with
wavy light hair and bright blue eyes. But the lids were downcast now,
and the lips under the scanty moustache were set in a curve of pain.
The Vicar had not been to church, but Coombes had told him of the
scanty response to their appeal. His pride revolted at their dependence
on charity, while his heart was wrung with pity for his suffering wife.

He had entered the ministry with a single desire for God’s service, and
for a time all had gone well with him. But now the iron had entered
into his soul, and he was tempted to curse God and die.

His schoolfellows were prospering in the world; he, with gifts no whit
behind them, was forced to see his wife fade by his side for lack of
the sordid pence that had fallen so plentifully to their share. In his
agony he dared God to a trial of strength; he challenged Him by the
promises of old to show Himself a God of might, and to deliver His
servants in their hour of need.

A gentle tapping on the wall roused him at last; he strove for
composure and in a few moments joined his wife in the sitting-room.

“How late you are, Arthur,” she said anxiously, “and you look so tired.
I do wish you would not study so late. A letter came for you an hour
ago, but I did not like to disturb you,” and she held out a sealed
envelope.

He weighed it in his hand for a moment before opening it. Within were
five ten-pound notes, and a scrap of paper bearing the lines—

    “Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,
      Ringing with echoes of Italian song;
      Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,
    And all the pleasant place is like a home.”

“Not very appropriate, are they?” commented the curate smiling.
“Darning is more in your line than Italian poetry.”

He could not know that Miss Colbourne had with the money transferred
all her own hopes and aspirations to the invalid.

    CECIL VINCENT.




OUR MEDICINE CHEST.

BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”


PART I.

THE SURGICAL DRAWER.

A fair critic asked us the other day why all our articles were written
for Londoners—why we had never addressed our remarks to girls living in
out-of-the-way districts at home or in the colonies?

Truly we do not know what difference it makes if these papers are
written in London or for Londoners. Health and sickness are much the
same all over the world, and the chief difference between England and
the Gold Coast as regards disease is the prevalence in the latter of
maladies which are peculiar to the land. And the discussion of these
would not afford interest to any save such as are living there.

But we will address this article chiefly to persons living in remote
parts where medical aid is not always easy to obtain.

We were buying some drugs yesterday, and when we had finished our
purchases, the chemist showed us a wonderful “new toy” which had just
been sent to him. It was called “The Patients’ _Vade Mecum_.”

_Vade Mecum_—go with me—evidently something to be carried about with
one—a pocket-case, in fact. Oh, but this was not a pocket-case! It was
a great chest—like a family deed-box. It was bound and studded with
brass nails, and was a very tolerable load for a strong man to carry.
Not at all what we should call a _Vade Mecum_.

Let us describe this chest. Follow it carefully, for we are describing
the exact reverse to what any sensible person would have in her house!

There was a grand brass lock and two keys. Unfortunately, neither
of the keys fitted the lock, so that it was at least half a minute
before we could open the thing. When at length the lock yielded, the
interior of the box presented a sight which we shall never forget.
There was quite a forest of clean little corks. There were in the upper
compartment one hundred and forty-four clean, sweet, little one-ounce
bottles, all neatly labelled and fitted with the pretty little corks
which were the first things that attracted our attention. These bottles
were arranged in rows of twelve abreast, and there was not a stain on
any one of them.

We took hold of one and tried to pull it out from amongst its fellows,
but it wouldn’t come. However, a good hard tug displaced it, and with
it two or three others which rolled to the ground, and we held in our
hand a one-ounce bottle of—of—well, the name of the stuff slips us
altogether—anyhow, it was quite new to us. Underneath the name of the
preparation was written “Cure for Gout.”

This looked interesting, so we examined the other bottles and
discovered that the hundred and forty-four bottles contained a hundred
and forty-four preparations—all guaranteed different—which “cured” a
hundred and forty-four diseases!

But the odd thing about it was, we had never before heard of any of the
drugs, nor did we know half the diseases which these wonderful drugs
cured. There was one bottle to cure “humours” of the face. What on
earth are they?

We cannot rise to this. But there is a drawer underneath. Let us open
it and see what it contains. More bottles! Bigger ones this time. One,
we see, contains tincture of arnica—guaranteed to remove all effects of
“injuries, bruises, and inflammations.” This is coming it too strong!
We know tincture of arnica, and we know that some people have an idea
that it does something or other to relieve bruises—an idea which we
do not share. But to say it removes all effects of injuries, bruises
(we should have thought that these might have been included under the
former term), and inflammations—well, we live and learn.

There were five other bottles in this drawer. And then there was a pair
of scissors. What can they be for? But then we found a roll of sticking
plaster, and the mystery was cleared up at once. This is intended for
the surgical part of the box. Fancy a surgery containing six bottles, a
pair of scissors, and a roll of plaster!

And quite enough too, if one of the bottles contains a balm which will
remove all effects of injuries and inflammations. But then what is the
good of the other five bottles, the pair of scissors and the plaster?

“What do you think of my box?” asked the chemist when we had finished
our exploration. “How much do you think that cost?”

“Dear me, man, you don’t mean to say you bought that?”

“No,” he replied, “I didn’t. It was sent to me as an advertisement.
They are selling them at £5 5s. a-piece, and they asked me to take a
dozen and try to dispose of them. What would you do if you were in my
place?”

“Well,” we replied, “we would empty the bottles, clean them, and use
them for better purposes, as they may be required, and the box you
might give to your daughter as a workbox.”

But another person standing near was not disposed to think so lightly
of the matter, and told the chemist that he ought to telegraph at
once to the people who had had the impertinence to send a respectable
chemist such a concern, saying, “If you do not remove your rubbish
within twenty-four hours, I’ll sue you for warehouse room.”

These homœopathic cases are very popular, and many persons buy them
thinking that they can do what they pretend to do. We cannot warn you
too strongly against purchasing these things. Avoid them as you would
poison. No, we do not mean to be taken literally. There are no poisons
in these chests. We have a law which prevents the indiscriminate sale
of poison.

Now let us describe _our_ medicine chest. Oh, let us see what we want
it for before we fit it up.

You do not want a medicine chest to contain everything you _may_
require. You want it to contain everything that is absolutely
necessary for emergencies. There are practically three classes of
emergencies—injuries, acute poisoning, and acute disease.

The surgical part of the box is far more important than the medical
part. Let us talk about injuries first. Bleeding requires instantaneous
treatment. If a person wounds a big vessel, she may bleed to death in
half a minute or less. So you must act at once if you wish to be of any
value.

You can stop bleeding of any kind instantly by pressure. Never forget
this. Never go running about to look for a tourniquet or what not when
a great vessel has been cut. Press on the bleeding place. Press at
once. You do not want very much force to compress an artery; but the
force must be continuous. When you have stopped the flow of blood, then
think of sending for assistance. When a person is bleeding from a deep
wound, press the lips of the wound together. Not the edges only—this
is no good. Press the complete thickness of the lips of the wound
together. If you cannot do this, stuff your handkerchief into the wound
and press on that.

A not uncommon cause of bleeding to death is rupture of a varicose
vein. Hundreds of thousands of women have varicose veins, but in very
few do the veins rupture. Still, if a vein does get torn and the
patient does not know what to do, her life will be lost while seeking
assistance.

If you have a varicose vein, it will almost for certain be in the leg,
and if it bursts, you will feel the hot stream of blood and rapidly
become faint. When this occurs, lie down on the floor and elevate the
leg as high as you can. This alone may stop the bleeding. If it does
not, press your finger on the spot, and then send or call out for
assistance. The slightest pressure will stop bleeding from a vein.

In these cases of serious bleeding, send for a surgeon as soon as you
have applied pressure. In all probability the vessel will have to be
tied. But if the nearest surgeon is two or three hundred miles away,
keep up the pressure and get someone else to put on a bandage pressing
very tightly upon a pad, which in its turn presses upon the bleeding
vessel.

In the case of a varicose vein or a small artery, this treatment will
probably prove successful.

Whenever you cut yourself, the raw surface bleeds more or less. You can
stop this kind of bleeding either by pressure, or by hot water. There
is never anything to be alarmed at when blood oozes out from a wound,
even though a considerable quantity of blood be lost. As long as there
are not jets of blood, there is little danger in bleeding. Pressure
will soon stop this form of bleeding.

That will do for the first and most important of all emergencies. What
have we to put in our box for this purpose? Nothing at all. All we
require is a hand and presence of mind.

Now about the treatment of wounds. First stop the bleeding, if this is
severe. Then wash your own hands. Wash them well. Plenty of soap and
hot water. Good hard work with the nail brush. Your hands should be
absolutely clean before you meddle with a wound.

Now you will want some antiseptic. The best of all is carbolic acid.
Mind you, this is poison. But if you are careful, and label the bottle
and lock it up in your box, there is little danger in your possessing
it. Your bottle of carbolic acid should be a good big one holding ten
ounces at least. It should contain a solution of carbolic acid in
distilled water of the strength of one part of pure crystallised phenol
to twenty parts of water. It must be kept in a glass-stoppered bottle,
which must be labelled—

    “Carbolic Acid.
        1 in 20.
        POISON.”

When used for washing wounds dilute this fluid with four times its
volume of warm boiled water. Having washed your own hands, thoroughly
wash first with soap and warm water, and then with the carbolic
solution, the skin round the wound of your patient. Do not be content
with washing merely the immediate neighbourhood of the wound, but wash
well round it in every direction.

Now to treat the wound itself. Take a perfectly clean basin and rinse
it out with boiling water. Into this put your carbolic solution diluted
with warm water to the strength of 1 in 80. Have plenty of the solution
ready. Now wash the wound in the antiseptic. For this purpose you will
require a small glass syringe and some pellets of perfectly clean
absorbent cotton wool.

The wound must be absolutely clean—not a minute speck of dirt may be
left in it. When you have washed the wound absolutely clean, take a
small square of clean lint, wring it out in the solution of carbolic
acid, and cover the wound with it while you take out the materials with
which you are going to dress the wound.

You must not touch the table or the chair, and you must not touch your
handkerchief or anything else, while you are dressing a wound. Microbes
lurk everywhere except in the carbolic acid, and in the dressings, if
they are clean. And if you are careful, you can prevent any germs
from getting into the wound; and this is the most important thing
in surgery. Do not let the dressings touch the table. Deposit them
carefully on a clean towel, which you have previously wrung out with
the carbolic solution, and laid upon the table.

Of course the dressing you use must vary a little with the nature of
the wound you are treating. If the wound is sharp cut or is perfectly
clean and not ragged, dust it over thickly with powdered boracic acid.
Then cover it with a small piece of absorbent gauze—the blue “sal
alembroth” gauze is the best. Swathe thickly in cotton wool and put on
a clean bandage.

There is no need to again dress the wound, unless it becomes hot and
painful. If you have got the wound absolutely clean, when the dressings
have been on for a few days, it will have completely healed without
discharging more than a few drops of fluid. If, however, the wound
smarts, it must be dressed again, and possibly every other day. It
should be dressed in the same way as it was in the first instance.

When the wound is very jagged, or impossible to get thoroughly clean,
it is best to put on fomentations for the first day or two.

Fomentations have taken the place of poultices in modern surgery.
Never put a poultice of any kind near an open wound. All your care and
cleanliness will go for nothing if you do.

To make fomentations take a square of lint and fold it twice. Then
wring it out in boiling carbolic solution (1 in 80) and apply it as
hot as it can be borne. Cover it with a square of oiled silk, put on a
thick layer of wool, and bandage. Fomentations should be renewed three
or four times a day.

When treating a wound, never use sticking-plaster except to keep on
a dressing. Sticking-plaster must never be placed on a wound, and
above all it must not cover the wound. If it does so, it will keep the
discharge locked up under it. The discharge will decompose, and a very
serious state of affairs may intervene. Free drainage is essential in
all wounds, and if this is interfered with, the wounds will go wrong.

What have we to put in our box for the treatment of wounds? The
following—

Carbolic acid solution, powdered boracic acid, sal alembroth gauze,
surgeon’s lint, absorbent cotton wool, oiled silk, bandages, pair of
scissors, syringe (glass).

Burns are common accidents, and though they do not call for such rapid
treatment as do wounds, nevertheless, it is always advisable to see to
them at once.

The pain of burns and scalds is often very severe, especially when the
flesh is not deeply burnt. You can relieve the pain by the application
of sweet oil, or by an emulsion of sweet oil and lime water, sometimes
called carron oil. The latter is better, but the former can be obtained
in any household, so it is not worth while filling up your box with the
emulsion.

After a burn, if the skin has not been destroyed, a blister will form.
This blister can be left alone, pricked, or removed entirely. If you
are not certain of cleanliness or you do not possess antiseptics, never
open a blister. If you leave it, the liquid will become absorbed and
the cuticle will flake away.

You are usually told to prick blisters as soon as they are fully
formed. This treatment we cannot countenance. If you are sure of
cleanliness, and the needle you use is absolutely sterile (_i.e._, free
from germs), and if, moreover, your after-treatment is properly carried
out, then there is no danger in pricking a blister. But no amateur ever
is certain of perfect cleanliness. And we fail to see the advantage of
pricking the blister after all.

Suppose the needle you use is dirty, just see what a state of things
may occur. Your needle is dirty—it is swarming with germs. You prick
the blister with it—that is, you introduce into a cavity filled with
warm solution of albumen the organisms of putrefaction. This is just
what the microbes like, and they will rapidly render the contents of
the blister putrid. And now neither the microbes nor the matter can
escape, for the prick has long ago become obliterated. Nor can you
apply anything to kill these germs or promote healing.

The third way to treat a blister is to cut away the whole of the
cuticle confining it. This is dead skin, and so removing it causes no
harm. You can now apply an antiseptic ointment to the raw surface. The
best is an ointment of boracic acid, oil of eucalyptus and vaseline.

Oh, but when you cut open the blister, do you not let the germs in?
Yes, you do, unless you have been scrupulously careful that everything
you used was perfectly clean. But even if you have introduced germs, it
is not so very serious here, for you apply the ointment directly to the
raw surface. So now the microbes get the worst of it. There is nothing
for them to eat; there is nothing preventing them from getting away;
and there is a (to them) poisonous ointment applied directly to them.

We said everything you use must be clean. We must therefore tell you
how to sterilise needles, scissors, etc. You are usually told to
sterilise instruments by passing them through a flame. Now this has
many disadvantages. In the first place, merely passing a knife through
a flame does not even warm it. Then, if you leave it in the flame long
enough, you spoil its temper and make it dirty with soot.

By far the best way to sterilise instruments is to boil them. Sterilise
your needles, etc., by boiling them in solution of carbolic acid in a
test-tube.

To treat burns, what must we add to our chest? Boracic acid ointment,
that is all.

Now for fractures. If you are taking a drive with a friend, and the
horse bolts, and you are both thrown out, but you escape uninjured,
while your friend breaks her arm or leg, what are you going to do? You
are going to “set” the fracture, are you? Oh, no, you are not! Not
if your friend has her wits about her. Have you ever set a fracture
before? Have you ever seen a fracture set? Do you know anything about
setting a fracture? Of course you do not. You would find that setting a
fracture was not the simple thing you think it is.

But wait a minute, we are not yet satisfied that the leg is broken. How
do you know that her leg is fractured? If you see the bone protruding,
or an angle or lump anywhere between the joints, or if your friend
cannot move her leg, or if she can move the upper half but not the
lower half, or if she thinks that her leg is broken because she heard
a snap, or for other reasons, you may be pretty certain that the leg
is broken. You cannot tell for certain, and you must not try to make
certain. If you attempt to prove that her bone is broken, you may
convert a simple into a compound fracture—a trivial into an extremely
serious condition.

But you must do something. Here you are, out on a road, five miles
from anywhere, with a friend lying in the road with a broken leg. What
are you to do? Splint the leg. For a splint you may use an umbrella, a
walking-stick, a branch of a tree, a newspaper strengthened with twigs,
or anything that is handy. Place the splint against the limb, and with
your own and your friend’s handkerchiefs tie the splint to the leg.
Tie it with the handkerchiefs a long way above and below the broken
place. Then place your friend on the floor of the conveyance and drive
slowly home or to the nearest surgeon.

Upon this emergency-splinting a very great surgeon—let us call him Sir
William Sawyer—tells an amusing story. He was walking along a country
road, and came across a cart overturned, with one wheel broken, in the
middle of the road. A man was lying near the cart. On approaching him
the surgeon saw that his thigh was broken. He immediately turned out
his pockets and found two old newspapers. Between these two papers he
“sandwiched” a good number of twigs, and then wrapped the whole concern
about the thigh of the injured man.

When he had done this, he became aware of the presence of a second man,
apparently uninjured, staring at him. He therefore bade him go to the
nearest village and fetch a surgeon.

When he got to the village, he went to the nearest medical man and
asked him to come quickly, for “an old idiot was stuffing his mate with
newspapers.” What was the medical man’s surprise to see that the “old
idiot” was Sir William Sawyer!

(_To be continued._)




“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.


CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY.

The month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly again in London—not this
time for the enjoyment of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after
many months of gradual failure, had passed away in an acute attack of
bronchitis, and Mrs. Bryce immediately offered a home to the two girls
until, at least, it might be possible to know the wishes of Colonel
and Mrs. Baron. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual, only had to assent to
his wife’s proposition, he did so with a heartiness not always shown
towards every wish of hers.

So the Bath house with its quaint furniture was let, and in the end of
March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two girls
found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce’s hospitable roof,
in their luxurious town mansion.

A double bedroom, opening into a dainty small sitting-room or boudoir,
was assigned to them, and here they loved to pass much of their time.
Mrs. Bryce was now, of course, in a full swing of engagements; and she
would greatly have liked to drag Polly with her wherever she went,
despite the recent death of Polly’s grandmother, but for Polly’s
resolute resistance.

“Well, well, well, my dear—all in good time,” Mrs. Bryce had said,
after some discussion. “To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close
related, and there’s no doubt your feelings does you credit; but I can
assure you, ’tis time you was settled in life with a husband of your
own, and a _mènage_, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And
as for Captain Ivor, I protest I’ve no sort of patience with the man.
Why, ’tis eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us
of Captain Ivor and his doings; and by this time there’s no sort of
question that he’s forgot all about you, and found himself a wife, and
belike he’s been married this year and more past. So ’tis good time you
too should forget all about him.”

Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the
drawing-room fire, dressed in white muslin, with black sash and
ribbons. In the first decade of the nineteenth century white muslin was
counted to be the correct attire for a girl, morning, noon and evening,
summer and winter, no matter what the weather might be. Polly looked
rather blue and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders, the latter
covered but lightly with a thin black scarf.

She was as pretty as ever, but her colouring was less brilliant than of
old, while the sweet eyes contained a touch of sadness. Molly, dressed
to match, though with a good deal more of white and less of black, was
busily reading to herself on the other side of the fireplace.

It was a cold April afternoon, five o’clock dinner being over. Mr.
and Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr.
Bryce—poor man!—would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at home
with the girls to the most brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion;
but his relentless wife dragged him in her wake—an unwilling and
helpless victim—to dinner-parties, balls, crushes, routs, innumerable.

“Molly, the Admiral is at home again. ’Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs.
Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day, and she is vexed, for it makes him
roar like a wild beast. And though ’tis doubtless true, as the faculty
say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no
means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled
about Will, for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago,
never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!”

Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of
Polly’s speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped
across, kissed Polly’s brow tenderly, and went back to her seat.

“What is it that you are reading, Molly?”

“The _Edinburgh Review_ for this month—an article on ‘Marmion.’ And,
Polly—would you think it?—the editor has no appreciation for our great
poet’s genius! No, none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott
were but a common man like any other scribbler, and not the mighty
world-wide genius that he is.”

“Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two
are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what
may he see to find fault with?”

“What, indeed?” echoed eager Molly. “Do but hear what rubbish the
worthy man sees fit to write! ‘A good deal longer’ than the last
poem. ‘More ambitious,’ ‘greater faults’ and ‘greater beauties,’
‘less sweetness,’ ‘more vehemence,’ and ‘redundancy.’ ‘Unequal and
energetic,’ ‘a general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked by
timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of taste
or elegance of fancy.’

“Oh!” gasped Molly. “And now listen again—

“‘But though we think this last romance of Mr. Scott’s about as good
as the former, and allow that it affords great indications of poetical
talent, we must remind our readers that we never entertained much
partiality for this sort of composition, and ventured on a former
occasion to regret that an author endowed with such talents should
consume them in imitations of obsolete extravagance.... His genius,
seconded by the omnipotence of fashion, has brought chivalry again
into temporary favour. Fine ladies and gentlemen now talk indeed of
donjons, keeps, tabards, scutcheons, tressures, caps of maintenance,
portcullises, wimples, and we know not what besides; just as they did
in the days of Dr. Darwin’s popularity of gnomes, sylphs, oxygen,
gossamer, polygynia, and polyandria. That fashion, however, passed
rapidly away; and Mr. Scott should take care that a different sort of
pedantry does not produce the same effects.’”

“Oh!” once more cried indignant Molly, never imagining that the
reviewer might perchance see with keener insight than the populace of
the day, or that his judgment might be in certain respects endorsed
by a later generation. “And then all fault-finding—scarce any sort of
praise. Does Mr. Scott deserve such treatment? To think that any critic
can be so blinded by prejudice—can so traduce the most eminent poet
that ever has lived! There have been other poets, ’tis true, but none,
sure, to compare with the author of ‘Marmion.’ Why, what were Homer and
Milton—what are those old plays of Mr. Shakespeare’s which Mr. Bryce
loves to read—compared with the writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind
never to look at the _Edinburgh Review_ again!” Molly flung the number
to the ground.

“Dr. Darwin—who died in 1802, and whose ‘Life’ was writ by Miss Anna
Seward,” murmured Polly, less stirred than Molly, though she, too,
ranked among the great admirers of Scott’s poetry.

“A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron.”

The butler’s solemn voice came as a surprise. They had not heard the
door open.

Polly and Molly exchanged glances.

“His name, Drake?” the former asked.

“The young man declines to give his name, Miss.”

“But what does he want to see me for?”

“He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact, Miss, he will not
take a refusal. If it is your wish that he should be turned away——”

“Make him say what he wants,” suggested Polly.

“Is he a gentleman, Drake?” asked Molly.

“He”—and a pause—“is extremely shabby, Miss.”

“What are we to do, Polly?”

“If it is your wish that the young man should be turned away, Miss——”

Drake advanced no farther. Somebody from behind put him quietly on one
side, with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.

Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been.
Some vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been an
instinctive knowledge of the state of the case, withheld him from any
show of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls
sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a
rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting; while his boots
were cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd
mottled colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—

“You ask to know what I want,” he said in a laughing voice. A pair of
large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. “I want—Molly!”

Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out
in astonishment. Not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter
of a second. As she met Roy’s glance, she was in his arms, clinging
to him in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood
perfectly still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister,
who held him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps
closer, understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight
told him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.

“I’m not fit to be touched,” Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice.
“Don’t, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I’ve been on the tramp
for days.”

She half loosened him, then returned to the charge, with another
passionate clasp; and Polly’s tears now were running down her cheeks.
Roy broke into a queer hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though
he tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the
top of Molly’s head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough
coat. Then Polly pulled one of Molly’s hands, trying to wrench asunder
that frantic hold.

“Dear Molly, you must not. Roy must be tired and hungry. Try to think
of that. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet.” Polly
dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. “How did you get away from
Verdun, Roy?”

“Not Verdun. Didn’t you know I’d been sent to Bitche last spring?”

“No. Were you really? O we hear so little!”—and a sigh came from
Polly’s heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by
his side, gazing with eyes of rapt delight in his face.

“It’s an awful place. I got away from there—I’ll tell you all about it
by-and-by. It’s all right now—now I’m back in old England. Do you know,
when first I got on shore, I just went down on my knees, and kissed the
ground. Drake, you didn’t know me! For shame. But I was sure Miss Molly
would.”

“I don’t know as I didn’t, sir, for all you’re so growed and altered.
I couldn’t turn you away, and that’s a fact—though it seemed like as
if I’d ought. And I did feel queer-like and no mistake, when I see you
a-looking at me, sir; only, begging your pardon, sir, you did speak so
short——”

“I’m sorry; but I didn’t mean to be found out by anybody first except
by Miss Molly. Dear little Moll!”—as she stooped to kiss the back of
his brown hand. “No, no, you mustn’t do that. I say, Drake, I wonder
if you can find anything respectable for me to wear. These things were
given to me at a farmhouse in France, and they were old to begin with.
And I’ve had to get to London on foot, because I’d no money, though
people have given me many a lift, and food as well. But couldn’t you
make me look a bit decent, before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come home?”

Drake made no difficulty at all about the matter, and he and Roy,
after a few more explanations, went off together. Roy had seen in an
old newspaper, since landing on the east coast, the mention of Mrs.
Fairbank’s death, and he had at once decided to find his way straight
to the house of Mr. Bryce, secure of learning there what might have
become of Polly and Molly. He had hardly felt surprise, on arrival, to
learn that both the girls were within. Another sadder duty would lie
before him soon—to see Admiral and Mrs. Peirce, and to tell them the
story of little Will. But his first aim had been to reach Molly.

As the two disappeared, Molly flung herself on the rug, with her face
on Polly’s knee.

“O to think that I have my own own Roy again!” she whispered.

“Dear Molly, ’tis indeed something to be thankful for.”

A tear splashed on Molly’s cheek, and she looked up with startled eyes.

“Ah—I have forgot! If Denham could but have come with Roy! Then we
should both be happy; we should want nothing. Except my papa and my
mamma to return.”

Another tear fell.

“But we will ask Roy, and he will tell us about Denham. Perhaps he will
bring you a message from him.”

“No,” Polly answered. “Roy comes from Bitche—not from Verdun. Did you
not hear? ’Tis long since he saw them. And, Molly, you must not ask.”

“Not ask!”

“No, not for me. Nothing for me! How can I tell now—so long as it is
since any letter came? And no message—none at all—in the last that did
come. Do you not see?”

“You mean——But, Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you!
O sure he cannot have done so.”

“I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure,
without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy
tells—but you must not ask for me.”

“Not even how Denham is?”

“Yes—that, for yourself. But nothing for me.”

A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a cast-off suit of Mr.
Bryce’s, which, though by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was very
markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn
before. Roy had grown brown during his prolonged wanderings; and the
dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as he
remained on French soil, was still _en evidence_. But the face and the
grey eyes were quite unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly
from the earliest moment.

An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him
soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a “wolfish” appetite.
Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would
wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present; and Drake took
care to be present throughout the meal, that he might not lose a word
of Roy’s narration of his escape from Bitche and his journey through
France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came as
a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake
arrived at a solemn conclusion, as he listened, that some among those
Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even though
they lacked the advantages of an English “eddication.”

But when dinner was over, when Roy’s wants were satisfied, and when the
three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair,
with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly,—

“Now Roy will tell us about them all at Verdun.”

“Haven’t seen ’em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest
news I can give you is nearly a year old. No, not quite the latest,
but——Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last
spring. Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes
for eighteen months. You must have heard about that.”

“There was a mention in one letter of his being there. A letter from
your mother, which had been long on its road. But no explanation. We
thought he had perhaps gone thither for a few weeks.”

“Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same
fashion. He arrived at Verdun the day before I broke that bust of the
Emperor, and got myself into trouble. You know—I told you in the other
room. I suppose—” and Roy laughed—“I suppose it was the delight of
having him back which made me a trifle crazy.”

“Sounds like Roy!” whispered Molly. “Then you have not seen anything
of Denham for an age?” This was what she rightly judged that Polly was
longing to have said.

“Pretty near two years and a half—except that one day.”

“And he and they didn’t know you would be coming home. So you have no
messages for us?”

“No, of course they didn’t. The best they could hope for was that I
might be sent back to Verdun.”

“And they were all quite well?” Polly asked this.

Roy was looking intently at Polly. She flushed, and put up one hand to
shield her face.

“Yes—I know—” Roy said, as if answering a remark. “Of course you’d like
to hear of anything he had said. I’m trying to remember. Somehow, I
don’t think——”

“He did not speak of any of us, you mean—that one day.” There was a
strained composure in Polly’s manner.

Roy was trying still to conjure up the past.

“Such a lot happened just then, and I’ve gone through so much since!
But I fancy I should remember, if he had said anything particular. You
see, he had walked the whole way from Valenciennes to Verdun, when he
was only half over an illness, giving up his horse to a young fellow
who was worse than himself; or at all events Den thought him worse. And
he was desperately done up. I never saw anyone look more ill than he
did, the day he came in.”

Polly made a movement of surprise. “Denham!” she said incredulously.
“Why—he never found anything too much for him.”

Molly put an unfortunate question. “Do you mean that he wasn’t able to
talk?”

“Well, no, I don’t mean that. We did talk a good deal that evening;
much more than Den was fit for. And there was a letter from—from
_her_—” in a lower voice. “There was a letter to my father, which had
come not long before. She said in it how well Polly was looking. I read
the letter aloud to Den, but I don’t think he said much. He was too
thoroughly dead-beat to do more than answer questions. My mother said
something, I remember, about there being letters from everybody—Polly
as well—most likely on the road. I don’t think Denham said anything
even then—except that he thought the letter I had read ought to be
burnt. I don’t believe it ever was, by-the-by. So much happened
afterwards.”

“And the very next day—was it?—you were taken off by those horrible
gendarmes,” added Molly.

Polly had turned her face away. Roy gave her a glance, then whispered—

“I say, Molly, one minute! I want a word with her.”

Molly obediently fled, and she had seldom done a harder thing in her
whole life.

Roy walked across the rug, and bent over Polly. As he had expected,
there were tears upon her cheek.

“Polly, you’ll let me speak—will you? I want you to understand.”

A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face
towards him.

“I think I do understand.”

“Den is not the man to change.”

“Many men do change—so easily.”

“Not Denham. That’s not his sort.”

She smiled a little.

“My dear Roy, you have not seen him even—except that one day—since—how
long ago?”

“Spring of 1805.”

“And you were then—how old?”

“Yes, I know all that: but boys have eyes, as well as girls. And I tell
you, Polly, I _know_ Denham. That year and a half, before he went to
Valenciennes, he and I were always together. Lessons and playtime, we
were hardly ever apart. And I got to know him, as—well, as nobody else
does. No, not you!”

She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.

“Go on,” she whispered.

“I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not
altered, and that he won’t alter. It wouldn’t be like him; it isn’t in
him; he is not that sort. It doesn’t make a grain of difference whether
he talked or didn’t talk of you that day. He was too ill—and Den
doesn’t ever talk much of the things he cares most about. You ought to
know what he feels about Sir John Moore, for instance; and yet how few
would ever guess it! Except when he is speaking quietly alone with you,
or with Jack or me, does he ever say a great deal about Moore? It isn’t
his way! And has he ever changed in that direction? No, nor ever will.
If he didn’t see Sir John for twenty years, it would make never a grain
of difference.”

“He has a warm advocate in you.”

“Because I know what he is—because he is the best friend I ever had or
ever could have. He never did talk much about you, Polly, that year
and a half that we were always together. And I was only a boy, but all
the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, or anything to
do with you came up—didn’t I see his look? Didn’t I know it? Just as I
know the look in his face when he hears anything of Sir John Moore.”

Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.

“Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long.
How did I know? I can’t tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if
‘Polly’ was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him
so—only for hours he seemed to be away from us all; and ’twas little
good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say.”

Roy’s coat-sleeve received a little squeeze.

“But—so long ago!”

“What does that matter? I’ve told you enough, and you ought to be able
to feel sure of him. I’m not making up. Den is one of the truest and
best fellows that ever lived; and when he comes home, you’ll see—you
will see for yourself.”

She bent towards him.

“Thank you, Roy! At the least, I can promise one thing—that I will wait
to see!”

(_To be continued._)




HOUSEHOLD HINTS.


TO place a piece of oil-cloth or American baize over the whole or part
of the kitchen table is a very tidy plan and saves constant scrubbing
of the table.


POWDERED rotten stone moistened with a little paraffin, cleans
brass-work beautifully, after it has been washed with soap and water,
and at the end rubbed with a clean leather.


BREAD-PANS and cheese-pans should be carefully wiped out every other
day, and any pieces of broken bread not left in the pan, but put on a
dish or plate till it is decided what shall be done with them.


SOFA covers and rugs should be frequently lifted and shaken in summer
to find out if there are any moths underneath. Spare blankets should
also be inspected, and fur cloaks and trimmings should be well shaken
and lightly beaten occasionally.


ALL green vegetables should be carefully washed with a little salt and
water to free them from the insects that find a home in them, otherwise
one may have unpleasant experiences at the dinner-table.




FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.

BY “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”


One of the special colours of the coming season is said to be yellow,
but no exact shade is quoted, and so I had better warn my readers and
tell them that there are yellows and yellows, and some of them are
calculated to make one look—dreadful! I think a lemon yellow is, as a
rule, the safest shade of all.

White gowns are in preparation, and, so far as I can see, will be quite
as much worn as they were last year by everyone; and really they seem
universally becoming.

Black skirts are no longer correct when worn with light-coloured
blouses. There should always be a repetition of the colour of the skirt
in the blouse. For instance, the skirt being of blue cloth, the blouse
should repeat the blue, mixed with any other hue you may select.

I do not see any sign of that disappearance of the blouse which
has been so often threatened; but I see that the advent of the
tight-fitting small coat may render them unnecessary, as the small
coats are made in such a dressy style, with fronts of lace, and pretty
decorations, so that they take the place of a bodice.

[Illustration: FOUR SPRING GOWNS.]

There is also a very decided advance in the popularity of the Princess
dress. Indeed, so tight-fitting are the present styles, that we might
really just as well adopt it, for we are wearing what is next akin. In
evening gowns there is a great liking for it, and a desire to do away
with the waist-band that has been worn so long; and as we must be slim
and slight this year, if we are to be at all in the fashion, so we
shall see that all styles will tend to help this one. What a sad thing
for the extremely stout! But I think it is in reality a good thing that
women and men should never allow themselves to become so, for if we
think the matter over seriously, we shall soon arrive at the conclusion
that it spoils our usefulness both to ourselves and to others, and
makes our days a burden. So if Dame Fashion steps in to decree against
it, we may hail her interposition as a blessing indeed.

The “tunic” drapery is the new note of all the spring skirts, and
really so tight-fitting are all of them, that we wonder how we are
going to sit down! In Paris this form of trimming has been most
popular, and there the blouse and skirt are arranged so as to look
exactly like a polonaise.

The new toques are larger than those of last year, and much wider.
They generally should match the colour of the gown with which they are
worn. The trimmings are put on both in front and on the left side, and
consist of ostrich tips, chou bows, or rosettes. It is said that gold
ornaments are to take the place of paste ones in all the hats of next
season; and I notice that steel buttons are more used than anything
else for gowns and blouses.

The edges of so many of the new gowns are cut in scallops that this
mode of decoration seems to be quite one of the fashions of the year,
and a glance at the drawings for the month shows how extremely short
the coats have become. That called “Four Spring Gowns” shows some of
the prevailing modes with great accuracy. The figure on the extreme
left wears a cloth Princess gown made up with a tartan velvet yoke,
sleeves, and panels. The colour of the cloth was blue, and the tartan
was one of the blue and green ones, with a tiny red line. The front is
decorated with embroidery. The next figure wears a velvet or cloth gown
of black, with a coat scalloped and braided. The collar is of white
silk embroidered with black; hat of velvet, with white silk and white
feathers. Third figure wears a gown of sage-green cloth, trimmed with a
green silk check and bands of green velvet, front of chiffon and white
silk. The seated figure wears a plain walking gown of grey cloth; the
bodice is a tight-fitting one, with a very short basque; and the whole
is edged with rows of machine stitching on the bodice and skirt.

[Illustration: TEA-GOWN FOR A YOUNG LADY.]

There is a great liking this spring for shepherds’ plaid, and it seems
likely to be used for gowns and blouses as well as capes. Our sketch
shows a tailor-made gown, which is trimmed with black braid, and has
one of the shaped flounces on the skirt. The collar is lined with white
silk, and there is a front of tucked silk-muslin, and a tie and bow of
the same. The hat is of white straw, and is trimmed with white plush,
black velvet, and black and white feathers. Veil of white, with black
dots.

[Illustration: TAILOR-MADE GOWN OF SHEPHERD’S PLAID.]

The second figure in this illustration wears a charming costume of pale
grey cloth which shows the manner in which braid is put on and mingled
with embroidery. The braid in this case is of white silk; the edges of
both coat and epaulettes are scalloped; and the braiding is arranged in
a pointed shape on the skirt. The toque is a very pretty one of a grey
shade to match the gown; and is of velvet, ornamented with a wreath of
green leaves and an arrangement of white wings.

It is sometimes useful to know how to make a tea-gown for a young lady
which will be useful and pretty, and youthful enough in its style for
the years of its wearer. The tea-gown illustrated is of black silk, and
is cut very plainly. It opens over a skirt of white satin, with a vest
of the same. This last is covered with white net with jet embroidery.
There is a flounce of the silk on either side of the front, which is
lined with white satin, and the high collar is lined with the same.

The lady in out-of-door costume who stands beside her is dressed in
a dark blue cashmere or cloth gown, scalloped and trimmed with white
braid, a hat of fancy straw, with pink roses and quills.

I have no doubt that many people are wondering whether capes are going
to be worn still, and how they will be made; so I must proceed to
answer that question now. The new capes are much like the best winter
ones have been, cut very round in front, and scant as to fulness,
rather longer too than they have been worn at the back, and with the
same very wide and full flounce surrounding them. There are also some
very short ones, but just now it is said to be too soon to speak of
capes, or indeed is there much known about purely summer things, though
I hear that thin materials will be worn over silk as much as they
were last year, and some new materials which combine the thin and the
thick together have been brought out; they are woven together making
one material. But I do not know whether they will be popular, and most
people like the silk under-gown and its pleasant rustle. The effort to
deprive us of them resulted in failure, and nun’s veiling and all soft
linings were pronounced a failure.

Amongst other novelties, there is a new shape of Tam-o’-Shanter,
which has a kind of peak added to it in front, rather after the
manner of a jockey’s cap. This makes them far more becoming, as well
as more serviceable in all weathers, and in every way they look
more close-fitting than of yore. This new Tam has been worn during
the last winter at many of the county meets, accompanied by a long
tight-fitting coat. A bright red, a light mauve, and a pretty stone
colour have all been seen, and very well and suitable they looked.
There has been a universal tendency to wear light-hued cloth this
season, and nearly every shade of red and scarlet.

I suppose everyone has seen by the papers that the latest idea at
weddings has been to have the wedding breakfast in the train which
conveyed the bride and groom, as well as the whole wedding party, to
London from the country town which had been the scene of the marriage.
This fashion will, of course, be reserved for millionaires only, but
as straws show how the wind blows, at several recent marriages the
newly-wedded pair have made their escape from the door of the church,
and there has been no wedding reception of any kind. So, perhaps, even
our very modified form of wedding entertainment will be reduced still
further, and end off at the church.

The going-away gown at all the recent smart weddings seems to have been
invariably made of cloth; roan-colour, petunia, light grey, turquoise
blue, dark and light mauve, and heliotrope are all colours that have
been seen at recent marriages in good society. The first-named was
lined with a shot-blue _glacé_ silk, and was made with a bodice which
had a full vest of cream-coloured lace and revers of dark blue velvet.
The dress of petunia cloth had a coat of petunia velvet, slashed
with mauve; and as a rule gowns of pale grey are trimmed with grey
velvet of a darker shade, with a hat to match. The turquoise blue
was an embroidered gown with chenille and silk, and was relieved by
cream-coloured lace and a collar. All of these gowns will be useful
afterwards, and were none of them too grand for daily life. This is a
point that many girls with a limited allowance have to think of, as the
going-away gown often has to become the walking and visiting dress of
the future days. So it must be chosen with deliberation and care.

I hear that in Paris the popular gown for the early spring for ordinary
wear will be black serge; this is made as a coat or Directoire coat
bodice, braided or not as is preferred, in fact made in any way that
seems suitable to everyday use. The best gown as I have said is of some
light-hued cloth, and for best summer wear the thin grenadines over
silk are most fashionable as well as the most useful of dresses. So
there is no doubt as to the gowns that will be wanted. The next thing
to consider is what are the requirements of our own wardrobes, and what
can we do without, alter, or purchase for the coming season.




ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.


CHAPTER XXV.

“Convalescence,” remarked Peggy elegantly, a week later on,
“convalescence is a period not entirely devoid of compensation!” She
was lying on a sofa in her bedroom at the Larches, wrapped in her white
dressing-gown, and leaning against a nest of pink silk cushions; and
what with a table drawn up by her side laden with grapes and jelly, a
pile of Christmas numbers lying by her side, and the presence of an
audience consisting of Rosalind, Lady Darcy and Mrs. Asplin, ready to
listen admiringly to her conversation, and to agree enthusiastically
with every word she uttered, it did indeed seem as if the position was
one which might be endured with fortitude! Many were the questions
which had been showered upon her since her return to consciousness,
and the listeners never grew tired of listening to her account of the
accident. How Rosalind had clutched too carelessly at the slender
candlestick so that it had fallen forward, setting the gauze dress in
flames, and how she herself had flown out of the room, torn down the
curtains which draped the “harem” and had flung them round the frantic,
struggling figure. There were a dozen questions which they were longing
to ask, but the remembrance of that tragic evening seemed to excite the
little invalid, so that for the present they remained unspoken.

With every day that passed, however, Peggy gained more strength, and
was petted to her heart’s content by everyone in the house. The old
lord kissed her fondly on the cheek and murmured, “God reward you, my
brave girl, for I never can.” Lady Darcy shed tears every morning when
the burns were dressed, and said; “Oh, Peggy dear, forgive me for being
cross, and do, do be sure to use the lotion for your arms regularly
every day when you get better!” and the big Doctor chucked her under
the chin and cried,

“Well, ‘Fighting Saville,’ and how are we to-day? You are the pluckiest
little patient I’ve had for a long time. I’ll say that for you! Let’s
have another taste of the rack!”... It was all most agreeable and
soothing to one’s feelings!

One of the first questions Peggy asked after her return to
consciousness was as to how much her father and mother had been told of
her accident, and whether the news had been sent by letter or cable.

“By letter, dear,” Mrs. Asplin replied. “We talked it over very
carefully, and concluded that that would be best. You know, dearie, we
were very, very anxious about you for a few days, but the doctor said
that it would be useless cabling to your mother, because if all went
well you would be up again before she could arrive, and if—if it had
gone the other way, Peggy, she could not have been in time. I sent her
a letter, and I have written every mail since, and now we are going to
calculate the time when the first letter will arrive, and send a cable
to say that you are quite out of danger, and sitting up, and getting
hungrier and more mischievous with every day as it passes!”

“Thank you,” said Peggy warmly. “That’s very kind. I am glad you
thought of that, but will you please promise not to be economical about
the cable? They won’t care about the money. Spend pounds over it if it
is necessary, but do, do manage to make them believe that I am quite
perky. Put at the end ‘Peggy says she is perky!’ They will know that
is genuine, and it will convince them more than anything else.” And so
those five expressive words went flashing across the world at the end
of a long message, and brought comfort to two hearts that had been near
to breaking.

So soon as Peggy was pronounced to be out of danger, Mrs. Asplin went
back to the vicarage, leaving her in the charge of the kind hospital
nurse, though for that matter every member of the household took it in
turns to wait upon her. A dozen times a day the master and mistress
of the house would come into the sick-room to inquire how things were
going, or to bring some little gift for the invalid, and as she grew
stronger it became the custom for father, mother and daughter to join
her at her early tea. Peggy watched them from her sofa, too weak to
speak much, but keenly alive to all that was going on, among other
things to the change which had come over these three persons since she
had known them first. Lord Darcy had always been kind and considerate,
but his manner seemed gentler and more courteous than ever, while
Rosalind’s amiability was an hourly surprise, and Lady Darcy’s manner
had lost much of its snappish discontent. On one occasion when her
husband made some little request, she replied in a tone so sweet and
loving that the listener started with surprise. What could it be that
had worked this transformation? She did not realise that when the Angel
of Death has hovered over a household, and has at last flown away with
empty arms, leaving the home untouched, they would be hard hearts that
were not touched, ungrateful natures that did not take thought of
themselves, and face life with a higher outlook! Lady Darcy’s social
disappointments seemed light compared with the awful “might have been”;
while Rosalind’s lamentations over her disfigurement had died away at
the sight of Peggy’s unconscious form. Perhaps when Lord Darcy thanked
Peggy for all she had done for him and his, he had other thoughts in
his mind than the mere physical deliverance of which she had been the
instrument!

Arthur had been kept well informed of his sister’s recovery, and proved
himself the kindest of brothers, sending letters by the dozen, full of
such nonsensical jokes, anecdotes, and illustrations, as would have
cheered the gloomiest invalid in the world. But the happiest day of
all was when the great news arrived that his name was placed first
of all in the list of successful candidates for Sandhurst. This was
indeed tidings of comfort and joy! Peggy clapped her bandaged hands
together, and laughed aloud with tears of pain streaming down her face.
“Arthur Saville, V.C., Arthur Saville, V.C.,” she cried, and then fell
to groaning because some days must still elapse before the medical
examination was over, and her hero was set free to hasten to her side.

“And I shall be back at the vicarage then, and we shall all be
together! Oh, let us be joyful! How happy I am! What a nice old world
it is, after all,” she continued hilariously, while Rosalind gazed at
her with reproachful eyes.

“Are you so glad to go away? I shall be vewy, vewy sowwy—I’ll miss
you awfully. I shall feel that there is nothing to do when you have
gone away, Peggy!” Rosalind hesitated, and looked at her companion in
uncertain bashful fashion. “I—I think you like me a little bit now, and
I’m vewwy fond of you, but you couldn’t bear me before we were ill. You
might tell me why?”

“I was jealous of you,” said Peggy promptly, whereat Rosalind’s eyes
filled with tears.

“You won’t be jealous now!” she said dismally, and raised her head to
stare at her own reflection in the mirror. The hair, which had once
streamed below her waist, was now cut short round her head, her face
had lost its delicate bloom, and an ugly scar disfigured her throat
and the lower portion of one cheek. Beautiful she must always be, with
her faultless features and wonderful eyes, but the bloom and radiance
of colour which had been her chief charm had disappeared, for the time
being, as completely as though they had never existed.

“I’ll love you more,” said Peggy reassuringly. “You are ever so much
nicer, and you will be as pretty as ever when your hair grows, and the
marks fade away. I like you better when you are not quite so pretty,
for you really were disgustingly conceited, weren’t you now? You can’t
deny it.”

“Oh, Peggy Saville, and so were you! I saw that the first moment you
came into the woom! You flared up like a Turkey cock if anyone dared
to offend your dignity, and you were always widing about on your high
horse tossing your head, and using gweat long words.”

“That’s pride, not conceit. It’s quite a different thing.”

“It seems very much alike to other people,” said Rosalind shrewdly.
“We both gave ourselves airs, and the wesult was the same,
whatever caused it. I was pwoud of my face, and you were pwoud of
your—your—er—family—and your cleverness and—the twicks you played, so
if I confess, you ought to confess too. I’m sorry I aggwavated you,
Mawiquita, and took all the pwaise for the decowations. It was howwibly
mean, and I don’t wonder you were angwy. I’m sorry that I was selfish!”

“I exceedingly regret that I formed a false estimate of your character!
Let’s be chums!” said Peggy sweetly, and the two girls eyed one another
uncertainly for a moment, then bent forward and exchanged a kiss of
conciliation, after which unusual display of emotion, they were seized
with instant embarrassment.

“Hem!” said Peggy. “It’s very cold! Fire rather low, I think. Looks as
if it were going to snow.”

“No,” said Rosalind, “I mean—yes. I’ll put on some more—I mean coals.
In half an hour Esther and Mellicent will be here——”

“Oh, so they will! How lovely!” Peggy seized gladly on the new opening,
and proceeded to enlarge on the joy which she felt at the prospect
of seeing her friends again, for on that afternoon, Robert and the
vicarage party were to be allowed to see her for the first time, and to
have tea in her room. She had been looking forward to their visit for
days, and now that the longed-for hour was at hand, she was eager to
have the lamps lit, and all preparations made for their arrival.

Robert appeared first, having ridden over in advance of the rest. And
Rosalind, after going out to greet him, came rushing back, all shaking
with laughter, with the information that he had begun to walk on
tip-toe the moment that he had left the drawing-room, and was creeping
along the passage as if the floor were made of egg-shells.

Peggy craned her head, heard the squeak, squeak of boots coming nearer
and nearer, the cautious opening of the door, the heavy breaths of
anxiety, and then, crash!—bang!—crash! down flopped the heavy screen
round the doorway, and Rob was discovered standing among the ruins in
agonies of embarrassment. From his expression of despair, he might have
supposed that the shock would kill Peggy outright; but she gulped down
her nervousness, and tried her best to reassure him.

“Oh, never mind—never mind! It doesn’t matter. Come over here and talk
to me. Oh, Rob, Rob, I am so glad to see you!”

Robert stood looking down in silence, while his lips twitched and his
eyebrows worked in curious fashion. If it had not been altogether too
ridiculous, Peggy would have thought that he felt inclined to cry. But
he only grunted, and cried—

“What a face! You had better tuck into as much food as you can, and get
some flesh on your bones. It’s about as big as the palm of my hand!
Never saw such a thing in my life.”

“Never mind my face,” piped Peggy in her weak little treble. “Sit right
down and talk to me. What is the news in the giddy world? Have you
heard anything about the prize? When does the result come out? Remember
you promised faithfully not to open the paper until we were together. I
was so afraid it would come while I was too ill to look at it!”

“I should have waited,” said Robert sturdily. “There would have been no
interest in the thing without you; but the result won’t be given for
ten days yet, and by that time you will be with us again. The world
hasn’t been at all giddy, I can tell you. I never put in a flatter
time. Everybody was in the blues, and the house was like a tomb, and
a jolly uncomfortable tomb at that. Esther was housekeeper while Mrs.
Asplin was away, and she starved us! She was in such a mortal fright of
being extravagant, that she would scarcely give us enough to keep body
and soul together, and the things we had were not fit to eat. Nothing
but milk puddings and stewed fruit for a week on end. Then we rebelled.
I nipped her up in my arms one evening in the school-room and stuck her
on the top of the little book-case. Then we mounted guard around, and
set forth our views. It would have killed you to see her perched up
there, trying to look prim and to keep up her dignity.

“‘Let me down this moment, Robert! Bring a chair and let me get down.’

“‘Will you promise to give us a pie to-morrow then, and a decent sort
of a pudding?’

“‘It’s no business of yours what I give you. You ought to be thankful
for good wholesome food!’

“‘Milk puddings are not wholesome. They don’t agree with us—they are
too rich! We should like something a little lighter for a change. Will
you swear off milk puddings for the next fortnight if I let you down?’

“‘You are a cruel, heartless fellow, Robert Darcy—thinking of puddings
when Peggy is ill, and we are all so anxious about her!’

“‘Peggy would die at once if she heard how badly you were treating us.
Now then, you have kept me waiting for ten minutes, so the price has
gone up. You’ll have to promise a pair of ducks and mince pies into the
bargain! I shall be ashamed of meeting a sheep soon, if we go on eating
mutton every day of the week.’

“‘Call yourself a gentleman!’ says she, tossing her head and withering
me with a glance of scorn.

“‘I call myself a hungry man, and that’s all we are concerned about for
the moment,’ said I. ‘A couple of ducks and two nailing good puddings
to-morrow night, or there you sit for the rest of the evening!’

“We went at it hammer and tongs until she was fairly spluttering with
rage; but she had to promise before she came down, and we had no more
starvation diet after that. Oswald went up to town for a day and bought
a pair of blue silk socks and a tie to match—that’s the greatest
excitement we have had. The rest has been all worry and grind, and
Mellicent on the rampage about Christmas presents. Oh, by-the-by, I
printed those photographs you wanted to send to your mother, and packed
them off by the mail a fortnight ago, so that she would get them in
good time for Christmas.”

“Rob, you didn’t! How noble of you! You really are an admirable
person!” Peggy lay back against her pillows and gazed at her “partner”
in great contentment of spirit. After living an invalid’s life for
these past weeks it was delightfully refreshing to look at the big
strong face. The sight of it was like a fresh breeze coming into the
close, heated room, and she felt as if some of his superabundant energy
had come into her own weak frame.

A little later the vicarage party arrived, and greeted the two
convalescents with warmest affection. If they were shocked at the sight
of Rosalind’s disfigurement and Peggy’s emaciation, three out of the
four were polite enough to disguise their feelings; but it was too much
to expect of Mellicent that she should disguise what she happened to
be feeling. She stared and gaped, and stared again, stuttering with
consternation—

“Why—why—Rosalind—your hair! It’s shorter than mine! It doesn’t come
down to your shoulders! Did they cut it all off? What did you do with
the rest? And your poor cheek! Will you have that mark all your life?”

“I don’t know. Mother is going to twy electwicity for it. It will fade
a good deal, I suppose, but I shall always be a fwight. I’m twying to
wesign myself to being a hideous monster!” sighed Rosalind, turning
her head towards the window the while in such a position that the scar
was hidden from view, and she looked more like the celestial choir-boy
of Peggy’s delirium than ever, with the golden locks curling round her
neck, and the big eyes raised to the ceiling in a glance of pathetic
resignation.

Rob guffawed aloud with the callousness of a brother; but the other
two lads gazed at her with an adoring admiration, which was balm to
her vain little heart. Vain still, for a nature does not change in a
day, and though Rosalind was an infinitely more lovable person now than
she had been a few weeks before, the habits of a life-time were still
strong upon her, and she could never by any possibility be indifferent
to admiration, or pass a mirror without stopping to examine the
progress of that disfiguring scar.

“It wouldn’t have mattered half so much if it had been Peggy’s face
that was spoiled,” continued Mellicent with cruel outspokenness, “and
it is only her hands that are hurt. Things always go the wrong way in
this world! I never saw anything like it. You know that night-dress
bag I was working for mother, Peggy? Well, I only got two skeins of
the blue silk, and then if I didn’t run short, and they hadn’t any
more in the shop. The other shades don’t match at all, and it looks
simply vile. I am going to give it to—ahem! I mean that’s the sort of
thing that always happens to me—it makes me mad! You can’t sew at all,
I suppose. What do you do with yourself all day long now that you are
able to get up?”

Peggy’s eyes twinkled.

“I sleep,” she said slowly, “and eat, and sleep a little more, and eat
again, and talk a little bit, roll into bed, and fall fast asleep.
Voilà tout, ma chère! C’est ça que je fais tous les jours.”

Rosalind gave a shriek of laughter at Peggy’s French, and Mellicent
rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

“How s—imply lovely!” she sighed. “I wish I were you! I’d like to go to
bed in November and stay there till May. In a room like this of course,
with everything beautiful and dainty, and a maid to wait upon me. I’d
have a fire and an india-rubber hot-water bottle, and I’d lie and sleep
and wake up every now and then and make the maid read aloud, and bring
me my meals on a tray. Nice meals! Real, nice invalidy things, you
know, to tempt my appetite.” Mellicent’s eyes rolled instinctively to
the table where the jelly and the grapes stood together in tempting
proximity. She sighed, and brought herself back with an effort to the
painful present. “Goodness, Peggy, how funny your hands look! Just
like a mummy! What do they look like when the bandages are off? Very
horrible?”

“Hideous!” Peggy shrugged her shoulders and wrinkled her nose in
disgust. “I am going to try to grow old as fast as I can, so that I
can wear mittens and cover them up. I’m really rather distressed about
it because I am so—so addicted to rings, don’t you know. They have
been a weakness of mine all my life, and I’ve looked forward to having
my fingers simply loaded with them when I grew up. There is one of
mother’s that I especially admire, a big square emerald surrounded with
diamonds. She promised to give it to me on my twenty-first birthday,
but unless my hands look very different by that time, I shall not want
to call attention to them. Alack-a-day! I fear I shall never be able to
wear a ring——”

“Gracious goodness! Then you can never be married!” ejaculated
Mellicent in a tone of such horrified dismay, as evoked a shriek of
merriment from the listeners, Peggy’s merry trill sounding clear above
the rest. It was just delicious to be well again, to sit among her
companions and have one of the old hearty laughs over Mellicent’s
quaint speeches. At that moment she was one of the happiest girls in
all the world!

(_To be continued._)




VARIETIES.


HOW TO READ.

    “With the heart as well as the head,
    Books worth reading must be read.”


GIVING.

    Give, give, be always giving;
    Who gives not is not living.
        The more we give
        The more we live.


GRAMMAR.—A school teacher, near Dawson, Ga., having instructed a pupil
to purchase a grammar, the next day received a note, thus worded, from
the child’s mother:—“I do not desire for Lula shall ingage in grammar
as i prefer her ingage in yuseful studies and can learn her how to
spoke and write properly myself. I have went through two grammars and
can’t say as they did me no good. I prefer her ingage in german and
drawing and vokal music on the piano.”


THE BOOK OF THE SKY.

The great French writer, Victor Hugo, wrote delightful letters to his
children, as we might expect from the fond and playful author of _L’Art
d’être Grandpère_. From one of them we take the following passage. It
occurs in a letter sent from Boulogne to his favourite daughter.

“All day,” he says, “I was looking at churches and pictures and then
at night I gazed at the sky, and thought once more of you as I watched
that beautiful constellation, the Chariot of God, which I have taught
you to distinguish among the stars.

“See, my child, how great God is, and how small we are. Where we put
dots of ink He puts suns. These are the letters which He writes. The
sky is His book. I shall bless God if you are always able to read it,
and I hope you may.”


ANSWER TO TRIPLE ACROSTIC I. (p. 299).

1. I d L e R[A]
2. R   I   O[B]
3. I o L a S[C]
4. S t Y l E[D]
Iris—Lily—Rose.

[A] One of the periodicals which, like the _Spectator_, _Rambler_,
_Tatler_, &c., were so popular in the early part of the eighteenth
century.

[B] One of the finest and safest ports in the world. The city was
founded in January, 1565, by the Portuguese, who mistook the beautiful
bay for the mouth of a large river, and gave it the name of Rio de
Janeiro.

[C] The companion of Hercules, when he destroyed the Lernœan Hydra.

[D] The Roman stylus or style was a sharp point, used for writing on a
waxen tablet. The old style was altered in 1582 by Pope Gregory XII.
and consisted of passing over ten days in the October of that year; but
the new style was not adopted in England until 1752, when the omission
of eleven days became necessary in order to rectify the Calendar.




A NEW GAME;

OR,

“HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?”


I went out the other night to an evening party, a thoroughly enjoyable
one of the old-fashioned type, where we played games, did what we
liked, and were not afraid of being thought silly because we were
amused by simple things. One of the games struck me as peculiarly
pretty and not too difficult for anyone to join in, and as it was new
to me I write it down in case our girls have not heard of it before.

It was started during supper by one of the two hostesses remarking, “I
have a little garden and in it I buried a private soldier. What flower
did he come up?”

As we none of us guessed it she gave us the answer, “A scarlet runner!”
but carefully explained that he ran towards the foe, not away from him!

Then someone next her went on, “I, too, have a little garden and in it
I buried my lover wounded in the wars. What flower did he come up?”

The answer to this was, “Love lies bleeding.”

A young lady present whose father is a well-known editor, and is called
John, covered herself with glory by burying him and announcing that he
came up a “Jon-quil!”

She also buried her youngest brother Willie, who strongly objected
to the process, but was mollified when he found he came up as “Sweet
William!”

I personally “buried my lover in a London fog,” so that he came up
“Love in a Mist.”

The fun grew fast and furious till trees and vegetables came into play,
and one girl paid a pretty compliment by asking, “I buried a pretty
person. What tree did she come up?” but no one must guess it as the
answer is “Yew!”

Below I give a few questions and answers to make it clear.

Of course these are only a few, but anyone could easily find out as
many more, and it is surprising how readily suitable symbols come to
your mind and how interesting the game becomes.

It can also be amplified into buried cities, but the floral form is the
prettiest of any.

      QUESTION.                    ANSWER.

I buried a satin shoe,
  and it came up as           A lady’s slipper.

I buried a race-horse,
  and it came up as           Speed-well.

I buried a tramp, and
  he came up as               Ragged Robin.

I buried my sorrows,
  and they came up as         Sweet peas (peace).

I buried a kiss, and it
  came up as                  Tulips (two lips).

I buried a colt, and it
  came up                     A peony (pony).

I buried a special dog,
  and it came up              A cauliflower (collie).

I buried the sea-shore,
  and it came up              A beech (beach).

I buried a secret, and it
  came up                     Inviolate (violet).

I buried the Union Jack
  and Stars and Stripes,
  and they came up as         Flags!

I buried a well-dressed
  Society hero, and he
  came up                     A dandelion.

I buried a bird and a
  piece of metal, and
  they came up as             Lark-spur.

I buried a pony’s hoof,
  and it came up as           Colt’s-foot.

I buried two invalid
  bachelors, and they
  came up as                  Cyclamen (sickly men).

[Illustration]




HIS GREAT REWARD.


CHAPTER IV.

Magnus Duncan was in a brown study. Rick, his terrier, had been
endeavouring for some time past to attract his master’s attention, but
so far his efforts had been fruitless.

Patients had been and gone, and the consulting-room was empty save for
Rick and his master, but still Magnus made no move to get his hat and
go for a walk as his custom was.

Rick could not understand it, so, finding that poking his nose into the
hand that hung down over the arm of the chair, and giving vent to small
whines, produced no effect, he suddenly jumped on to his master’s knee
and commenced to lick vigorously the hand upon which Magnus had rested
his forehead.

With a start and a laugh Magnus came back to earth, for, if the truth
must be told, he had been indulging in a habit which had become common
with him of late, viz., building castles in the air. In these, too, a
very large part was played by a certain golden-haired, hazel-eyed young
lady known to the reader under the name of Marielle Heritage.

For it had come to this, that Magnus Duncan’s true heart had found its
liege lady, and his life’s happiness depended upon the answer that
Marielle would give to a certain question which he intended to put to
her before long.

“If I could only be sure of her!” sighed Magnus to himself. “But she is
so modest and shy, she will never let me be certain she cares for me. I
think she does though, in spite of the reserve she wraps herself up in.
My queen!”

Humming unconsciously the air of Blumenthal’s exquisite song, young
Dr. Duncan got up and fetched his hat and stick. Rick took this as an
invitation to a walk, and immediately began to utter a series of sharp
shrill barks expressive of his delight at the prospect. But he was
doomed to disappointment after all, for just as Magnus was leaving the
house a messenger came up in hot haste bearing a note.

Opening it the young man read, “Please come at once to 27, York Road.
My mother is seriously ill, and I do not know what is the matter with
her.—M. H.”

Magnus only waited to secure his bag, into which he put various things
of use in emergencies, then hailing a hansom he was driven rapidly
along to York Road.

Arrived there he was shown up at once into the room where Mrs. Heritage
was lying in bed, with Marielle standing anxiously beside her.

One glance from the keen blue eyes at the face upon the pillow told
Magnus Duncan what was amiss.

Marielle only whispered, “I am so glad you have come,” then turning to
Mrs. Heritage said, “Mother darling, here is the doctor come to see
you.”

An inarticulate effort at speech accompanied by a bewildered look was
the only response, and Marielle turned the most piteous of faces to
meet the kindly eyes of the young man, saying, “She has been like this
for nearly two hours now, and I cannot think what causes it.”

Magnus Duncan beckoned the girl to come a little further away from the
invalid while he made a careful examination of the helpless limbs. He
could not trust himself to speak at the moment. Her trouble almost
unmanned him.

The examination over, the young doctor asked that one of the servants
might be told to remain in the sick-room while he had a little talk
with Marielle downstairs, and as soon as they reached the little
drawing-room he asked, “Tell me just how this began?”

“It began with a cold,” replied Marielle. “I had a slight one on Sunday
and was unable to go out, so mother said she would not walk so far as
St. Jude’s by herself, but would go to St. Saviour’s instead for once.
When she came back she was shivering, and she told me she had been
shown into a pew close beside a damp wall. She sneezed violently, she
said, so many times that people turned to look at her, and she did not
like to attract further attention by coming out. On Monday and Tuesday
she got up as usual, but yesterday I persuaded her to stay in bed as
her cold was no better, and to-day she became as you see her now. I
thought at first that she was only drowsy, then I became very uneasy
and sent for you.”

“Have you never seen paralysis before?” asked Magnus gently.

“Oh, no! Oh! it cannot be that, surely. Oh, say it is not that!” Yet as
she asked, she knew it must be so, from the pitiful look in the honest
eyes that met her own.

How hard it was for Magnus to stand by and witness Marielle’s grief and
be obliged to suppress his longing to take her in his arms and comfort
her, was a secret that remained locked in his breast.

He impressed upon her the necessity for being brave, and after giving a
few directions, took his leave, promising to send a nurse in at once.

It was the beginning of what proved to be a long and trying illness
for poor Mrs. Heritage. Indeed at first it seemed a little doubtful
whether she would ever recover, but this was during the first week
only. After that, the improvement in her condition though very slow
was sure, and though it was not likely that she would ever again be so
strong and well as formerly, there was every reason to hope that in
time she might be able to resume to a great extent her former active
life. Magnus Duncan continued to treat the case himself, by common
consent. Paralysis was a subject to which he had given special study
and attention, and although the older doctor accompanied his son once
or twice at first, it was more as a matter of form than anything. It
is superfluous to say that every expedient that skill and devotion
could bring to bear upon the case was resorted to by the young doctor,
and his unceasing efforts were not lost upon either Marielle or the
invalid. Both mother and daughter had been from the beginning of the
acquaintanceship, strongly attracted towards him. He was so manly and
straightforward, so courteous and polite to the weaker sex, yet without
being in any way effeminate.

Long since Mrs. Heritage had awakened to the fact that her child was
the object of devoted love on the part of Magnus Duncan, and far from
feeling any displeasure at the idea, she rejoiced exceedingly. There
was no one to whose care she would so gladly give her beloved daughter.
It would be an inexpressible comfort to think of her darling having
a strong arm and true heart to defend her, when she herself had been
gathered to her last long home.

Yet, like Magnus, Mrs. Heritage was not sure of Marielle’s feelings
towards the young doctor. The girl was so maidenly and modest, so free
from conceit, that even if she really reciprocated his love, she would
not show it until certain that she was indeed sought by him.

Neither mother nor lover need have been uneasy, however, for
circumstances were lending themselves to aid their dearest wish, and
Marielle’s heart had been won during these long weeks of her mother’s
illness.

Magnus as an acquaintance or friend had always been charming, but
Magnus in a sick-room was a revelation to Marielle. His quiet, yet
withal bright and cheery, manner was the very perfection of what a
medical man’s should be. It neither startled nor depressed his patients
by being either boisterous or melancholy; and the gentle touch and
tenderness with which from time to time he examined the paralysed limbs
of Mrs. Heritage made Marielle glow with gratitude, and resolve that
when a fitting opportunity presented itself she would not fail to thank
Magnus for all his kindness.

Somehow she had an inkling that a few words from herself would have
more value in his eyes than the biggest fee she could offer him.

At the thought of the doctor’s and other bills that would have to be
paid, Marielle’s heart sank. It would be rather difficult to meet them
all out of their slender income, and for a month past she had done
nothing to earn money, owing to her mother’s illness. Now, however, it
was no longer necessary for the nurse or anyone to sit up all night
with the invalid, and Marielle decided to sleep in her mother’s room at
night and let the nurse take the day duty.

Accordingly she notified her pupils to the effect that she would be
able to resume her teaching the following week, and prepared to work
hard.

Hence it came about that one day about a fortnight later Magnus Duncan,
calling in to see Mrs. Heritage, who was promoted to a sofa for a while
in the afternoon now, found her alone, Nurse Rigby having gone to
prepare some little invalid delicacy, and Marielle being out.

Mrs. Heritage, who was making rapid progress towards health, noticed
the quick glance around that the young doctor gave, and answered it by
remarking quietly:

“Marielle is out.”

Magnus reddened at having his thoughts read so easily, but met the
glance bent on him by one as steady. Then he resolved to take her into
his confidence, and went straight to the point.

“I see you have guessed my secret,” he said. “Tell me, shall I have
your consent if I win her?”

Mrs. Heritage held out her hand, and replied, as Magnus clasped it with
his own:

“Yes, and my blessing too. There is no one I know to whom I would so
gladly give my child.”

“Bless you for that!” cried Magnus. “But do you think she cares for me?”

“Ask her, and see,” said Marielle’s mother, smiling. “Remember she is
not a girl to wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“When can I see her?” asked Magnus.

“Well, she is teaching at Forman’s to-day,” said Mrs. Heritage, “but
she finishes about half-past three, and I persuaded her to come home
by Roxton Road and take a walk in the park. She is rather pale after
nursing me and being indoors so much, and I thought it would do her
good. She is so fond of the Rose-walk that she is sure to stop some
time, so I do not think you will see her to-day, unless”—smiling—“you
come again on purpose. You must make your own opportunity, but whenever
it may be, I shall rejoice so that you bring me good news.”

In response to this kindly speech Magnus Duncan just bent over the
invalid and gave her a hearty kiss, then bade her good-bye, and was
leaving the room when he turned back to say:

“I had nearly forgotten my message. My mother asked when she could
come and see you, and I told her any time now, as you were doing so
nicely; so she sent her love, and I was to say she would come to-morrow
afternoon for a little while. Mr. Mellis also waylaid me as I was
coming here to-day with a similar inquiry, so I promised to prepare you
for a visit from him too. Dear old man! he has been so anxious about
you. He would not come to-morrow as my mother is coming, but the day
after.” And with a nod and bright smile Magnus went on his way.

Odd, wasn’t it, that as soon as he stepped into the road the young
doctor’s feet should turn in the direction of the High Park? The sly
fellow had been calculating the time at which Marielle could arrive
there, and had come to the determination to seek her and learn his fate
from her own lips without further delay.

He was in such a hurry to reach the Rose-walk, and so absorbed in
his own thoughts, that he narrowly escaped being run over at a
street-crossing, but he never checked his pace until he actually
reached the spot where he expected to find his love.

At first he failed to see her, and a blank feeling of disappointment
crept over him. The next moment he descried her in the midst of a group
of merry children. One darling tot had fallen and grazed her knee, and
Marielle was sitting with the little one in her lap, kissing away the
tears, and tenderly wiping the place with her handkerchief.

Magnus stood and watched her there with adoring eyes until, smiles
having been restored to the baby face of the child, she put her down
from her lap to run to her companions, and rose herself to go home.

Turning, she met the rapt gaze of Magnus Duncan—whom she had not
hitherto perceived—which made her heart beat fast and the blood leap to
her face. With an immense effort at self-control she held out her hand,
with the remark:

“Dr. Duncan! I did not expect to meet you here.”

“No? I have been to see your mother.”

“She is not worse, is she?” cried Marielle hastily.

“Oh, no!” answered Magnus, smiling reassuringly. “In fact, she is
making a splendid recovery, thanks to your good nursing.”

“Thanks to your kind care and attention, you mean,” responded Marielle.
Then, her voice faltering a little: “Dr. Duncan, I cannot tell you how
I have thought about it, or what it has been to me, but I can never,
never thank you sufficiently for all your goodness to my darling
mother. Oh! if I were rich I would show you my gratitude in a practical
way, but I am only poor as yet, and thanks are all I have to give you.”

They had turned into a shady alley, where they were quite alone, and as
Marielle spoke she raised her eyes, brimming with tears, to meet those
of the man at her side.

“All you have to give me, Marielle? Why, you have it in your power to
give me the greatest reward that was ever bestowed on medical man!”
Then, tenderly taking her hand in his: “Won’t you give it me, my
darling? It is yourself I want.”

Trembling all over, Marielle essayed to answer, but words would not
come. Instead she pressed the hand that held her own, and looked up
with a face like an April day, half smiles, half tears.

Magnus Duncan read her reply aright, and strained her to his heart.

“Ah!” said Marielle archly, a little later on, “you say it is your
greatest reward, but”—gravely—“I had a far greater still—once.”

“I know all about it, my darling, and it only makes me feel myself
doubly blessed in having won your love,” was Magnus Duncan’s tender
reply, as he drew Marielle’s hand within his arm and they strolled
slowly homewards.

       *       *       *       *       *

“It was a very pretty wedding,” was the general remark about that which
was solemnised at St. Jude’s the following June. The bride looked
lovely in her shimmering white robes, followed by six of her pupils as
bridesmaids; and the bridegroom looked so proud and happy.

No tears were shed, for Marielle had begged there might not be, since
she was not going to be separated from her mother for long; and as
everyone was pleased and happy, why should they weep?

“If ever I marry,” had been Marielle’s remark some years before, “I
will not go crying to my husband; it would be such a poor compliment.”

And she kept her word.

    R. S. C.




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

DISTRESSED.—Your letter is so well worded, and the description you give
us is so concise, that we have little difficulty in telling you what is
the cause of your flushings. It is indigestion caused by working too
soon after meals. Here is some advice. You say, “I have breakfast from
milk and porridge at a quarter to 8 A.M. Then I go by train to school
which I reach at 8.30 A.M.” Three-quarters of an hour between sitting
down to breakfast and being in the schoolroom! It is not enough. Could
not you manage to have your breakfast a little earlier, and to sit down
quietly for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes before leaving to
catch your train? As regards your breakfast, though a very nutritious
one, it is not over easily digested, and we suggest that while you
are troubled with flushings, you should take bread and milk instead
of porridge. And with your other meals observe the same precaution of
resting a little after each, and also, if you can manage it, take your
walk before instead of after lunch. Last, but not least important, look
to the state of your teeth.

JOSEPHINE.—We have published many answers on chronic catarrh of the
nose. It is an exceedingly common affection and one which often causes
great discomfort. The reason why people with this complaint can breathe
through their noses during the day, but cannot do so at night, is that
the upright position prevents the blood from stagnating, whereas in the
recumbent posture the mucous membrane of the nose becomes congested and
obstructs the passage. Cold in the head is acute catarrh of the nose,
and bronchitis is acute catarrh of the air tubes, so it is easy to see
why a cough so commonly follows a cold. Acute catarrh very commonly
develops during the course of a chronic catarrh, so all your troubles
are easily accounted for. Now as to treatment. Get the following
powder made up for you:—chlorate of potassium, borax and bicarbonate
of sodium, of each one part, and powdered white sugar two parts.
Make a lotion by dissolving one teaspoonful of this powder in half a
tumblerful of tepid water, and use it three times a day for syringing
out your nose. Afterwards apply a solution of menthol, one part, in
paroleine, eight parts, to the inside of the nose with an atomiser or
spray.

GALVA.—That electricity has proved of great use in the treatment of
disease is unquestionable, though it is quite as certain that it has
opened a way to quacks and other swindlers of fleecing invalids and
others, and in this way it has proved a great enemy to medicine. As
regards its uses in medicine, it has given us the electro-cautery,
electrolysis, the portable electric light—a most valuable addition
to our consulting-rooms—and it has given us the electric currents so
much used in the treatment of nervous diseases. No person should start
practising on herself with the electric current. Useful as this agent
is in some cases, it requires very careful judgment in its use. Each
case requires a different strength of current and a different length
of time of application from any other. The indiscriminate use of
electricity can do great harm. As regards the abuses of electricity—the
quack apparatus by which the unsuspecting public is “gulled”—we might
occupy the whole volume in discussing it. It requires a large current
to pierce the human skin and so have any effect upon the muscles or
nerves. An electric current which will light a small incandescent lamp
will have not the slightest effect upon a man holding the wires in
his hands. The “electropathic belts,” rings, stockings, boots, hats,
ties, stays, etc., etc., either produce no electric current at all, or
else they give so little electricity that it avails nothing. To take a
concrete example:—if it requires a strength of current corresponding
to the size of our earth in magnitude to pierce the human skin and be
felt by the patient, the strength of current given out by an electric
belt would be compared with a grain of sand in magnitude. That is, the
current is many thousands of times too weak to be of any good.

MINERVA.—There is no safe method by which you can make your eyes
glisten. Some foolish actresses put atropine (belladonna) into their
eyes to brighten them. Belladonna dilates the pupil widely, thus
giving the eyes a very brilliant appearance, but it is an exceedingly
injurious thing for several reasons. The drug paralyses the muscles
of the eyes which enable us to see near objects. The widely-dilated
pupils will not contract in the presence of a bright light. This is
exceedingly painful, causing headache and delirium, and the effects
upon the eyes of putting belladonna into them last for over a week.
Lastly, and most important, atropine is a deadly poison—it is one of
the most poisonous drugs known. It is therefore exceedingly unsafe to
use. So poisonous is it that some deaths have occurred from dropping
one drop of the solution of atropine, _i.e._, one-hundredth of a grain
of the drug, into the eyes for cosmetic purposes. Fortunately you would
find great difficulty in obtaining the drug, but it is inconceivable to
us how you could be sufficiently foolish to wish to use it.

W. K. L. asks us how she may reduce her weight? But as she does not
tell us how much she weighs, we cannot give her the information that
she requires. The majority of correspondents who ask this question
state their ages and weights, and usually we find that the latter is
rather below than above the average for their ages.

ENDYMION.—There is not the slightest objection to your marrying because
you have had pneumonia. It is true that that disease is somewhat apt to
attack a person more than once; but it is in no way hereditary, though
it is undoubtedly infectious. We advise people not to marry only when
they have a disease which is sure to kill them shortly; or a disease
in which married life is dangerous, or where the disease is strongly
hereditary and the children would probably suffer from it.

ANXIOUS ONE.—Your question is an exceedingly delicate one, and one
on which you would do well not to take our opinion alone, but to
supplement it with that of other medical men. Epilepsy is a very
serious disease, it is rarely possible to cure it, and, moreover, it is
strongly hereditary. The question, “should an epileptic marry?” must,
in the majority of cases, be answered in the negative. Most certainly
an epileptic should not marry if he still has fits. It is only in those
cases where the patients have not had fits for some years that the
question of their marrying can be considered. In the case you mention
to us, we advise you to make perfectly certain that the disease is
epilepsy. There are some diseases which produce symptoms not unlike
those of some forms of epilepsy, and the diagnosis between them is
often impossible without watching the case for some weeks or months.
Our advice is first to make certain what is the matter with the man,
and if this proves to be epilepsy, it is better for both to break off
your engagement. But do not do so without obtaining the opinion of
another physician.

BOREAS.—This year give your chief thoughts to the prevention of
chilblains, and save yourself from the trouble and pain of last year’s
experiences. Persons subject to chilblains should wear warm woollen
stockings. Let the boots be amply large. If you cramp your feet in
small boots it is almost impossible to keep them warm. Let the boots
have thick soles and be thoroughly watertight. In snowy weather it is
a good plan to give your boots a thick coating of dubbing. This spoils
their appearance; but it saves the boots, and what is more important,
it keeps them dry. Take a warm foot-bath every evening. If these
measures fail, and you get chilblains after all, wash them over with
spirit and water, or with spirit one part, tincture of benzoin one
part, glycerine one part and water ten parts. This will often prevent
the chilblains from bursting. If, however, they do burst, wash them in
carbolic acid (1 in 60), and then thickly sprinkle powdered boracic
acid over them and swathe them in cotton wool. If you have bad broken
chilblains, it is a very good plan to remain in bed in a warm room for
a day or two, or if you cannot do this, remain with the legs elevated
upon a stool. Elevation of the legs prevents the blood from stagnating,
thus quickening the circulation and removing the prime cause of
chilblains. But, of course, it is not all of us who can afford to give
a day or two to this treatment.


MISCELLANEOUS.

SHUTTLECOCK.—Your writing is unformed; but promises well, as your
letters are neatly made, and your note is without blots and erasures.

ANXIOUS.—In writing your letter to the Countess of So-and-So, you
should begin “Madam ——,” and in your letter should refer to her as
“your ladyship.” You would address to her as “The Right Honourable the
Countess of So-and-So.” This is the proper form for business letters
such as yours. In society you should not say, “your ladyship”; but,
once in a way, “my lady,” or speak of her thus to a fellow guest, or
one of the family, if an equal.

HELENE.—The usual allowance for a girl’s pocket money, out of which she
has to supply gloves, stamps and writing-paper, is about eight or ten
shillings a month. But the parents’ purse must settle that question.

A. B. C.—If accustomed to cooking, dressmaking and housekeeping, why
not look for a situation where, in one of these things, you can earn
your living. If you have a minister or clergyman whom you know, you
might get him to speak to your family; but going to law would be of
no service at all to you, and we doubt whether you could recover any
wages. A housekeeper’s place would suit you, we think. Be of good
cheer, “the darkest cloud has a silver lining,” and we cannot think
that _everybody_ means to treat you badly. By your own account, your
mother worked for you, when you could not work for yourself.

SYBIL.—We do not know whether there be any value for the silver foil;
but we heard of a lady who had made use of it by having it melted
into a jug. Many people collect it, and when a large enough ball is
obtained, use it for holding a door open.

MURIEL.—The word in English that begins with “A” and ends with “V.”
There is no word “in English” in which the “v” is not followed by an
“e.” The name of the sea called “of Azov” is not English. Probably she
has made this mistake. Your writing is fairly good and legible, but not
pretty.

A READER OF THE “G.O.P.”—The first thing in beginning a Servants’
Registry is to get an office and furnish it, and the next is to make
a connection, if you have not made one before beginning. The best way
to gain experience is to get a situation in a registry office as an
assistant, and learn the routine of the office work—how to receive and
manage the applicants, both servants and employers, and the amount of
fees to be charged. Your writing is not very good, and your letter is
of the vaguest. If you have a small shop already, you would find it
easier to begin a registry.

LOUISE.—There is an excellent Training School in Liverpool, Royal
Institution, Colquitt Street, Hon. Sec. Miss Fanny L. Calder, 49,
Canning Street, where all domestic branches—including sewing,
dressmaking, millinery, dairy and laundry work, and cooking—may
be learnt. This is near you. There is also an excellent one in
Edinburgh, 3, Athole Crescent, Hon. Sec. Miss Guthrie Wright. Boarders
are received. You can write for prospectuses to both, as either
would answer your purpose. The Leaton Colonial Training Home is at
Wrockwardine, Wellington, Salop. Here girls are trained for all
practical work, and the terms are moderate.

L. M. O.—We regret to state that neither of the books possesses any
commercial value. A good bookseller would purchase them only if they
happen to be in a very fine contemporary binding.




OUR PUZZLE POEMS.

FOREIGN AWARDS.


A PUZZLE-SOLVER.

_Prize Winners_ (_Half-a-Guinea Each_).

    Nellie M. Jenkinson, 336, Burnley Street, Richmond, Victoria,
    Australia.

    Rev. J. S. Phillips, 16, Rue Jeanne d’Arc, Lille, France.


_Very Highly Commended._

A. L. Baverstock (Natal), Ethel L. Glendenning (New Zealand), Baroness
Karola Halm (Russia), Mrs. Hardy (Australia), Mrs. Haybittel (Cape
Colony), Mrs. A. E. Jones (Hungary), Mrs. J. Mackenzie (Australia),
Mrs. H. Vogel (Bombay).


_Highly Commended._

Mrs. G. Barnard (Australia), Ethel Bevan (Ceylon), F. Fitz-Roy Dixon
(Canada), Miss Gamlen (France), Katherine J. Knop (Madras Pres.), M. R.
Laurie (Barbados), Mrs. S. F. Moore (Australia), Peu-à-Peu (Ceylon),
A. Riedel (Germany), Elsie M. Wylie (South Australia), John L. Young
(Canada).

       *       *       *       *       *


PROSPECTUS PUZZLE: ANOTHER NAUGHT.

_Prize Winners_ (_Half-a-Guinea Each_).

    Elsie Binns, 111, Walnut Avenue, Trenton, N.J., U.S.A.

    Agnes L. Lewis, Chalet Bach, Château D’Oex, Switzerland.


_Very Highly Commended._

Mrs. H. Andrews (Canada), Susan H. Greaves (Barbados).


_Highly Commended._

Baroness Karola Halm (Russia), Elizabeth Lang (France), Margarethe
Scholtz (Berlin).


_Honourable Mention._

Sadie Barrat (Canada), Hilda T. Batten (New Zealand), Ethel Bevan
(Ceylon), Elsie V. Davies, Lillian Dobson (Australia), Louise Guibert
(Mauritius), Anna Hood (France), Caroline Hunt (Tasmania), M. R. Laurie
(Barbados), Frances A. L. Macharg (Natal), Jessie Mitchell (Canada), J.
S. Summers (Bombay), Annie G. Taylor (Australia).

[Illustration]




OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.


OUR NEW SUPPLEMENT STORY.

Eglanton Thorne, a writer well known to the readers of this magazine,
is the author of our new Supplement Story, entitled,

    “ONLY A SHOPGIRL.”

It is a romantic story such as all will enjoy, as much so indeed as
the girl in the above picture is evidently doing. It will indeed
be gratifying to the Editor if all his readers will read it for
themselves, and will write to tell him the outline of the story on one
side of a sheet of foolscap paper, signing it, and adding the full
postal address, so that the three prizes (£2 2s., £1 1s., and 10s.
6d.) may be sent to the writers of the three best papers, and that
Certificates may be sent to those obtaining a sufficient number of
marks for Honourable Mention. The last day for receiving the papers is
April 20th, and in no case can the papers be returned.


RESULT OF LAST MONTH’S SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.

UP-TO-DATE MAIDENS.


FIRST PRIZE (£2 2s.).

Ethel G. Goulden, Finsbury Park Road, N.


SECOND PRIZE (£1 1s.).

Letitia E. May, Alton, Hants.


THIRD PRIZE (10s. 6d.).

Miss K. Beales, Blofield, Norwich.


HONOURABLE MENTION.

Ethel W. Cleveland, Bedford; Violet C. Todd, Cornhill-on-Tweed; Lucy
K. Chapman, Weston-super-Mare; Alice Tanner, Henbury, Bristol; Lottie
Comley, Bristol; Elizabeth Armstrong, Princes Park, Liverpool; Annie
Moscrop, Thorganby, York; Jessie E. Jackson, Beverley; Bessie Hine, S.
Tottenham; Maggie Bisset, Aberdeen; Rose E. Higgins, Gravesend; Mabel
Moscrop, Saltburn-by-Sea; Eva Mary Allport, Barkston Gardens, S.W.;
May Shawyer, Penrith; Gertrude Borrow, Goldhurst Terrace, N.W.; Sophie
Gardner, Richmond Hill, S.W.; Amy Entwistle, Crigglestone, Yorks.; Mabel
Gibson, Wandsworth Common; May Maile, Provost Road, N.W.

       *       *       *       *       *


FIRST PRIZE ESSAY.

UP-TO-DATE MAIDENS.

Mary Fraser, the heroine of this story, and her sister Ethel are
living in an unpretentious lodging situated near the Marble Arch.
Their father having died a few years before this story opens, leaving
his affairs in a very unsatisfactory state, Mary and Ethel found it
necessary to add to the small allowance granted them by their mother,
by work in black-and-white for a literary friend. They had joined the
Far West Club, an institution for women of all classes, when they
first installed themselves in London. This Club they found very useful
to them in many ways. Now there had been an understanding between
Mary Fraser and a certain John Thornton for some years, and although
there was as yet no engagement, it was almost an established fact.
John Thornton was a clever young barrister, and was fitted in every
way for Mary, but he objected strongly to the Club, having somewhat
old-fashioned ideas, and a misunderstanding sprang up between the two.
Mary felt disinclined to give up her Club and its many benefits: and
besides, there was really nothing to object to in its members, even if
they did adopt masculine attire, or rather some of them, for they all
did not do so, they were good at heart. And so Mary and John drifted
apart. It was at the Club that Mary met Irene Thorpe, a girl from New
Zealand, who was living with her brother in Oxford Street. A great
friendship sprang up between Mary and Irene, and when Irene’s brother
had to return to Auckland suddenly, in response to an urgent call
from his father, it was arranged that Mary should remain with her as
companion while she stayed in England. This plan was very agreeable to
Mary, who did not care much for the sketching in black-and-white, and
was not so clever at it as Ethel.

One day Irene went to see Annie Simpson, one of the poorer members of
the Club, who was ill, and when she arrived at her mean abode, she
found the poor girl starving. This completely sobered Irene, who was
inclined to be flippant at times, and she did so much for the poor
girl, paying for her rent and food, that she soon got well again.
When Irene returned to Auckland, she took Annie with her as maid, and
Mary, who had had a little money left her by Miss Mortimer, one of the
older members of the Club, and with whom she was a great favourite,
determined to join a Sister’s Staff in the East End, where there was a
great strike going on, and these Sisters were able to greatly relieve
the sufferings of the starving population. It was here that John
Thornton found her again, and the misunderstanding being cleared up,
they were married after Mary had remained about nine months longer in
the Sisterhood in the East End.

    ETHEL GERTRUDE GOULDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 411: you to your—when your hair grows.

Page 412: Gu. to Ga.—Dawson, Ga.]