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[Illustration: A SWEET COMPANION.

_From the Painting by M. STANLEY._]




[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1016.]      JUNE 17, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]




“OUR HERO.”

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

[Illustration: “NEARER TO A CANDLE TO READ IT.”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER XXXVII.

Denham found himself alone with Polly. He stood looking down upon her
with a grave tenderness and questioning. Polly began to tremble.

“We had no expectation of seeing you, sir,” she remarked with great
decorum.

She cast one little glance up.

“Have you travelled hard? You are sorely fatigued.”

“Polly, is all between us as it once was?” he asked.

Polly dropped her eyes.

“It is long since we parted,” she said, “and very long since any
letter has reached me, sir. I cannot tell how matters may be now. But
six years work changes. And I”—then another glance as if she could not
help herself—“I do not like to see you so pale. You were not so in past
days.”

“There are a few matters to be explained,” Denham remarked quietly.
“But first may I beg you to read this short note from Jack? I do not
know what he may have said. He exacted from me a promise that I would
not fail to give it to you within one half-hour of my first arrival.
Jack is now at Verdun with Colonel and Mrs. Baron, as you may have
heard.”

“I did not know that. We heard only that Jack was prisoner. It has been
a sad grief to me.”

“Will you have his letter now?” asked Denham in his most courteous tone.

“If you choose, sir.”

She moved two or three steps nearer to a candle to read it. Jack’s
left-handed hieroglyphics were not to be deciphered quickly. This was
what she made out:

    “DEAR POLLY,—Denham is going home to you, and he has heard a false
    tale of your having forgot him. That is why he has not writ to
    you for so great a time. But I have assured him of your Unchanged
    Affection, and now I assure you of the same in him. Roy was in the
    right of the matter. Den has not altered, nor will he alter. But
    he has gone through much, and has been long ill, and the Death of
    our Hero has gone near to break his heart. So do not put on pretty
    airs, dear Poll, but comfort him, as you know how, for he needs
    your comfort; and the sooner you and he get married the better
    pleased shall I be, for he is in want of you. I’m by no means sure
    but that his has been a harder fight by far than any of us have had
    to go through in Active Warfare; and now that my turn has come, I
    hope that I may be patient and endure bravely as he has done. Be
    good to him, my dear Polly, and believe me,

        “Your affectionate Brother,
            “JACK KEENE.”

Polly came across to where Denham stood.

“Jack tells me of the mistake,” she whispered. “And now I understand.
He tells me too that I am to comfort you.”

She held out her hands, and he took them into his strong grasp.

“Sweet Polly,” he said, in a voice which shook a little despite his
best efforts, “you wrote to me once a letter which was signed, ‘Yours
faithfully, and till Death.’ That letter I have never parted with since
the day it reached me—not even when I feared that I had indeed cause
for doubt. Can you say those words to me once again?”

Polly lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes.

“I am yours, Captain Ivor, always and ever, as long as life shall
last,” she uttered very clearly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twelve months later Denham stood in the passage of the little London
house, which for more than eleven months had been his home and Polly’s.
He had wasted no time in making her his wife. He had but a year, he
urged, and surely the waiting had lasted long enough.

So Mrs. Bryce was obliged to forego her hopes of a grand and
fashionable wedding, to which all the quality should be invited for the
display of resplendent costumes. Denham was neither in health nor in
spirits for such a function, and Polly’s one wish was to do what would
give him pleasure.

They had been married quietly less than three weeks after his return,
and Polly had done her best to comfort him, and to win him back once
more to strength.

All that year he had not left her. But now he was free, and duty called
him to the Peninsula, where the long struggle was being carried on
between the Army of Wellington and the Army of Napoleon. The Spaniards
with Wellington, as with Moore, did little at any time beyond throwing
hindrances in the way of the British. Roy Baron had gone out many
months before.

It was hard work for Denham to say good-bye, not only to Polly, with
her sweet brave face, but to the tiny boy, with Polly’s own eyes of
brown velvet, who had come but a very short time before to gladden
their home. Denham bent to kiss the tiny sleeper, then turned again to
Polly.

“It will not be for long,” she whispered. “I may think that, may I not?
Peace must surely come some day.”

“Not yet, dear heart,” he answered; and she knew well that, acutely
though he felt leaving her, he yet longed to share the fight with those
who strove for England and for Freedom—that fight from which he had
been so many years debarred.

“Molly will be always here. And she and I will think and talk of you
and Roy every day and every hour. And, oh, Denham, if women’s prayers
may bring victory to men’s arms, victory will surely be yours.”

“We shall conquer in the end, please God, and in that way you may truly
help us, sweet one,” he replied.

Then he took her in his arms, and held her very closely. And in another
minute he too was gone to the wars, as so many thousands had to go in
those stirring days.

It was well that neither he nor she could guess how long a separation
might again lie before them. For this was only 1810, and the day which
should see Wellington at the head of his victorious Army entering
France lay four years ahead.

Four years more also had Colonel and Mrs. Baron to possess themselves
in patience, before they could again set eyes on their boy, before they
might once more clasp in their arms the little Molly, whom in 1803 they
had quitted for one fortnight’s absence.

Jack remained still at Verdun, and before him too stretched four years
of unbroken captivity. But Jack, though often disposed to chafe, yet
found something wherewith to pass his time. This became gradually clear
to Polly and Molly, through letters received at long intervals. At
length came one in which Jack gave particulars as to Colonel and Mrs.
Baron, and as to the greatly improved condition of prisoners at Verdun,
under the new French Commandant. After which he said—

“If ever this gets to England, it is to inform you that I am proposing
shortly to become a married man. Lucille has promised to be my wife.”

Molly sat smiling over the notion for a long while.

“Jack was sure to marry,” she remarked in a philosophic tone. “He is of
the sort not to be content without. And you and Denham are exceeding
happy married, dear Polly. But, as for me, I have no desire that way.
Never shall I care for any man in the whole world as I care for Roy.”
Then, in words once spoken before, and perhaps often repeated in her
own mind since, she added, “And so that matter is for ever settled.”

Whether the matter were finally settled or not, there can be no
question that Molly honestly meant what she said.

[THE END.]




SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.


PART V.

Since beginning this series of articles it has occurred to us that it
may be well to prevent a possible misconception of the scope of the
title. “Self-culture” is a very large subject, and includes a great
deal more than the culture of the mind. For instance, there is moral
self-culture—physical self-culture—æsthetic self-culture—which, with
other kinds of self-culture, should be zealously sought. But these
subjects are exhaustively dealt with from time to time by writers in
THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER, so that our special work lies in the treatment
of “culture” in its more usual acceptation—the cultivation of the
intellect. And if our title seems rather like a vast floating garment,
too voluminous for the slight form it enfolds, it must be remembered
that culture is generally understood in the sense we have indicated.

Indeed one can hardly separate the different parts of self-culture
after all. It is by reading the best books that the moral nature is
strengthened and cultivated, and that the æsthetic sense is cultivated
also. The eye is opened to perceive the beauty of life and of art, for
example, by such a writer as Ruskin. Then pictures cannot be properly
comprehended by one who never reads. Take, as an illustration of this,
a few of the pictures which have been from year to year, since 1890,
lent to that splendid Guildhall exhibition, where, absolutely without
payment, one can go to delight in modern and ancient art.

Here is “A Martyr in the reign of Diocletian,” by Paul Delaroche. This
is the picture of world-wide fame, known probably to our readers by
photographs if they have not seen the original. A young Roman girl,
who has refused to sacrifice to the false gods, has been thrown into
the Tiber. Two Christians, on the further bank, look with mingled
feelings on the young martyr as her body floats past. Your spectator,
ignorant of history, would wonder who was Diocletian, and what it was
all about. Soon afterwards we come to “Ophelia,” by G. F. Watts, R.A.,
and if you have not read _Hamlet_, you cannot appreciate the beauty of
this; nor, if you know nothing of Dante, can you understand “Paolo and
Francesca da Rimini,” by the same artist, where the hero and heroine
of the immortal story are sweeping through the mist of the Inferno. In
another year’s exhibition we have “The City of Dis,” by Albert Goodwin,
also requiring a knowledge of Dante; “Orpheus and Eurydice,” by T.
Graham, which could not appeal to anyone ignorant of Greek mythology;
“Antigone,” by Lord Leighton, fully appreciated only by those to whom
Antigone is more than a name.

Consider even the two frontispieces to THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER for
February and March last. The first, “An Antique Fête,” takes for
granted some knowledge of ancient history. The reproduction of Miss
Margaret Dicksee’s charming picture “A Sacrifice of Vanities,” will
be fully understood only by those who have enjoyed _The Vicar of
Wakefield_. It is unnecessary to go further, and if any reader, on her
next visit to a picture exhibition, will note the remarks heard around
her, she will have a practical commentary on the truth that Art cannot
be fully comprehended and appreciated without some literary education.
While standing, for instance, before such a picture as “Pandora” by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one may overhear remarks like the following—

“Pandora? Who’s she?”

“What’s she got in her hand?”

“_Nescitur ignescitur_ is written on it! What’s the meaning of that?
Why couldn’t he put plain English?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think she’s an English person. She doesn’t _look_
English, anyhow.”

“Oh, a heathen goddess, I suppose, carrying fire about like that! A
goddess with red hair in a red dress? Anyhow, _I_ don’t think much of
her. Come along!”

The literary preparation for the enjoyment of Art is, of course,
different from the technical preparation for it; but, for preparation
of either kind, reading is necessary.

The kind of self-culture which at first sight seems furthest apart from
the culture of which we write, is the physical kind. Sometimes, indeed,
mental and physical self-culture may appear incompatible, especially
when time is limited.

“Don’t sit poring over that book; come out into the fresh air!” is a
familiar type of address.

In the newly-published _Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth
Barrett Browning_, we read that the doctor of the poetess carried away
her inkstand one day as a remedial measure!

Discretion _is_ needed, and the preservation of health is a duty that
comes to the front. Exercise and other essentials to health must not be
neglected; and if health fails, the power of mental self-culture will
probably fail too. But it is increasingly recognised that cultivation
of the brain in reason is excellent for physical health, and that the
woman with the best chance of enjoying life is the woman whose mental
education has gone side by side with physical culture.

So we come back to the point from which we started, and observe that
the different provinces of self-culture are in reality closely
connected and interdependent, though we deal in these articles with one
province only.

In our last paper we touched on some books that are almost, if not
quite, indispensable to any scheme of culture: books of the olden
world, that treat with the dawn of history as we know it, and go on
to the period of the most brilliant of civilisations—that of Athens.
No attempt was made to give an exhaustive list of the books dealing
with the period before the Christian era that should be read; it
would be impossible. But a few read and enjoyed will point the way to
others. These papers do not constitute a full map of the country to be
explored; they simply act as a sign-post, and readers must follow on to
explore for themselves.

The “guide-post” method is the only way to advise readers, for much
will always depend on individual taste and inclination, and to read
without pleasure is a hopeless task. Dr. Johnson said very wisely that,
for general improvement, a man should read whatever his immediate
inclination prompted him to. He continued—

“If we read without inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing
the attention, so that there is but one-half to be employed on what we
read.”

At the same time, this is only a partial truth. To throw aside
everything that does not allure at the outset is not wise. Many books
that will charm and instruct are hard to “get into,” and a little
self-control and perseverance will reap their reward in study as in
everything else. The truth lies midway between two extremes. Do not get
out of a library some book because you are told to read it, and at the
close of a day’s work force yourself to pore over the pages until you
fall asleep. On the other hand, do not confine your reading exclusively
to story-books and the lighter magazines because they attract you and
require no effort of attention. Girls are by far too prone to do this,
forgetting that a taste for deeper books may be cultivated like every
other taste.

It is true that many of the novels of the present day deal with the
graver problems of life, and occasionally require an education to
understand them. Still, however philosophical and thoughtful they may
be, they should not constitute the sole intellectual food of any mind.

“Why?” you may say. “If I can learn all about early civilisation in a
book like Georg Ebers’ _Egyptian Princess_, about mediæval and Scottish
history in Scott’s novels, about the Stuart period in _John Inglesant_,
about music in a story like _Charles Anchester_, about modern problems
of every kind in George Eliot’s, Sir Walter Besant’s, and Mrs. Humphry
Ward’s pages—not to go further—why not confine my reading to this
interesting and attractive form?”

There is an essay by the late Professor T. H. Green of Oxford, which
should be very widely studied.[1] He answers the question “Why not?” in
a most forcible and masterly way, and the gist of his reply is this.
The novel must perforce reproduce the circumstantial view of life; we
are called to look again upon the incidents which day by day distract
our attention overmuch from the “unseen and eternal” realities, and
are apt to be enthralled afresh by the view that “to marry and live
happily ever after” is man’s and woman’s chief end. In other words,
the aspect of things the novelist shows us is “merely the outward and
natural as applied to the inner or ideal.” He cannot give a complete
representation of life; for instance, reproduce its slowness, its
discipline by long years of silent waiting and patient labour. Much
must be omitted of necessity, by reason of conditions of the craft;
much also, by reason of artistic effect, must be so arranged and
rounded off as to give the impression of a happiness impossible in
life. The lesson of life, then, in its completeness, cannot be taught
even by the best novel.

The reading of fiction is valuable in its place, but it is not enough
for the mind and heart to feed upon.

We have not, however, as yet to consider the reading of fiction pure
and simple. There is much besides to occupy attention, and perhaps this
is the place to insist upon the reading of history. To connect the
remote regions of classic lore with the present day, history is needed;
but it is rather overwhelming to look at the best books of history and
see how long and how numerous they are! The primers of history are,
however, within the compass of all.

We have already mentioned Sir W. Smith’s smaller histories of Greece
and Rome. Plutarch’s _Lives of Greeks and Romans_—made easier in
_Plutarch for Boys and Girls_, translated extracts by Professor J. S.
White—will offer an interesting biographical way of learning history.
Macmillan’s _History Primers_ published at one shilling each are most
useful. You might begin by C. A. Fyffe’s _Greece_, or Mahaffy’s _Old
Greek Life_ in this series, and work gradually downwards. The “Story of
the Nations” Series, published at five shillings by T. Fisher Unwin,
consists of a number of volumes, each about a different nation. Your
wisest course, indeed, if you cannot command time for the reading
of long histories (such as Grote’s _Greece_, which, in ten volumes,
is invaluable to the student), is to obtain from any bookseller a
full list of Macmillan’s “History Primers,” or Unwin’s “Story of the
Nations” Series, and select what you like, always remembering that to
get some connected idea of the history of the world is essential to the
enjoyment of the literature of the world.

For advanced students a most interesting volume is Walter Bagehot’s
_Physics and Politics_, treating of the causes that influence progress.
Mahaffy’s _Twelve Lectures on Primitive Civilisations_, and Froude’s
_Short Studies on Great Subjects_, or Carlyle’s posthumous volume of
_Historical Sketches_ will be found valuable. With regard to English
history you should read _The Making of England_, by J. R. Green, and
his _Short History of the English People_; also Freeman’s _History of
the Norman Conquest_. A series called _Epochs of English History_,
written by eminent authors, can be highly recommended. Each part
costs only ninepence. In fact, helps to the study of history are so
abundant and cheap that it is superfluous in these days of booksellers’
catalogues to enumerate them further. Only, if you can read nothing
else, read primers, so as to obtain some distinct notion of where you
stand in the “long result of Time.”

Although you should not rely for your facts on plays and novels only,
it is very desirable, if possible, to read Shakespeare’s plays, or some
good historical novel, side by side with the history of the period of
which they treat. Thus the dry bones of fact are clothed, as it were,
with flesh and blood, and become living.

We must not be understood as saying that everything in the historical
novels mentioned below is suitable for girls of every age. Children
should not read them; but these articles are not intended for children.
Adults who are in the habit of choosing what they shall read must
discriminate among them, always remembering that they should be taken
side by side with more “solid reading.”

    LILY WATSON.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] “Value and Influence of Works of Fiction.” Prize Essay, Oxford,
1862.

[Illustration]




THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES OF HOLLAND.


The peculiar head-dress worn by the ladies of Holland during the last
thousand years, and known as the Friesland cap, has undergone no change
whatever from the time of its adoption until now, and yet it is not
becoming, nor does it in any way add to the grace and beauty of the
women.

Much curiosity has been expressed as to its origin, and why its form
has been so strictly adhered to while every other article of dress
has changed its fashion with the seasons. We might never have been
able to solve the problem but for the discovery of a legend by a great
authority on Frisian lore. The following is but a bare outline.

Some twelve hundred years ago a celebrated preacher of the Gospel
appeared among the Frisians. His influence upon the people was
remarkable, especially upon Fostedina, the prime minister’s daughter,
a beautiful girl of eighteen. She took a deep interest in his words
and in the hymns sung by his followers, and but for fear of her father
and the priest would have acknowledged herself a Christian. The priest
attached to the Court was a cruel man, and furious with all who adopted
the Christian religion. He not only imprisoned them, but threatened
that unless they should recant he would cast them into the arena among
the wolves and wild boars.

The day was at hand when this threat was to be carried out, and the
prisoners, as they lay in their gloomy cells, heard the preparations
with sinking hearts. In the dark hours of the night, however, Fostedina
came to their aid and arranged their escape, bidding them fly to the
land of the Franks.

When the steward came in the morning to conduct the band of Christians
to the arena, the prison was empty save for the girl Fostedina. She
pointed to the open window and the ladder, and said, “They are safe,
thank God.”

The steward thought she was mad, and begged her to go to her room, as
he felt sure the people would tear her to pieces if they found out
what she had done. She, however, determined to remain and face the
consequences of her deed, lest the punishment should fall upon the
missionary and his followers, who were still living in their midst.

She was taken before the King and his council, and when asked why she
had done this thing, answered—

“Because I pitied the men and abhorred the cruelty with which they were
to have been killed, and because I believe that our gods of wood and
stone are no gods, and that Jesus Christ is the son of the living and
true God.”

The King, turning to the Prime Minister, said—

“She is your child; what is to be done with her?”

The father answered—

“She is my only child, and the joy of my life. If you throw her to the
wolves I go with her.”

Then Adgillus, the King’s son, who loved this girl, came forward to
plead with his father for her forgiveness, and he would probably have
succeeded but for the sarcasms and taunts of the priest.

At length she was taken out and placed between the council and the
howling mob, while the King said—

“Ye men of Friesland, this is the girl who saved the Christians. What
are we to do with her?”

[Illustration: [_From photo: C. B. Broersand, Leuwarden._]

The girl was loved by the people, and they felt compassion for her; but
the priest, in a loud voice, cried shame on them for their cowardice,
urging them to cruelty, until with a savage cry they shouted, “To the
wolves!”

Then Adgillus came forward, saying—

“If you kill her I will be a Frisian no longer. If you throw her to the
wolves I go with her and fight with them for her with my sword, which
I have sworn to use for the protection of the innocent and defenceless,
and God helping me, I’ll keep my oath!”

The applause of the people was deafening, but the priest silenced them,
saying—

“This girl has insulted our gods and embraced the new religion.
Therefore our law requires her death.”

But the people cried out, with their thousands of voices—

“She shall not die!”

The priest, pale with spite and anger, said—

“Well, let her live. She has been trying for a crown; let her have
her wish. Here is one exactly like that worn by the Christ whom she
worships.” So saying, he took from under his cloak a crown of thorns
and held it up for inspection. Again a shout went up, “Crown her! Crown
her!”

And so it happened that on the following day she stood in the arena
from sunrise to sunset, wearing the crown of thorns, and although her
forehead and temples were painfully pierced by the sharp thorns and
the blood ran down her cheeks she did not utter a sigh or a murmur.
The next day, having been banished, she left the country, accompanied
by the missionary and his followers, nor was the King’s son seen in
Friesland for many a long day after this. He joined the army of the
Franks, and accounts of his prowess and valour filled the land.

At the King’s death Adgillus succeeded him notwithstanding the
opposition of the priests. The people loved him and offered no
objection to receive Fostedina as their Queen, and she and Adgillus
were married by the missionary, according to Christian rites.

The marks of the crown of thorns were still visible on her forehead and
temples when, by the side of her royal husband, Fostedina rode into the
old city of Stavorly, where the Frisian kings resided. At the sight of
these scars the people were greatly troubled, for it reminded them of
the cruelty with which they had treated her in days gone by.

On the morning of the great festival with which the new king’s
inauguration was to be celebrated, twelve high-born maidens entered
the Queen’s apartment and presented her with a golden crown of such a
shape that it completely hid the marks made by the crown of thorns.
Two golden plates covered her temples, while a splendid golden strip
passed over the forehead. Fostedina accepted, but did not like it. She
remarked—

“It will never come up to the crown of thorns, but my God has still a
better crown in store for me.”

From that time it became the fashion for every noble lady to wear one
like it, a custom which has continued down to the present day, though
the reason of its adoption has been forgotten.




THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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


CHAPTER XII.

KITCHEN COURTSHIPS.

Lucy secured “a girl” at last. The girl called herself “a girl,” the
registry office keeper called her “a girl,” and Lucy said within
herself that she could not very well call her anything else. What else
was she? She had not the appearance or manner of the trained servant.
She gave no sign of the habits or nature which Lucy would have rejoiced
over in “a maid.” She was “a girl,” ready to do work for a wage. She
was but a bundle of negations. Yet Lucy felt bound to take her, not
only because time pressed, but because there was really no reason why
she should reject her.

The girl gave “a reference” to a house not very far from Pelham Street.
She had been servant there for two years. So Lucy locked up the little
house with the verandah, took Hugh by the hand, and went off to inquire
“the character” of “Jane Smith.”

The house at which her journey ended was dismally dim and genteel. It
was not dirty or neglected, but it was not bright nor cared for. Jane
Smith herself opened the door. It was the last day of her “notice”
month.

The lady who received Mrs. Challoner was a limp faded personage who
listened to Lucy’s errand with such unsmiling weariness that Lucy felt
quite sorry to have disturbed her.

“Oh, Jane Smith? Well, Jane Smith is very fair—as servants go nowadays.
I think she has been with me two years. She gave me notice herself. I
forget why, really—some trifle it was. I thought it may be as well—for
when they stay too long in one place they get careless.”

“I don’t think two years is very long, and they ought to grow more
valuable the longer they stay,” said Mrs. Challoner.

“Oh, yes, of course they should, but they don’t. Two years is a very
reasonable time as things are nowadays.”

“And you found her perfectly honest and truthful and reliable?” asked
Lucy, who somehow felt shy in making these inquiries. It seemed to her
queer that the mere fact that our servants require to earn their bread
in our houses, should entitle one to ask searching questions about them
such as we never ask before admitting acquaintances to our society!

“Honest? Yes, I have no reason to think her otherwise. I never missed
anything, and any outlays she made always seemed correct. Truthful?
Well, I never ask my servants questions, I make a point of that.
I form my own conclusions about anything that happens. Reliable?
Reliable?”—the lady echoed those words with significant notes of
interrogation and exclamation—“I scarcely know how far you mean that
word to go. I found no fault with her. I never care to get acquainted
with my servants. If they do their work and give me no cause for
displeasure that is enough for me.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Do you know anything about Jane Smith’s own people?” asked Lucy.

The lady shook her head.

“No,” she replied. “I have never found it necessary to make any
inquiries. I allow no visitors. I give my servants one half-day off
every week, but I don’t give it always on a regular day. I think that
is a good plan. They get out on Sunday evening, when I expect them to
go to the pew which I occupy in the morning. I think that is giving
them every opportunity to be steady and respectable if they desire to
be so.” The mistress herself prepared to show Mrs. Challoner to the
door. She checked herself, however, to ask if her visitor would like
to see Jane then or to have a call from her that evening, and Lucy
accepted the latter alternative.

Three hours later Jane Smith came up to Mrs. Challoner’s house to hear
the result of the inquiries about her. Lucy resolved to have a little
conversation with the girl, to see if she could discover any bit of
genuine human nature beneath the professional automaton which was all
that her last mistress had required. Indeed she felt she must learn
something more about the girl than that mistress had ever known.

“Do you belong to London?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” answered Jane with a slight hesitancy, for which it seemed
hard to account. Could some mistress have raised an objection to
country girls?

“To what part of the country do you belong?” Lucy went on.

“I didn’t belong to the country, ma’am,” she said. “I’ve always lived
in a town. I come from Hull.”

“Oh, I understand,” Lucy replied. “Have you any relatives or friends in
London?”

Again the curious hesitancy.

“No relatives here, ma’am.”

Lucy began to think she understood.

“Nor any friends?” she pressed. “No friends at all? Are you engaged to
be married or likely to be so?”

Jane Smith’s expression changed.

“Well, yes, ma’am,” she admitted.

“And does the young man live in London?”

“If you please, yes, ma’am.”

“Do your people know him?” Lucy persisted.

Jane Smith looked at her timidly.

“They’ve never seen him yet, ma’am. He hopes to go down there with a
cheap trip next Easter. It’s a long way for poor folks.”

“If this is a real serious love affair, Jane—no mere silly flirting, I
shall give you leave to let him come to see you once a week,” said Lucy.

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Jane.

Then for the first time in the whole interview she volunteered a remark.

“The last mistress—the one you saw—she didn’t allow followers. That was
why I gave her notice.”

“But she might have made a concession if you had asked her specially,”
Lucy remarked, with a laudable desire to be loyal to her own order.
“You did not do so?” she added interrogatively.

Jane Smith shook her head.

“’Twouldn’t have been no use, ma’am,” she answered decidedly. “Three
weeks running my evening out had been pouring with rain, but she took
me up sharp because she saw me speaking to him for a minute or two at
the area gate one morning.”

“Well, naturally mistresses are particular concerning who comes about
their houses,” Lucy answered staunchly. “Your mistress said she had no
fault to find with you. She told me you had dismissed yourself. Have
you known the young man long?”

“More than a year, ma’am. He’s a carpenter working in Messrs.
Muggeridge’s shop”—she named a large place of business about midway
between her former situation and Mrs. Challoner’s house.

“Well, Jane, I decide to engage you, and after a week or two, if all
goes rightly, he may come to see you once a week. Carpenters get away
from their work rather early, so all that I shall ask is that he never
stays later than nine o’clock, when you bring up my supper tray. And
I am sure you will take care I shall never regret giving you this
permission.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Jane. “Please, ma’am, you never shall.” She
seemed to take her new form of bliss very sedately.

Then a sudden thought struck Lucy. She remembered the speed of Pollie’s
wooing.

“You are not thinking of getting married very soon, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no, ma’am,” answered Jane. “His wage will have to rise a
bit. He’s got to do something for his mother.”

“You can understand that I shouldn’t like you to come into my service
merely to go out of it again,” observed Lucy. But her silent
reflection was that household regulations which prevent a comfortable
courtship must surely do much to promote regardless, rash, improvident
marriage.

“No, ma’am, I’ve no such thought,” said Jane soberly.

“Then can you enter on your duties to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Challoner
rather anxiously, for to-morrow was the last day of the old year, and
New Year’s Day falling on Sunday, St. George’s Institute would open on
Monday, though duties there might not be very stringent for a day or
two later.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” answered Jane, with more vivacity than she had shown
over her love affairs. “For my time is up to-morrow morning, and it
costs a girl a good deal if she has to pay for board and lodging
between her places.”

So Jane Smith in a cab, with a big brown box, duly arrived on Friday
about noon. She was soon installed in her duties, and when Mrs. Brand
arrived to pay her sister a call on the last day of the year, Jane
“opened the door” with the dull propriety of one who has done it for
months. Mrs. Brand was startled.

“What! Is the prodigy gone?” she exclaimed as Jane showed her into the
parlour, “or have you hired a girl to help her? Lucy, that would be a
brilliant idea, for the poor old thing is too old for running about,
and yet I suppose she is a good figure-head for you to leave at home,
when you are to be so much away. I always said you ought to have two.
You’ve done too much servant’s work.”

Lucy drew her sister within the parlour.

“I have not two, certainly not,” she answered patiently, “but I had
a terrible disappointment with Mrs. Morison, and she had to go. She
drank.” Lucy spoke in the low impressive voice which marked her horror
of the discovery.

Mrs. Brand laughed.

“Oh, I expected that,” she said. “It’s the commonest thing in London
cooks. Yes, I know it’s very bad, but there are faults in everybody.
She did cook well, Luce; I noticed that when I took a little supper
with you, and I’ve said to Jem since what a comfort it was to me to
know you were getting decent food. I don’t think you should have been
so hard on her. What has become of your Christian charity? You might
have told her that if it ever happened again, you would give her
straight over to the police. That would have pulled her up and kept
her in check for a time, and you would have got the good of her in the
meantime. It’s too bad not to have had a little patience with a poor
sinner. I’m shocked at you.”

“My dear Florence,” cried Lucy in dismay, “you think me uncharitable
for discharging a servant for drunkenness and I have known you to
dismiss one for burning a pudding!”

“Oh, that’s quite a different thing,” said Florence easily, “and I
don’t know that I should have done that if it had not been that we had
visitors, and I was very much put out.”

“It would have been all the same to me if I made my sad discovery in
the strictest privacy,” observed Lucy, “but as it happened, I made it
at my Christmas dinner time.”

Florence gave a curious deprecatory smile.

“Poor old Miss Latimer and that crippled man!” she exclaimed. “Surely
they would not be very severe censors? You could have trusted them not
to make much game of your mishap, and I should have thought it was
quite in your province to have patience with a sinner and try to reform
her.”

“It might have been,” returned Lucy, “had Charlie been at home, and had
Charlie and I been alone together. But there is a time and a place for
everything. No drunkard should be in any house where a child is, and I
am left in charge of my husband’s property, and must not expose it to
unnecessary risks. We must not do wrong as a beginning of doing good.
That is the first step on a very slippery path.”

When Lucy got upon principles, Florence was generally silenced, not
because she was convinced, but because she could not understand
connecting practice with principle. With the latter, Florence never
troubled herself. The former she directed by the expediency of the
moment.

Presently she spoke again, with a change of subject.

“You got my note this morning, I suppose, Luce,” she said, “and you
know what I’ve come for. Mrs. Bray is quite hurt at not having seen you
for so long, and I promised to bring you ‘before the year was out.’ So
this is your last chance.”

“It has not been my fault,” Lucy observed soberly. “Nor can I go with
you this afternoon, Florence, unless Hugh can accompany us.”

Florence made a little grimace.

“Isn’t this girl respectable either?” she said. “Have you a written
character with her too?”

“No,” Lucy answered. “But she is a perfect stranger. I cannot leave my
child with her.”

“Very well, bring him along by all means. I own he is a credit to take
out—not like my little monkeys—for he behaves prettily and obeys at a
word. The dear old dame will be quite pleased to see him. She will say
he is like the children of her youth, and that’s her highest praise. I
daren’t take my girls; they would disgrace me in ten minutes.”

Lucy would have made the journey in an omnibus, but Florence called a
cab. The visit involved going across London to a western district far
beyond the solemn gloom of the region where Lucy had visited Dr. Ivery.
The cab was not very pleasant, the presence of Hugh as a third having
compelled them to take a four-wheeler, while otherwise Florence would
have hired a dashing hansom.

“Such a fusty smell!” Florence cried. Then, in a few minutes more:
“What a noise the windows make!” Next: “And we are crawling like
snails. But it’s always the way with a ‘growler.’”

Lucy said nothing, but innocent Hugh administered a reproof.

“Are four-wheelers called ‘growlers,’ auntie, because they make people
grumble?” he asked.

“Oh, you are too clever for anything, child!” said the auntie.

Hugh looked up astonished.

“It isn’t clever to want to know, is it?” he returned. “It’s clever
when you do know.”

The cab stopped at last; but Florence would not dismiss it.

“Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs. Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out
of me that I shall just want to drop into it when we come out.”

Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but consent. Florence often
complained that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions. Little matters
of this sort were at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances always
went on which she would never dream of, and though Florence let none of
their expense fall upon her, that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since it
forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences and luxuries which seemed
to her not only unnecessary, but even harmful for two young vigorous
women.

The exterior of the house they entered differed little from other
pretty residences of its fashionable little quarter, nestled down
beside the most aristocratic of our London parks. But once within
the door, the house had a character all its own. The pretty little
entrance hall was cut across by a broad flight of steps leading to an
upper hall, whence the public rooms opened. Of the walls of this upper
hall scarcely a quarter of a yard of the middle part remained visible,
being thickly covered with old and rare engravings and prints, the
interstices between pictures of varied size being filled by bits of
blue china and other curios. Even the portion approaching the ceiling
was decorated, though more sparsely, by ancient weapons and shields.

A ladylike maid with a pale, tired face admitted them, and led them
straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.

Mrs. Bray was almost the last of the friends of the mother of Florence
and Lucy. What was more, she had been that lady’s ideal. The sisters
had heard their mother praise her with a warmth in which she had seldom
clothed her commendations. They had seen their mother sitting beside
Mrs. Bray actually holding her hand! As they advanced to greet their
old friend, Lucy remembered the astonishment with which that sight had
filled her girlish breast—astonishment, not at Mrs. Bray’s power to
charm, but at her mother’s self-surrender to it.

For this was a wonderful old lady. One felt at once that one was in
presence of a personality. She rose very slightly to greet them, for
she was both aged and feeble. Yet there was something in gesture and
countenance which gave assurance of warmest welcome.

“My dear Florence, sit down there where I can look at you, and peep
into the world of modern fashion. And my little Lucy, my little truant
Lucy, come and sit on this low chair at my side—the very chair your
mother always used, my child.”

Immediately the one guest was flattered and the other was gratified,
and each was put upon the best footing possible with each nature.

“Ah, but there is a third visitor!” cried the old lady, beaming down
on Hugh. “Oh, my dear Lucy, this child is so like both your father and
your husband! Look, your father’s strong chin to the very life, and
your husband’s kind, laughing eyes! Yes, Lucy, and it is you that have
thus moulded two good men into one. Now where is this young man to
sit? I know he wants to sit close beside mamma, and he shall have this
little stool; and there he is, a knight at the feet of his queen. And
now, Florence, how are Mr. Brand and the daughters?”

“Jem is quite well, thanks,” said Florence. “He sends his dutiful
regards and best wishes for the New Year. He would have come himself
but he is so busy.”

As a matter of fact, Jem had not heard or uttered the old lady’s name
for months, did not know that his wife was visiting her, and had
himself gone that afternoon to Wimbledon for a game of golf.

Mrs. Bray laughed gaily.

“I expected you both this afternoon,” she said. “I remembered your
promise to bring Lucy before the year was out. So I put aside a bit of
china for Mr. Brand to take away with him. Oh, a trifle, my dear, very
awkward in shape and very heavy! I’ll not think of troubling you with
it, but it’s the kind I know he likes, and it can wait till he comes
for it. But I tell you, Florence, I must give myself the pleasure of
showing you the dress Mr. Bray has given me for the great dinner-party
to-morrow, when we dine with the Lord Chief Justice. I’m sure you like
to see pretty frocks—you have such pretty ones yourself.” She rang the
bell while she spoke, and the genteel, tired maid came in.

“Rachel, bring down my dinner-dress again. I’m afraid you’ve just got
it put away? But I must have it down again, please!” and the maid went
off.

“I’d just been showing it to an old friend,” Mrs. Bray explained. “But
she made me cross by asking whether I was not afraid of a dinner-party
for my rheumatism. A _memento mori_, my dears. But,” she said, turning
to Lucy, “here’s a grave face saying to itself that I am a foolish and
naughty old woman to care for such frivolities!”

“Oh, no!” protested Lucy. “I was only so sorry that the maid had just
put it nicely away.”

“It is all in her duty,” said the old lady with a dash of hauteur.
“Rachel is here to do what she is told. It need not matter to her what
that is.” Then, as the maid entered with the magnificent robe flung
over her arm, the stately old dame gave her instructions how to spread
it over an ottoman so as to display its costly lace and elaborate
embroidery to the best advantage.

Mrs. Brand exclaimed with admiration, adjusting the folds, and
fingering the soft fabric as a connoisseur in its perfections.

Mrs. Bray had drawn Lucy’s hand into her lap, and was stroking it
softly.

“Ah, my dear,” she said, “don’t be hard on me for my vanity! Wait till
you’ve been married fifty years yourself, and your husband brings you
such a dress, and tells you that he does not think anybody but you
would do it justice! Think of that, my dear! I see that sweet speech
written between all the flounces and furbelows. How can you expect me
to keep my eyes off such finery as that?”

“It is very beautiful!” murmured Lucy. But the old lady knew that her
real answer was in the quivering clasp of the hand lying in her own.

“How would you like to see mamma in such a dress as that, Hugh?” asked
Mrs. Brand.

Hugh gave his head a quaint little shake, as if such an idea was very
grand; but he added—

“I shouldn’t be able to sit on her knee.”

“Ah, but you’ll be a grown-up man before your mamma will deserve such
a dress!” answered the old lady archly. “Ay, my dear,” she whispered
aside to Lucy, “if my little ones had lived to give me grandchildren
and great-grandchildren to come crowding round me, maybe I should not
have cared so much for this dress, and maybe, too, Mr. Bray would not
have been able to afford to give it to me.”

“I’m glad to see Rachel is still with you!” said Mrs. Brand, as the
maid once more took away the gorgeous garment. “I remember hearing
something about her being engaged to be married, and, as I didn’t see
her the last time I was here—it was at a reception, so I could not ask
questions—I thought maybe the event had come off.”

Mrs. Bray shook her head.

“No,” she said, “the event has not come off—it will not come off. The
man is dead—died in India. He was a non-commissioned officer, you know.
I daresay it is all for the best for Rachel. I tell her so. He had been
away more than three years, and, as I say to her, who knows what habits
he may have acquired. A change of service would have been very trying
to me. Now I daresay we shall rub on together to the end, and Rachel
can trust us to provide for her. She’s generally very sensible, poor
thing, and reasonable. I’ve never had to put my foot down firmly but
once, which was when he went to India, and she wanted to wear a ring he
gave her. A decent enough ring—nothing but engraved gold—it would have
done for her keeper-ring if they had ever got married. But, of course,
I could not allow such a thing, and she fretted a little—it was after
he had gone—and she gave me notice, and said she should take a place in
a shop. Then she got letters from him, and I think he advised her to
stay in the place where he had left her.”

“She knew where she was well off,” interpolated Mrs. Brand.

“Very likely he did not want it on his conscience that she had given up
a snug place for his ring. If he had ever wanted to change his mind,
it would have made things harder for him. I think he was a decent,
considerate sort of man,” the old lady went on. “At any rate, Rachel
stayed. It is a little depressing for me now, always seeing her sad
face. I gave her a holiday for a while, hoping she’d come back all
right. But really her face seems set that way, and perhaps it does not
mean that she feels so much as it looks.”

“It is not pleasant to have grieving people about,” assented Florence.
“It is very kind of you to be so patient and forbearing. But, then, you
have such a big and tender heart.”

“No, I haven’t,” said the old lady calmly. “I know better than that. At
any rate, you don’t know that I have,” she added with a brisk change of
manner; “for, if I have, I keep it so close shut up that I quite forget
it, and it is in danger of being starved, like naughty children’s pet
canaries. But it gives a little chirp sometimes. I am sorry for Rachel,
and that’s why I like to fancy the man wouldn’t have turned out well,
and that’s why I’ve given her all my black silk dresses. The cook
says he’s had ‘noble mournings, such as the likes of he couldn’t have
expected.’ She says, too, that Rachel wears that ring tied round her
neck. That’s rank idolatry! But I suppose they have some feelings like
ours. When I’m gone people will find among my treasures queer cuttings
out of newspapers and tags of old programmes that they’ll wonder over.
And must you really be going, my dears? So soon? A cab waiting! Fie!
Is that the way to treat an old friend? Give my love to your husband
when you write to him,” she said, drawing down Lucy’s face and kissing
it fondly, “and tell him we dine with the Lord Chief Justice on New
Year’s Day—it’s in his own professional line, you know—and that he is
to come home and follow in our footsteps, especially in Mr. Bray’s when
he bought me that dress! And good-bye, little man! And there’s a nice,
weeny, tiny coin to remember an old woman by. And you’re not to show it
to mamma till you are out of this house. And good-bye, Florence”—with a
little peck of a kiss. “And keep Jem up to the mark in sending pretty
messages. Tell him about the china. No, no, you sha’n’t take it! Ladies
didn’t carry parcels for gentlemen in my young days. Good-bye, all!”

There was weary Rachel waiting in the hall. Lucy could not pass her
without a word—it was a habit of hers never to pass a servant without
some friendly recognition. Instinctively she said—

“Thank you. I wish you a good New Year!”

The worn face flashed into tenderness. And the door closed upon it so.

(_To be continued._)




OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

BY CHARLES PETERS.


Although we have no true lily indigenous to our island, there is at
least one species which has established itself in England, and by this
time can claim to be called a British wild flower. This lily is the
_Martagon_ or Turk’s cap, a flower long cultivated in English gardens,
and, after the Madonna lily, the most familiar of the whole genus.

The fifth group of lilies, the _Martagons_, is the most extensive of
all. It includes over twenty species which differ widely from each
other in most particulars. The usual description of the members of
this group (“perianth cernuous, with the segments very revolute,
stamens diverging on all sides”) is certainly applicable to all the
_Martagons_, but it is equally so to the tiger-lily or _L. Speciosum_.

Most of the _Martagons_ are remarkable rather for the number of their
blossoms than for the size of the individual flowers. There are,
however, many exceptions to this; _Lilium Monadelphum_ bears blossoms
in large numbers, but the individual flowers are large and showy. _L.
Medeoloides_ and _L. Avenaceum_ bear but one or two blossoms of small
size.

The prevailing colours of the flowers of the _Martagons_ are yellow,
orange and red. A few are purple, and one rare variety of the common
_Martagon_ is white.

In a former article we sub-divided this group of lilies into several
smaller sections. We do not advance any scientific reason for so
classifying them. The divisions are adopted merely for convenience of
description.

The first of our sub-divisions is the group of lilies which we have
called _True Martagons_. This group contains ten species. In all the
members except one the bulb is perennial, and does not bear a rhizome.
They are all natives of the Old World, being for the most part natives
of Central Europe.

The leaves of the true _Martagons_ are narrow, but vary in width from
those of _L. Martagon_, which are three-quarters of an inch across, to
those of _L. Tenuifolium_, which are scarcely more than the tenth of an
inch wide. In some species the leaves are arranged in whorls, in others
they are scattered.

The flowers of this group of lilies are mostly small but numerous. In
all except _L. Hansoni_, _L. Avenaceum_, and _L. Medeoloides_, the
segments of the perianth are very revolute, which fact has given to
these lilies the name of “Turk’s cap,” from the resemblance of the
fully-opened blossom to a turbaned cap.

The true _Martagons_ are among the easiest of the lilies to cultivate,
but they have one or two peculiarities which would seem to negative
this statement. For instance, these lilies very much dislike being
meddled with. Consequently they rarely do well the first year they are
planted. It is very annoying after having bought fifty bulbs of _L.
Pomponium_ not to have a single blossom the first season. But you have
only got to wait until the bulbs have established themselves, when they
will flower year after year and increase at a prodigious rate.

All the true _Martagons_ like a cool loamy soil. On the whole they
object to peat. Many kinds, as the common _Martagon_, for instance,
like chalk, and are seen to perfection when grown in heavy loam on a
limestone bottom. The heavy, black loam of London suits the _Martagons_
very well, and we have seen these lilies in greater perfection in
suburban gardens than anywhere else.

First among the true _Martagons_ stands the lily which has given its
name to the group—_Lilium Martagon_, or _the_ Turk’s-cap lily. This
lily has a very wide range, being found wild throughout Central Europe
and Siberia. We have said that it also grows wild in England, but our
readers can hardly expect ever to see the plant growing wild in our
island. It used to be fairly plentiful in Surrey, Devonshire and the
Isle of Wight, but the rage for collecting specimens has pretty well
exterminated the species from our shores. It is, however, occasionally
met with, especially in Surrey.

The _Martagon_ lily is one of our oldest garden flowers. When once
established, it is very loath to go and very free to increase, so
in many gardens this lily has come up and flowered every year for
centuries.

The bulb of _Lilium Martagon_ is about the size of a hen’s egg, and
of the ordinary ovoidal shape. It is very compact and usually stained
on the outside with bright yellow or purple. The leaves are of a
greyish-green colour and are arranged in whorls. The flower-head is
visible when the plant is but a few inches high. It consists of from
four to forty little buds closely packed together. The lily flowers in
July, and a well-grown specimen is a very pretty object.

The flower spike forms a perfect cone or pyramid. The blossoms are
very small—about one and a quarter inches across—and borne on stalks
which grow out at right angles to the main stem. These stalks gradually
diminish in length as they get towards the top, thus producing the
characteristic cone shape. The nodding blossoms are of a lilac-purple,
splashed and spotted with claret colour. The pollen is red, the
segments of the perianth are fleshy and very much curled.

There are several well-marked varieties of the _Martagon_ lilies. The
variety _Dalmaticum_, as its name implies, is found in Dalmatia. It is
a finer plant than the type. The leaves are deep glossy green, and the
flowers are very dark purple. In another variety called _Cattaneae_,
the flowers are still darker, appearing in some lights to be quite
black.

There is a white variety of the _Martagon_ lily, a lovely little gem,
which, though rare, is one of the easiest culture. It is curious that
this is the only variety in the whole group of _Martagons_ which bears
white flowers. It is of garden origin, and is not found in the wild
state.

Then there is the double _Martagon_, about the stupidest flower which
owns the name of lily. It is extraordinary the rage people have for
double flowers. It is very rarely that a double flower has half the
beauty of the single variety. In the rose, the chrysanthemum, the aster
and other composite flowers, the double varieties are indeed vastly
superior to the single flowers. But to us all the double bulbous plants
are incomparably inferior to the single ones. In the lilies, the double
varieties are scarcely worth growing.

_Lilium Martagon_ and its varieties should be grown in masses or as a
thick border. Beyond seeing that the plants are well watered, they give
no trouble and should never be disturbed.

_Lilium Pomponium_, or, as it is sometimes called, _Lilium Pomponicum_,
is another well-known lily from Central Europe. It resembles the last
in many particulars, but the leaves are linear and scattered, and the
blossoms are not nearly so numerous as are those of _L. Martagon_.

From three to ten flowers are produced on each stem. The flowers are
nodding with the segments much recurved, and are about an inch across.
In the type the colour is a dullish-red, but there are also orange and
yellow varieties.

This lily looks well in big masses, for the blossoms are very graceful,
though perhaps rather disappointing for a lily.

_Lilium Pyrenaicum_, or the yellow Turk’s cap, is by some authorities
considered to be only a variety of the last; by others to be a distinct
species. As its name tells you, it comes from the Pyrenees, and it is
not known as a wild plant in other parts of the continent. Yet, by
the way, we see that it is sometimes included among the British wild
flowers from some apparently wild examples having been found in the
Isle of Wight. Probably these are simply garden escapes; still it is
possible that they are indigenous to that island.

Except in the colour of its flowers, the Pyrenean Martagon exactly
resembles the Pompon lily. The flowers are slightly larger than are
those of _L. Pomponicum_, and are of a fine yellow colour, spotted with
purple. The outside of the tube is red.

Lately this lily has become very popular, but it is not altogether a
desirable plant as the blossoms exhale a rank and disagreeable odour.

In the Japanese Islands is found a _Martagon_ lily, differing very
markedly from the European species, which we have just described.
This lily, _Lilium Hansoni_ by name, is very rare and not often seen
in cultivation. But we believe that in a short time it will become a
well-known and popular plant.

A well-grown specimen of Hanson’s lily stands about five feet high and
bears a pyramidal spike of yellowish-orange blossoms. The flowers are
not nearly so much recurved as are those of the other _Martagons_. The
segments are thick and fleshy, of a bright orange slightly spotted with
purple. The flowers are about two inches across. From three to fifty
are present in each spike.

This lily is one of the first to blossom in favourable seasons, coming
into flower in the first week of June.

It is also perfectly hardy, and shows no tendency to degenerate if it
is provided with suitable soil. A rich but light loam with abundance of
leaf-mould and a little peat and sand is the proper compost in which to
grow _Lilium Hansoni_.

Another lily from Japan, _Lilium Medeoloides_, somewhat resembles
Hanson’s lily, but is much smaller, rarely exceeding twelve inches in
height, and the blossoms are far fewer and smaller.

_L. Medeoloides_ is very imperfectly known. The bulb consists of a
large number of small oat-shaped scales very loosely packed together.
The leaves are in whorls. The blossoms are frequently upright, and for
this reason the plant is often included among the _Isolirions_.

Except as a curiosity, this lily is certainly not worth growing. It is
very difficult to manage, and the bulbs almost invariably rot in the
winter.

[Illustration: A LILY-GROWER.]

_Lilium Avenaceum_ is another Japanese species which very closely
resembles the last; but the flowers invariably bend downwards, and
are very slightly spotted. Like the last, it is not worth growing
except as a curiosity.

Resembling _L. Pomponium_ in many points, but of far smaller
dimensions, and with much more brilliant blossoms is the little
_Lilium Tenuifolium_. This little lily inhabits Siberia and differs
from most of the species in that the bulb is not truly perennial. Some
authorities state that the bulb is annual, but this we do not believe
to be correct. It is more likely a triennial species.

This lily must be grown from seed. Fortunately the plant produces
seed in abundance, and the seeds germinate freely, often producing a
flowering bulb in two years.

In this plant the leaves are extremely thin. The blossoms are about an
inch across, of the colour of red sealing-wax. Rarely are more than
three blossoms present on each stem. It is a pretty little flower, and
makes a good pot-plant.

_Lilium Callosum_, the callous-bracted lily, is something like a
magnified version of the last. The leaves are broader and less numerous
than in _L. Tenuifolium_. The flowers about an inch and a quarter
across, of a vivid scarlet or orange. The bracts are thick and horny, a
characteristic which has given the plant its name.

The callous lily likes a rich peaty soil, but it is very accommodating
and will grow in most good soils. It is perfectly hardy, and is of
little difficulty to cultivate.

We now come to a lily which will always be famous, not so much for
its intrinsic beauty—though, to be sure, it is a beautiful plant—but
because it is the flower which has generally been considered to be the
“lily of the fields,” the only plant mentioned by name by our Saviour.

The lily to which we refer is the scarlet _Martagon_, lily of the
fields, lily of Chalcedony, or _Lilium Chalcedonicum_.

It is doubtful whether we shall ever know for certain which flower was
referred to by Christ as “the lily of the fields.” Why the scarlet
_Martagon_ should have borne the honour for so long is difficult to
see. As far as we have been able to discover, this lily does not grow
in Palestine, and though of course we cannot be certain that it did not
inhabit the Holy Land in the time of Christ, it is very unlikely that
it did, for the lily of Chalcedony knows how to take care of itself,
and it is unlikely that it would have become exterminated.

We have no real reason for supposing that the lily of the fields was a
true lily—that is, a member of the genus _lilium_. Even in England at
the present day we call a host of liliaceous plants “lilies,” and in
the East they are very lax in floral nomenclature.

That the plant referred to was one of superior beauty is probable, but
even the meanest flower would answer to the description that “Solomon
in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

It is commonly held now that the plant referred to was either the
yellow star-lily (_Amaryllis Lutea_) or else an anemone. But it may
well be that our Saviour meant no special blossom, but by “the lily of
the field” He intended any flower to be taken.

Before it became the fashion to “bed out” the gardens of the wealthy,
the scarlet _Martagon_ graced alike the palaces of the rich and the
cottages of the poor. Throughout England this magnificent lily was
one of the commonest of garden flowers. But when the finest gardens
were turned into puzzle pictures, manufactured out of geraniums, blue
lobelias and yellow calceolarias, all the fine old garden plants were
rooted up and destroyed, and many plants ceased to know England as
their home.

How thankful we all are that the formal garden has left us! Now it is
considered in its true light, as a vulgar waste of soil.

We have returned to the old-fashioned garden, but alas! we cannot make
old gardens at a day’s notice. We have reinstated our old herbaceous
plants, and now we are attempting to place the lily of the fields in
its old position, as queen of the flower-bed.

Unfortunately this lily is difficult to establish, though when once it
is established it gives no trouble and will grow for centuries. But we
do not often see it now in gardens, and it is doubtful if it will ever
again become a constant inhabitant of every garden, as it was of old.

The bulb of _Lilium Chalcedonicum_ is about the size of a duck’s egg,
and is very compact and heavy. The outer scales are stained with a
bright yellow colour.

The growth of this lily is peculiar and unlike any other. Good plants
grow to about four and a half feet high, and bear from four to eight
blossoms in a cluster at the top.

The lower leaves of this species are long and lance-shaped. The upper
leaves, which are extremely numerous, are small and linear and embrace
the stem, giving the plant a curious resemblance to a Maypole.

The flowers are borne in a cluster with very short pedicles. They are
of a brilliant sealing-wax red, usually unspotted, quite scentless, and
about two inches across. The segments are very revolute, and altogether
this lily resembles a much glorified edition of _Lilium Pomponium_.
There is a variety with yellowish-orange flowers. This plant blossoms
at the beginning of August.

To cultivate this lily successfully is by no means an easy matter. It
delights in a rich heavy loam of great depth and with a chalk basis.
It dislikes peat and manures. If it can have the soil it likes, it
does best when exposed to the sun all day long. This lily rarely does
well for the first year or two, but when established gives no trouble
whatever. It is a native of Greece and the Ionian Isles.

Closely resembling the last lily is the nodding red lily of Carniola
(_Lilium Carniolicum_). Comparing this lily with the last, we see
that it is altogether smaller, the leaves fewer and the blossoms less
lividly red, but spotted and usually solitary. It inhabits South
Europe, and flowers in June.

(_To be continued._)




SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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


CHAPTER XI.

THE “PLYMOUTH CASTLE.”

Sheila stood with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair on the deck of a
great steamer that was slipping slowly down Southampton Water on a
bright October afternoon.

She felt a hand upon her shoulder, and, turning quickly round,
exclaimed delightedly—

“Oh, Miss Adene, you are really here! The stewardess said she knew you
were on board; but I was half afraid you were not. I did not catch a
glimpse of you anywhere.”

“I was below with my niece setting our cabins to rights, as travellers
like to do before getting out of smooth water. Well, little one, you
look very bright; but you are thinner than when I saw you last. I am
afraid you have had an anxious summer.”

“Yes, rather,” answered Sheila. “Poor Effie was ill for a long time,
and I don’t think all the doctors and specialists they called in did
her any good. They tried all sorts of things for her breathing, and
there was a sort of operation once, and I’m sure that did her harm. The
last man who saw her said, ‘Take her out of England for the winter.
Let her live out of doors and take no physic, and not see a doctor at
all unless there is real cause.’ That’s what I call being sensible;
and I remembered what you had said about Madeira and how delightful it
was there, and Effie set her heart upon going. So here we are. Uncle
and Aunt Cossart, and Effie and I and her maid. Oh, I think it will be
delightful! I have never been abroad. It will be charming to cross the
Atlantic and see beautiful new places!”

There was a laugh from behind, and Sheila turned to meet the sunny
glance from a pair of bright dark eyes, and Miss Adene said—

“Ah, here is my nephew (as he likes to be called) Ronald Dumaresq! Let
me introduce him, Sheila, my dear.”

The girl held out her hand with her pretty manner, half shy, half
frank, and Ronald shook it heartily, saying—

“I have heard a lot about you, Miss Cholmondeley, from my aunt. I know
all about that fire in which you played the part of heroine.”

“I!” cried Sheila, half indignant at the imputation. “I did nothing at
all but shiver and shake, and feel in a most fearful fright. I don’t
know if that’s what you call being heroic. I don’t.”

“Well, but you must have a spirit of your own, I am sure! Did I not
just hear you saying that crossing the Atlantic would be delightful?
Not many people share that opinion, I can tell you.”

“I mean it to be delightful. I don’t care if I am ill. It will be a new
experience. I like to try new things.”

“If you like sea-sickness you will be a remarkable being,” laughed
Ronald; “but perhaps you are a good sailor.”

“I think I shall be. I went yachting once all about the Hebrides, and
it was often pretty rough and choppy; but I did not mind. I don’t see
how one could be ill in a huge boat like this.”

Ronald laughed.

“Wait till you see what the Atlantic rollers are like. You will soon
learn what a cork even a big vessel like this can be. Wait till we get
to the Bay of Biscay O!”

Laughing and talking, with the quickly established good fellowship of
young folks, Sheila and Ronald paced up and down the deck. Sheila was
keenly interested in the big vessel and in the other ships they met
or passed as they glided along; and Ronald could answer most of her
questions, and was altogether a delightful companion. He had travelled
a good deal, though he had never before been to Madeira; and he told
her anecdotes of shipboard life and of his hunting adventures, time
slipping away so fast that the clatter of teacups and the movement of
some of the passengers towards the saloon quite surprised them.

It was not a full ship, being one of the “intermediate” boats popular
with Madeira passengers, who often find trouble in getting booked
for the regular Cape mails. Most of the passengers had cabins to
themselves—no small boon to bad sailors, and appreciated by all.

“We shall take about half a day, perhaps a whole one, longer than the
mail,” Ronald explained; “but it’s much jollier to have plenty of room
and a cabin of one’s own. But come along and have some tea! Where are
your people? You’ve got a delicate cousin, I know, and an aunt and
uncle. Anybody else?”

“No, I did want my brother to come; but it couldn’t be arranged. It
would have been quite perfect with him. Is this the way? How funny
everything is on shipboard! Oh, we are beginning to roll a little! I
suppose we are getting into the Channel?”

“Yes, just about. Do you mind?”

“Not a bit. I like it. There is Miss Adene! Who is the lovely lady she
is talking to? And, oh, what a darling little boy! Who is he?”

“Oh, that’s our young Rascal! The lady is my sister-in-law, you know.
Here, Rascal, come and see this lady! Here’s somebody new to make a
fuss of you!”

Sheila was devoted to babies and little children. She was on her knees
in a moment, and little Guy had his arms about her, making up his mind
in a moment that this was a friend, and laughing and chattering in the
most confidential way.

“Oh, isn’t he too perfectly sweet!” cried Sheila in an ecstasy, kissing
her hand as the nurse bore him off for his tea; and then she found
herself led up and presented to Lady Dumaresq, who was so gentle, and
beautiful, and sweet that Sheila fell in love with her at once.

Effie was not present, having been much tired by the railway journey,
so that the maid had got her to bed at once. Mr. and Mrs. Cossart came
into the saloon for some tea; but sat apart and looked rather forlorn.
Miss Adene went and spoke to them, but they did not seem happy, and
very soon went away again, so that Sheila was thankful to be able to
consort with the Dumaresq party, since all the other passengers were
strangers.

The vessel certainly pitched a good deal as they got farther out into
the Channel. Sheila did not mind it in the least; but she observed that
the saloon thinned considerably, and Ronald remarked with a laugh—

“I don’t think there will be many at dinner to-night.”

Sheila presently slipped away to take a peep at Effie, who was dozing
in her berth. She did not feel ill, she said, only tired and sleepy.
She was interested to hear about Miss Adene and the Dumaresqs. Miss
Adene had paid her more than one visit during her illness, and she had
grown fond of her, though she had not seen her now for a good while,
and she did not correspond with her as Sheila did.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart had gone to bed too, the maid said with a smile.
They were both rather sea-sick, but were comfortable now. The maid was
an experienced traveller and an excellent sailor. She and Sheila and
the stewardess had a little laugh together over the unfortunates who
were so speedily bowled over.

“Poor things! It’s a dreadful sort of feeling; but they’ll be better
when we’re once through the Bay. We get into smooth water then very
often, especially this time of year, and they soon forget their
troubles.”

Ronald was right about the dinner. There were very few at table, and
the Captain was still on the bridge. He did not generally leave his
post there till the perils of the Channel were passed.

Sir Guy came up from his cabin looking thin and frail, but with a
sunburnt tint upon his face from the open-air life he had led all the
summer. Sheila thought him very handsome and very interesting. He and
Lady Dumaresq seemed surrounded by a halo of romance; they were so much
attached to each other, and were both so very handsome and attractive.
Indeed, Sheila thought that the voyage and the long stay in Madeira
with such nice people would be enchanting, and her bright spirits
bubbled over in little peals of happy laughter and merry repartee in
answer to Ronald’s chaff.

After dinner he took her for a prowl upon the deck. She would have
liked to wander up and down a long time; but the air blew chilly, so he
took her in to Miss Adene, who was now almost the sole occupant of the
drawing-room saloon, weariness or the motion of the boat having driven
others below.

“Have you seen May lately?” asked Miss Adene. “And what is the news
from Isingford?”

“May has been visiting a good deal this summer, so I only saw her now
and then,” answered Sheila; “and as for news, there is not so very
much. Perhaps you have heard that Lionel Benson is engaged to my cousin
Raby?”

“No; I had not heard that.”

“Yes. I rather think it was the fire that did it, though it wasn’t
given out till three months afterwards. I think they are all very
pleased, and she will be married soon, for he has plenty of money. He
is in the business, you know. It isn’t a very interesting engagement,
but Raby seems quite happy. I suppose it’s all right.”

“They are two handsome young people, and know each other well. It ought
to turn out happily, I think. And how about Cyril?” asked Miss Adene,
with a little quick glance, which Sheila met and answered by a flashing
smile.

“Oh, Cyril! Well, he is still idling about at home, talking of the
wonders he means to do some day, and they all believe in him as much as
ever, I think.”

A little smile curved Miss Adene’s lips.

“Don’t be merciless, little girl. Perhaps he may astonish the world
yet!”

“He astonished some of us the day of the fire. Miss Adene, I can speak
to you, because you’re not a relation whose feelings have to be spared.
But _do_ you believe that when he dashed off like that, fighting his
way out and knocking everybody down, he had the least intention of
going for help? You know he says he was going for the fire-escape, and
people believe it now. Lionel Benson won’t say it’s a lie because of
Raby, and though North always looks as grim as grim when the thing is
mentioned, he does not contradict. After all, Cyril is his brother. But
Oscar and I know that he rushed straight home. Of course, he _may_ have
seen somebody and sent a message, but somehow I can’t believe that he
was thinking of anything but saving his own precious skin. It makes me
so wild with Cyril. What do you think about it? You saw it all.”

“Well, Sheila, perhaps the best way is not to think too much about it.
We all have our faults and failings, and we must beware of judging
those of other people too harshly. The thing is over and done with now,
and we are not set as judges over each other. If Cyril is trying to
atone for an error in the past, it would be better to try and excuse
it, and not think too harshly of him.”

“I think he’s just as conceited as ever. I don’t think he’s a bit
ashamed. Miss Adene, do you know, I rather think he would like to marry
May. He is always going over there when she is at home. But he _will_
get a good snubbing if he tries. May would not touch him with a pair of
tongs!”

“My dear child!” said Miss Adene, laughing, and then she added, “I had
an idea that Cyril was attached to Effie.”

Sheila shrugged up her shoulders.

“I can’t quite make out about that. Sometimes I fancy it is so, and
then I don’t know what to think. But Effie has been ill all the summer,
and though Cyril used to go and see her pretty often, I could never
make out if they cared for one another. Effie’s never been allowed to
talk about the fire, so I don’t know if she saw or remembered what
Cyril did then. I don’t much believe that Cyril cares for anybody but
himself; only May is well born, and Effie is an heiress. It’s those
things he thinks about.”

“Sheila, Sheila, don’t be cynical!”

“Well, I’ve heard people say so. Even Ray said something very like
that. Ray is sensible; she doesn’t go down flat before the family idol.
She is fond of Cyril, but she sees his faults. She and North have
really much more in them than Raby and Cyril.”

Sheila enjoyed her little gossip with Miss Adene, and was almost
reluctant to go to bed. However, when once there she slept soundly, and
only awoke when the stewardess brought her a cup of morning tea.

“It’s pretty rough, miss, but fine and sunny. Not weather as sailors
call it, but a capful of wind right in our faces. If you feel like
getting up, I’ll bring you hot water; but most of the ladies are lying
still, even those that aren’t ill.”

But Sheila was all for getting up, though she staggered about her
narrow little cabin, and was glad to sit down as much as she could,
for the vessel pitched and lurched a good deal, and her hairpins went
flying over the floor, and her clothes swayed and flapped in a comic
manner.

But once up and out in the breezy sunshine, all the little dizziness of
getting up vanished. Ronald was on deck before her, and welcomed her
with a most friendly smile, and little Guy was trotting about, the pet
and plaything of the captain, who had found him a ship’s cap, vastly
too large for him, which was tied on his head by a broad ribbon.

Sheila was the only lady up at breakfast, and was made much of by the
captain and the other passengers. She was full of sparkle and fun, was
delighted to be taken to various mysterious portions of the boat where
passengers seldom ventured, and spent a perfectly delightful morning,
learning a vast deal of nautical lore, and winning the good-will of
everybody on board.

She flitted into the cabins where Effie and Miss Adene lay. Effie
was quite comfortable, but indisposed for the exertion of getting up
in such a rough-and-tumble sea. Miss Adene rose for lunch, but was a
little disinclined for talk, and Lady Dumaresq did not appear at all
that day.

But soon they passed through the troubled Bay; the water became calm
and smiling; one after another the passengers appeared; and Effie would
lie on her deck-chair all day, watching the indigo blue of the great
Atlantic rollers, which lifted them gently up and let them down, and
shone with rainbow tints when the sunlight caught their foam-flecked
crests.

Mr. and Mrs. Cossart appeared in due course to sit beside their darling
and watch how the fresh breeze brought some colour to her face. But
Sheila flitted about like a sprite, never still, always intent upon
some fresh fancy. Her merry laugh was one of the familiar sounds about
the deck, and she seemed always the centre of a group of admirers.

People were kind to Effie, and would come and chat to her; but the
mother began to look with rather jealous eyes upon the little court
that Sheila always had round her.

“I hope she is not going to be a little flirt,” she said once to her
husband. “She is certainly pretty, but I don’t know if I like that way
of hers. She attracts more notice than I think quite seemly.” And in
her heart she added, “I can’t have my Effie cut out and overshadowed by
that little chit!”

(_To be continued._)




THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

BY F. W. L. SLADEN.


PART II.

A little care will have to be exercised in purchasing the swarm. It
should be got from a reliable local bee-keeper—a man on whom you
can depend to give you what you want, namely, a healthy, natural,
“first”[2] swarm, weighing not less than about three pounds. You should
receive the swarm in May, but the middle of June will not be too late
in many parts of England, especially if the season is at all backward.

[Illustration: STANDARD FRAME FITTED WITH FOUNDATION.]

Everything should be in readiness for the swarm. The hive should be
given three or four coats of good light stone-colour paint, and a site
must be chosen for it. This should be in a quiet corner of the garden,
sheltered from the prevailing winds, and, by preference, shaded from
the midday sun; but a dark, damp place under the constant drip of trees
should be avoided. Most bee-keepers prefer to have their hives facing
south or south-east to catch the early morning sun, but this is not a
matter of great importance.

The location having been decided upon and the hive set level in it, the
next care will be to furnish the hive.

Each frame must have a sheet of beeswax, called _brood foundation_,
fixed into it, to act as a foundation on which the bees may build their
comb. Bees naturally start building their combs from some support above
them, continuing the work in a downward direction. The foundation must,
therefore, be fixed into the top bar of the frame, which has a saw-cut
down the middle on purpose to receive it. Prize the saw-cut wide open,
and then insert the edge of the foundation into it. Two or three fine
shoemaker’s brads driven through the side of the top bar will make the
work secure.

Strips of foundation about two inches wide are generally considered
sufficient for fitting into frames, but larger sheets answer better.
The illustration shows a full-sized sheet of foundation which is held
in the centre of the frame by means of tinned wire embedded in the wax.
The sides and bottom of full sheets must be kept clear of the frame.

One or two _quilts_ should be cut out of some warm material just the
size to cover the tops of the frames; a three-inch round hole should
be made in the centre for the feeder. A small square piece of cloth
should also be cut for covering the hole when the feeder is not on.
Felt or baize is best for quilts, but pieces of old carpet answer the
purpose very well. A quilt of ticking or unbleached calico, similarly
cut, should be placed under the other quilts, next the bees, to prevent
them from nibbling holes in the soft material.

In preparing the hive for the reception of the swarm, see that the
frames are equally spaced by means of the metal ends, so that they
hang one and a half inches apart from centre to centre. Do not attempt
to hive the swarm until late in the afternoon, say about 4 P.M. and 5
P.M. If the swarm arrives in the middle of the day, place it in a cool
place, and see that it has plenty of ventilation.

Do not follow the old-fashioned plan of smearing the inside of the hive
with beer and sugar. It is a mistake to suppose that the bees require
such mixtures when swarming, or, indeed, at any other time. The only
thing they want now is a clean dry hive.

For hiving the swarm, the alighting board will have to be extended by
means of a large board, one or two feet wide, called a _hiving-board_,
which may be propped up with bricks so as to be on a slight slant. The
whole should be covered with a sheet. Also raise the stock-box up a
little in front, so as to enlarge the entrance. The stock-box may be
kept in this position by means of two little pebbles.

Though the chances of getting badly stung while hiving a swarm of bees
are more or less remote, it will be advisable to wear the bee-veil, if
it be only for the purpose of inspiring confidence during the first
attempt at bee-work. The smoker also, though seldom necessary on this
occasion, may come in useful, and should be at hand, charged with a
roll of smouldering brown paper.

[Illustration: BEE-VEIL AND SMOKER.]

Now shake a few bees on to the sheet. They will immediately commence
running up into the hive. Scarcely any will take to the wing. When this
first lot of bees has made a good start, some more may be shaken down
on top of them, and this will have the effect of making them all much
more eager to press into the hive. A few light puffs of smoke from the
smoker may now be useful to dislodge an inert cluster, or to correct
the course of a group of bees that may have a mistaken notion as to the
direction in which the entrance to the hive lies.

Unless the queen has been caged, she should now be carefully looked
for amongst the living moving mass on the sheet. It will be very
satisfactory if we can succeed in spotting her, and can see her enter
the hive safely amongst her subjects, for should she by any chance
be missing, the swarm will be useless. She is considerably longer,
though very little stouter, than an ordinary worker-bee, her tail being
particularly long and tapering; her wings also are shorter than those
of the workers, and there is a reddish appearance about her legs. We
must not mistake a drone for the queen. There is only one queen in the
swarm, but there may be several thousands of drones. The drone-bee may
be known by his broad body, long wings and large eyes, which almost
meet on the top of his head. The drone is stingless. The queen, on the
contrary, possesses a sting, but she cannot pierce the skin with it, so
we may handle her, when necessary, without fear.

[Illustration: DRONE.]

[Illustration: QUEEN.]

[Illustration: WORKER.]

If the queen is in a cage it will be necessary to liberate her and to
let her run into the hive with the workers when the latter have almost
all entered the hive.

Next morning the front of the stock-box may be lowered, and we may take
a peep into the hive by lifting up a corner of the quilts. All frames
not filled with bees may be removed and placed behind the dummy, to be
given again to the bees when they require more room, which they will do
in a few days.

If the weather keeps fine and warm we shall now see a number of
workers flying around the entrance of the hive, and carefully noting
the position of their new home. Then off they will go to the fields
in search of food in the shape of honey and pollen, to return again
before long with their bodies distended with the sweet juice, and their
“thighs” laden with the yellow paste.

Meanwhile their comrades at home have not been idle. Clustering inside
the hive, they have been busy secreting wax, and have already drawn
out some of the foundation into a comb of cells to hold the supplies
brought in by the field-workers.

And so the work of construction and storage goes on day after day,
harmoniously and rapidly. There are no hitches or quarrelling amongst
the twenty thousand or so little workers which constitute the swarm.
Each one knows and does her share of the work, with results that are
astonishing, as we shall see if we examine the hive at the end of even
one short week.

Donning the veil,[3] and armed with the smoker charged, as before, with
smouldering brown paper, we send one or two light puffs of smoke into
the entrance, which quiets the bees and prepares them for the intended
examination. We then remove the roof, taking care not to jar the hive,
and, lifting up a corner of the quilts, we send another gentle puff
or two of smoke between the frames. We do the same at another corner.
After this we make bold to lift out a frame covered with bees, and
to our surprise we find that it is filled from top to bottom with a
delicate white comb. It is already quite heavy with the honey which
glitters in thousands of cells. Here and there a cell contains, instead
of honey, a dark mass of pollen-paste called bee-bread.

A more careful inspection of the comb will show that the queen-bee
too has done her share of work, not by helping to gather honey or to
build combs, but by laying eggs which will hatch into grubs (_larvæ_),
and these, by careful feeding and nursing, will eventually become
worker-bees, to take the place of the present workers when they die.
Near the centre of the comb is a broad circle of cells, each of which
contains a tiny white egg, almost invisible to the eye, which the queen
has deposited there. Within this circle, in the very centre of the
comb, we shall probably find that these eggs have given place to plump
little _larvæ_, each one coiled up in the bottom of its cell, and
floating in a tiny drop of liquid food which the workers have supplied
and keep replenishing. When the _larvæ_ are full grown the mouths of
their cells will be covered over by a thin capping of wax, and, hidden
away underneath this capping, they will change to the third or _pupal_
stage. The perfect bee gradually develops from this stage, and in three
weeks from the time that it was deposited in its cell by the queen-bee
as an almost microscopic egg it emerges from it as a full-fledged
worker-bee, exactly like the other worker-bees in the hive, and fit in
a few days’ time for two months of daily incessant toil. No sooner has
the young worker quitted its cell than the cell is cleaned out by one
of the other workers, and a fresh egg is deposited in it by the queen.
Thus thousands of willing workers are raised from mere specks in the
space of three short weeks, and as soon as these shall have completed
their marvellous transformations, thousands more will be similarly
reared in their place. What wonders the beehive contains! But we are
only on the threshold of them.

[Illustration: SECTION THROUGH COMB CONTAINING BROOD (ENLARGED).]

This paper will close with a few hints that may now come in useful to
the beginner.

In the first place don’t meddle with your bees more than is absolutely
necessary. It tends to make them bad-tempered, and if they are once
thoroughly roused they may be difficult to manage for months, and
become the terrors, not the pets, of their owner. When you have decided
that an operation is necessary, have everything ready at hand before
you begin, such as frames ready fitted with foundation, the smoker well
charged and burning, an extra roll or two of brown paper, matches, etc.
If possible, have an assistant to help you, and so avoid trouble and
delay at a critical moment.

Though swarms, especially “first” ones, usually come off only in
settled fine weather, it sometimes happens that they are unfortunate
enough to commence life as a separate colony during a spell of bad
weather when they cannot obtain food. In such a case, having no
stores to fall back upon, they would starve and die if not fed by the
bee-keeper, and syrup must be given to them through the feeder. Syrup
suitable for feeding bees at this time of the year may be made by the
following recipe:—

Ten pounds of pure cane sugar, seven pints of water, a teaspoonful of
vinegar, and a pinch of salt. Keep stirring over a brisk fire, and
allow to boil for a few minutes.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The “first” or “prime” swarm is the first swarm of the season that
issues out of the hive; it is headed by the old queen. Second swarms or
casts, which come off about eight days after the first swarm has left
the hive, are headed by young newly-emerged queens. They are not so
valuable as the first swarm.

[3] Best worn with a straw hat. This examination is not necessary.

[Illustration]




IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.

BY RUTH LAMB.


PART IX.

AN ALL-IMPORTANT SUBJECT.

    “To everything there is a season.”—“A time to love.”—Eccles. iii.
    1, 8.

If I were, this evening, to ask each of you, my dear girl friends, what
subject occupies your thoughts most in regard to your future life,
I wonder how many of you would even whisper the truth in my ear—if,
indeed, you cared to trust me so far. You have trusted me in many
things, and your confidences have been very precious to me; but they
have caused me sorrow as well as joy: sorrow, since no human being
can do more than lay bare the workings of one heart, the spiritual
experience of one soul, the sensations, painful or otherwise, of one
body, in order to help or advise others. We may all make guesses about
our neighbours, but we can be sure of nothing outside ourselves.

Our object to-night is of almost universal interest amongst those who
are girls to-day, but who will be the women, wives and mothers of
future years. I know that there has been a great revolution in girl
life and habits during the last few years. Girls have taken up new
occupations, and are the rivals of, and competitors with, the other
sex, in nearly every field of study and of work. Many girls live
independent of home ties, and some, I hope not a very large number,
scout the mention of that sweetest bond of all, which has subsisted
ever since God created the first human pair.

Do not for a moment imagine that I, a woman who has lived long enough
to note from its very beginning the wonderful educational improvement
made by my sex, think lightly of it, or undervalue it. Far from this,
I am proud of what girls are doing to-day, and every feminine triumph
chronicled gives me a throb of pleasure and a sense of sympathy with
the patient, self-denying worker, who has not only deserved success,
but won it. I do not, however, sympathise with the minority amongst
these intellectually gifted girls and women, who ignore home ties,
because they work outside the home circle, and speak of the sacred
names of wife and mother as if the duties pertaining to those who
hear them were not to be contemplated from the heights to which they
have attained. What I feel about feminine progress is this: Every bit
of knowledge gained, every step made in manual dexterity, artistic
perfection, or even professional skill, should trend towards the
development of a nobler being, better equipped for every womanly duty
than were the women of preceding generations. Ay, and more ready and
willing to do it with all the added charm that refinement and culture
can give to what nature bestowed in the first instance.

Since girls and women outnumber men, there will doubtless be a pretty
strong contingent, amongst the most scholarly girls, who will not marry.

Experience has already proved this to some extent. But, after all,
human nature is stronger than reason, and will assert itself in
unexpected ways, to the confusion of every learned argument.

Feminine independence is apt to lose its value, and the right to stand,
in every sense, on the same level and platform with the man is soon
waived, when the true love of a true heart is offered together with the
strong arm to learn on and to give protection in time of need.

Tell me, dear ones, what piece of news, in which you are not personally
concerned, stirs you most, and excites the greatest interest? Is it not
the tidings of a friend’s engagement?

What confidences are so sacred as those that tell of happy, hopeful
love? Think of your girl friend who, with sweet shyness, hid her
blushing face on your shoulder, and repeated in a whisper the words
lately spoken by that one who had of late become more to her than all
the world besides. Did not your own heart thrill with sympathetic
gladness as you listened? Were you not proud of her confidence, and did
you not feel more honoured by it than by any trust she had reposed in
you before?

She had told you of her joys and sorrows, her hopes and fears on other
subjects, many a time, and you had listened and sympathised. But all
the rest sank into insignificance when compared with the importance
of the future now opening before her. Her confidence was mingled with
both smiles and tears—happy tears you were sure—and you too were ready
to laugh and cry by turns, as you clasped her in your arms, and kissed
her, telling her between whiles how truly you rejoiced in her joy.

I can picture you going homeward with the news, so delighted to tell it
that your walk breaks into a run in your eagerness, and yet as you go,
you perhaps think to yourself, “I wonder if such happiness will come to
me also. Shall I some day reciprocate such confidence as my friend has
placed in me?”

As you asked yourself the question, did some known face come before
your mind’s eye and bring to your cheek a self-conscious flush? Not a
flush of shame. Far be it from me to suggest such a thing. You have no
need to shrink from owning that you do look forward hopefully to the
possibility of being one day the loved and trusted partner of some good
man, and, if God so wills it, the mother of his children.

The prospect of being a wife and a mother involves alike the most
sacred, vast, and yet delightful responsibilities. How can you be
fit to undertake such, if you have given them no serious thought
beforehand, or striven to qualify yourself for them?

Having myself known such an ideally happy married life that the
very memory of it makes me unspeakably rich now, in the days of my
widowhood, how I long to see my experiences repeated in the lives of
those who are to be the wives and mothers of the future!

Death robbed me of my partner several years ago, but even death could
not take away the riches that memory stored for me during more than
thrice that time, nearly thirty blessed years. Having had experience of
the things which tend to the building up of such memories, I feel free
to speak of them to you, my dear girl friends, to whom the path is yet
an untrodden way.

Oh, I do want it to be a happy path to all of you who may enter upon
it! Not necessarily all smooth. Such paths are seldom found on earth,
and when they are, those who tread them are apt to grow weary even of
happy monotony, and to step aside into others, where they find or make
difficulties for themselves. Or they remain on the smooth road, but
cover it with imaginary stumbling-blocks, which are harder to surmount
than real ones.

What I desire for each of you is a road on which you and the dear
one who is the accepted alike of your heart, your reason, and your
conscience may walk together as “two who are agreed.”

The privilege of choice pertains to the other sex; but only after a
limited fashion, seeing that with yourselves rests the power to accept
or refuse any number of offers that may be made to you.

If you accept, your answer should have a threefold basis. Honest
affection to begin with, for, believe me, without this married life
cannot be truly happy. It is a life which calls for much self-devotion,
self-denial, patience, and the bending of one’s own will to that of
another.

True affection sweetens all these things and makes them easy, and that
must be a hard nature indeed which does not respond on receiving such
proofs of it.

But reason and conscience should each have a voice in saying “Yes” or
“No” to an offer of marriage. They will speak, even when at times the
girl is unwilling to listen to either of them.

Conscience will ask, “Is the union with this man one on which a
blessing can be asked and expected? I have been brought up by
God-fearing parents, whose great desire has been that I should be His
child and walk as a disciple of Jesus. On this, the most important
subject of all, shall we two be agreed?”

I am not going to suggest all the questions which will be likely to
come into the mind of a Christian girl under such circumstances; but
I cannot imagine one worthy of the name who would give an answer,
affecting the happiness of at least two lives, without earnestly
seeking guidance from God by prayer and supplication. If, after this,
conscience is satisfied, only reason’s voice has to be heard.

“What, are not affection and conscience enough without help from
reason?” you ask.

Well, perhaps I should say common sense should have a third voice
in the matter. You and I have eyes to see and ears to hear. However
young you may be, you have seen and known something of what are called
imprudent marriages.

There may have been true affection and unity in aims, principles, and
work. The union, as such, may be one against which no one can say a
word, except that it will not be a prudent marriage, and can only bring
regrettable consequences.

How a young man is to be honoured if he, for the very love he bears a
girl, refrains from giving her the pain of saying “No” when her heart
as well as esteem for his character would induce her to say “Yes” at
all risks!

Often the girl has to show herself the stronger under such
circumstances, and then her task is doubly hard, for she has to battle
against her own heart’s pleadings as well as those of her lover.

I do not believe that any girl who shows her courage and self-devotion
in such a manner will have cause to regret in the long run. If the man
is worthy of her affection, he will love her the better for the motives
which have induced her to refuse him. He will have realised the cost to
herself, and will determine that it shall not be in vain. Knowing that
he cannot give her such a home as would deserve the name, and that
marriage on such a slender or uncertain income would mean privation,
constant struggling to make ends meet, probably debt as an additional
burden, he will resolve to work the harder and possess his soul in
patience until brighter days dawn for both of them.

He will say, “What is worth having is worth both working and waiting
for,” and he will redouble his efforts to shorten the time of
probation. Each will be cheered by the thought, “It was for her sake I
kept silent,” or “It was for his sake I said ‘No,’ not my own.”

I have often been consulted by girls who, having seen my own happy
married life, have decided that I must be an authority on things
pertaining thereto. But, alas, it has also often happened that the
applicant for advice only wished me to confirm her own foolish decision.

One case recurs to my mind after the lapse of many years. The
_fiancée_, orphaned as an infant, had been brought up, educated, and
cared for by relatives. She was a good pianist, and had early found a
groove in which to earn a livelihood, always having in addition the
certainty of a home with those who had brought her up, should she need
it.

Past her first girlhood, at twenty-nine she engaged herself to a young
man eight years her junior, inferior to herself in social position,
education, speech, and manner, and with a weekly income of twenty-five
shillings, no other money, and relatives who rather needed help than
were likely to give it.

She came to ask if I would smooth matters with the relatives, who were
grieved and indignant at her folly in thinking of such a union. A
little questioning elicited the facts that her savings were to furnish
the cottage, pay the wedding expenses, including the bridegroom’s
new suit, and that rent alone would absorb six out of the weekly
twenty-five shillings. She could not retain her position after
marriage, but she hoped to earn something by giving music lessons.

Need I tell you what eloquence I wasted on this wilful young woman,
who was old enough to know better, but too old and obstinate to be
convinced against her will. I brought figures to bear, put the cost of
the barest necessaries opposite to that nineteen shillings of weekly
income after payment of rent. But it was all useless. She did not want
to be convicted of rashness and folly, but to induce others to agree to
them.

You have doubtless foreseen the result whilst listening to the prelude.
The marriage took place. The wife’s money was all absorbed at the
start, and debts began to be incurred almost immediately. The man was
not of the sort likely to win a better position, and the woman, gently
nurtured, found in him a hard, selfish domestic tyrant, who made her
life of toil doubly bitter by his coarseness and the harshness of his
conduct towards the children. Friends had said they would not help;
but pity and the old affection for the woman whose childhood they had
watched over conquered indignation, and much was done for her, often by
stealth, or she and her little ones would have been no better for it.
I will not tell the rest of a sad story; but what I have said gives a
picture of results where neither conscience nor reason had a voice in
deciding the future of two lives.

Every rank of life furnishes samples of ill-advised marriages. A girl
may be attracted by a handsome person, and not pause to find out
whether the moral and religious character of the man corresponds with
it. She may note his pleasant social qualities and admire them; but it
would be well for her to find out whether these are equally notable
under the home roof. It is good to know what sort of a son and brother
a man is.

If a mother’s face lights with pleasure at the mention of her son, and
the thought of what he is to her brings moisture to her eyes, if the
girls of the family make a friend of him and regard him as a great
factor in the sum that makes up the happiness of home, there will be
good reason for believing that, in the dearest of all relationships, he
will not be found wanting.

There is an old saying that “A man is known by the company he keeps.”
Is it not, then, well for you, who look forward to spending a lifetime
in his society, to know something of the associates he chooses for
himself now?

I think I hear some of you asking, “Is it not the business of parents
and guardians to satisfy themselves about the position, means,
character, associates, and so on, of the man who seeks a daughter in
marriage?”

Assuredly it is. But all of you are not blessed with parents, or kind,
wise guardians in place of them. Some have not even friends who will
interest themselves on behalf of girl acquaintances. Some, again,
are ready to blame the young and foolish girls who think so lightly
of what is of supreme importance. They laugh, or quote old sayings
about “Eating rue pie,” “Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” and
so on. One has even noted a look of almost pleasurable anticipation
on the face of some acquaintance whose advice has been asked, but not
followed, as the remark has been made, “She will find out her mistake
soon enough when she gets what she never bargained for.”

Perhaps there may be relatives who are not wholly sorry to be rid of
responsibility in regard to girls who have not been amenable to advice
or rules. Such wash their hands of the whole affair by the warning,
“As you make your bed, so you must lie. Do not look to us for help in
future.”

So, when a girl reaps the fruits of a hasty or ill-advised marriage,
the most she gets from erewhile friends or kinsfolk, is, “You were
warned in time. I told you what would happen.”

Parents, guardians, true friends may do their utmost, but, after all,
they cannot do everything. A great part of the responsibility must rest
on the girl herself, since they may advise and she refuse to listen.
They may picture the prospect before her, she may shut her eyes to it.
They may bring facts and figures, she will not discuss them, or will
insist that her calculations are right and theirs are wrong. They may
point out that the burden of care and toil which would follow such a
marriage will prove too heavy for her. She makes light of it, because
hitherto she has never felt the reality.

Dear ones, I am dealing mainly with warnings, and that side of the
question with which reason has mainly to do, in this our first talk
on an all-important subject. We shall look at the love and the
beautiful—poetic I had almost said—the heavenly side of it by-and-by.
Now, I seem to be looking all the time at the mistakes and follies
which, in so many cases, have spoiled lives, and made marriage like
anything rather than what God meant it to be.

Is there one amongst you to-night who is getting tired of the daily
round in a poor home where all the family are, however, rich in
affection? You may have grown weary of the makeshifts and contrivances
needful to keep up appearances. You hate to have to calculate how far
every shilling will go before you spend it. You long to escape from the
narrow round of daily life, almost at any cost. Perhaps you have only
to say “Yes,” in order to exchange it for comparative ease and luxury,
but you hesitate, and why?

Because your heart tells you that affection will have no share in the
compact. Conscience whispers that you only know that your suitor’s
worldly circumstances are favourable, but as to his character you are
almost in ignorance, and have an uncomfortable feeling that you had
better not inquire too closely.

Will you give your life into the keeping of one about whom you know
almost nothing, and try to silence heart, conscience and reason by
saying to yourself, “A fine home, costly garments, money and social
position will make up for all else that is lacking.”

God forbid. All that the world has to offer cannot make amends for the
absence of true love and the respect and confidence that should give it
stability, neither can it stifle the voice of conscience, which says,
“I told you the truth, and you would not listen.”

Sometimes girls are impatient of parental control, and to escape from
what is only reasonable and right, determine to rule in a home of their
own. They use the hackneyed saying that marriage brings affection with
it, but too often realise that the parental yoke was light indeed when
compared to what they have voluntarily assumed.

I think I see you turning reproachful eyes upon me, and hear you
asking, “How is it that you, who have known such wedded happiness,
speak as though you looked on marriage as a thing to be avoided?”

Patience, dear ones. I have been drawing word-pictures from life.
You have listened patiently; now I ask you to bear my words in mind.
Between this and our next Twilight gathering ask yourselves if any of
my warnings have come specially home to you, or if you are in danger
of wrecking your own young lives and bringing sorrow on those who love
you, in any of the ways against which I have lifted up my voice.

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

AN APPRECIATIVE READER.—There are many books of instruction on
painting, by the help of which you might make considerable progress.
You might try _Brushwork_, first book, by Miss Yates, published by
Philip & Son, 32, Fleet Street, or _Brushwork, or Painting without
Pencil Outline_, by Miss D. Pearce, published by Charles and Dible, 10,
Paternoster Square.

SNOWDROP.—Many thanks for your interesting letter. We have inserted
your request. No, we cannot tell you of anything that will make you
grow, except what you seem to enjoy, plenty of fresh air and good food.
We are glad your life is so happy, and hope you try to put a little
brightness into the lives of others who are not so fortunate. Perhaps
your friend is unhappy on account of the troubles of other people. You
should have a chat with her on the subject.

MISS MCC. (Germany).—We fear your tune, through the mistake of a clerk,
has been returned to you without criticism. If so, we are extremely
sorry, and will give you our best advice in case you send it again.

A DEVONIAN.—It is impossible to compose correctly without lessons in
harmony. The “Kyrie” is rather weak, but the hymn tune is far better,
so good that we think it is a great pity for you not to give your
attention to the study of the theory of music.

HÊRÊ.—If the hymn tune enclosed is only your second attempt, we can
frankly encourage you to persevere. You resolve your chords wrongly,
more especially in the latter part of the tune; but study would amend
that fault. We hope you will take lessons in harmony, as we think you
have talent.

“SIS.”—There are at least 144 Schools of Art in connection with the
Science and Art Department of the Committee of Council on Education, in
many of which instruction is given in architecture. You should apply to
the Secretary, Science and Art Department, London, S.W. Architecture is
an art by itself, and it would be useless for us to attempt to outline
the course of instruction needful for an architect.

IVY LEAVES.—1. The specimen of prose composition you enclose is written
in a curious way, as though it were intended for poetry. Prose usually
flows consecutively on, line after line. You have evidently a love for
nature and an eye for the beautiful, but more than this is needed for
success in literature. You should read all you can.—2. Mary Queen of
Scots was born at Linlithgow in 1542, a few days before the death of
her father.

GLADWYS.—You give no details of the sort of recitation you require,
short or long, pathetic or humorous. “Aunt Tabitha,” by Oliver Wendell
Holmes; “The Bishop and the Caterpillar” (_Boy’s Own Paper_); “The
Walrus and the Carpenter,” by Lewis Carroll, are effective. “Over the
Hill to the Poor House,” and “Over the Hill from the Poor House” are
to be found, with other good recitations, in Alfred Miles’s _American
Reciter_, price 6d. Of course, the volumes of Tennyson, Browning, Mrs.
Browning, Longfellow, Whittier, Adelaide Anne Proctor, will provide you
with an endless chain of lyrics.


OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

TATIANA wishes to find a hymn beginning—

    “O that I had wings like a dove.”

Another verse is—

    “My weary wings, Lord Jesu, mark,
      And when Thou thinkest best,
    Stretch out Thy arm from out the ark
      And take me to my rest.”

She has been told that it is by F. Palgrave, but cannot trace it in his
books.

“E. T.” wishes to know who wrote a poem entitled “The Trumpeter’s
Betrothed,” and where she can obtain it.

“DOUBTFUL” has answers from “ALWAYS IN A HURRY,” “LEONORE,” MABEL
ENTWISTLE, and A. MARTIN, who refer her for the poem “Somebody’s
Mother” to Part I. of the _Thousand Best Poems in the World_, published
by Hutchinson, and to the _A 1 Reciter_, edited by A. H. Miles. Three
kind correspondents, A. M. ISAACS, EDITH ROLLASON, and “EDYTHE” copy
out the poem and send it to us for her.

“ALWAYS IN A HURRY” asks for a poem in which occurs the line—

    “Many a song in heaven was begun on earth with a groan.”

“BRIGHT STAR” wishes to know who composed the music to the song “Down
our Street,” and where she will be likely to get it.

Can any reader help “SAILOR” to a copy (words and music) of a song
called “The Sailor’s Grave”? It is not Sir A. Sullivan’s, but an old
song popular some thirty years ago. The first line is—

    “Our barque was far, far from the land.”

SEATON DEVON asks for the author or publisher of a song for children,
beginning—

    “Please, have you seen my dolly,
    The one that I most admire?”

MABEL ENTWISTLE wishes to collect pictorial postcards from various
parts of the world, and would gladly pay for the cards and postage if
any subscriber, who happens to be going abroad, would send her some.
The address is 1, William Street, Darwen, Lancashire.


INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

We have an interesting letter from an Australian girl, who asks that
a French young lady will kindly write direct to her. She has never
been out of Australia, and says, “Letters from a French lady would be
helpful to me in two ways; they would allow me to know something of
home-life in France, and also help me to improve my knowledge of the
language of that far-away land.” The address is, Miss F. Evelyn Smith,
Medindie, Adelaide, South Australia.

We have a letter for “MISS INQUISITIVE” from RUBY PARSONS, “Beemery,”
Seymour Road, Elsternwick, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia. If “MISS
INQUISITIVE” will send us her address, we will for once infringe our
rule and forward the letter to her.

POPPY wishes to correspond with a young French lady of good family,
aged from eighteen to twenty-six, each to write once a month, and to
correct and send back the other’s letters. Will some French lady of
good family volunteer her name and address?

MISS E. G. COLE, 113, Vyse Street, Birmingham, seventeen years of age,
would like to correspond with a young lady in French.

A CONSTANT READER, LILIAN C. BROWN wishes to correspond with a French
young lady residing in France, age about twenty. The address is, 5,
Wilton Mansions, Kelvinside, Glasgow.

MRS. JOSEPH SMITH, Box 4, Aberfoyle, Ontario, Canada, wishes for a
correspondent on the coast of England, Ireland, or Scotland, with whom
she could exchange pressed flowers and plants of Canada (natives)
for sea-shells, or other sea curiosities. She would also like a
correspondent in India, Ceylon, or Zanzibar.

MISS EVA M. ROPER, Dunmow, Essex, wishes for a French correspondent,
about twenty-two, or older, and suggests that each should write in her
own language.

MISS LIZZIE VAN REES, Reehveve, Hilversum, Holland, wishes to write
Dutch or German letters to a lady of her own age (17), who will reply
in English or French.

MISS CARRIE GERMAINE should write direct to MISS DOROTHEA KNIGHT, whose
address was given.

MISS E. W. JEFFERSON, Paris, Ontario, Canada, an Englishwoman of
twenty-six, would like to correspond with MADEMOISELLE GOUTARD, or any
of our correspondents—French, German, or Indian. She hopes to improve
her knowledge of French and German, and also to give some help in
return.

MISS L. ANNING, Charlotte Rains, _via_ Hughenden, N. Queensland,
Australia, would like to correspond with “MISS INQUISITIVE,” or any
“real English girl.” Miss Anning lives on a cattle station, and is
sixteen years old.


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

K. A. (_Music Teacher_).—We cannot recommend any girl to come over
to this country and seek employment as a teacher of music only. The
competition in the musical world is so severe that only the best
teachers succeed in any degree at all, and those who are not quite
remarkably good are obliged merely to teach music as one among many
subjects.

JULIUS CÆSAR (_Copying, etc._)—There is very little copying to be had
since typewriting was introduced, and, in any case, the law stationers,
to whom this class of work is usually entrusted, would not care to send
it down to the West of England to be done. Plain needlework orders
you might very likely obtain from people in your own locality. In our
opinion, people who are obliged to live at home and to exercise great
economy, cannot do better than work for themselves, that is to say,
make their own clothes, do their own cooking and housework, etc. In
this way they can at all events save themselves occasions for spending
money. But earning for those who live in the heart of the country is
much more difficult than for town-dwellers, while on the other hand
living is cheaper.

A WELL-WISHER OF THE “G. O. P.” (_Emigration to Canada_).—See reply to
“Unsettled” (No. 1014). For your age you are certainly not receiving
very high wages, and the fact suggests that you have no great talent
for cooking. Perhaps you might do better in Canada, where the duties
would be more varied. But we cannot take the responsibility of advising
you to take such a step, as you are by no means badly off where and as
you are. You might easily go further and fare worse.

LORRAINE (_Travelling Companionship_).—There is really no demand for
travelling companions. If you are fond of travelling, you had possibly
better emigrate under the auspices of the British Women’s Emigration
Association, Imperial Institute, Kensington, W.; but in this event
you must be prepared to do plenty of domestic work. In the meantime,
however, you should take a thorough course of training in cookery, etc.
You could obtain this by spending some time in the Emigrants’ Training
Home, Leaton, Wrockwardine, Wellington, Salop. Perhaps, however, you
have a talent for some trade that you could pursue in the Old Country,
and in this case it would be better to remain. But you give us no
sufficient idea of your aptitudes for us to offer much practical
guidance.


MISCELLANEOUS.

GEORGIANA.—The system which had its origin in Gautama Buddha was
founded about 2500 years ago in India, upwards of 500 years before
Christ, and Ceylon was the country of its earliest proselytism. Its
dogmas represent a form of Atheism, as no God is acknowledged. Buddha
represents a man, not a god, although divine adoration is paid to him
and his supposed relics.

MISS PRYDE.—We have pleasure in again drawing attention to your Home
for Governesses, and others in Paris, in the Rue de la Pompe, Avenue du
Bois de Boulogne, 152.

BELL.—We recommend you to write to Miss Pryde, of whom we have just
given a notice. It is probable that she may receive you, and in any
case give you _renseignements_.

DOROTHY B.—At any china manufacturer’s where lessons are given, and
artists are trained in china-painting, you could obtain any china sets
for the purpose. Mortlock’s, for instance; you might write to the
manager. They have a shop in Oxford Street, W.

KATHLEEN.—It is exceedingly ill-bred to have private jokes before a
third party. It is a rule that there should be no whispering, nor any
side-glances and “nudgings” unexplained to others present. Do not look
cross, but inquire what the joke is. It is for you to judge whether it
be expedient or agreeable to make a confidant or intimate friend of
girls so ill-bred and untrustworthy.

ST. ELMO.—We are not surprised that your father considers your writing
illegible, as well as inartistic. Why do you drop some letters below
the line of the others, the letter “o” especially? There is no such
letter as that you substitute for a “y” and a “g,” and your “S” is a
capital “E,” etc. You ought to write copies daily, and take pains to
form your writing like the copper-plate examples. The song “Casta Diva”
is in Bellini’s opera of “Norma.”

CAPE COLONY.—The person who is to be _presented_ is not the person of
the highest rank, nor most advanced age, but the person of the least
rank, or the most juvenile. A man (out of courtesy and chivalric
feeling) is presented to a woman, and so the friend or lady of the
house brings him up to the lady, and says, “Allow me to present (or
introduce) Mr. So-and-so,” just as at Court the subject is presented to
the sovereign, not the superior to the inferior, in any case. How could
you say, “Allow me to present Lord So-and-so,” to a young Lieutenant,
for example, or lead up an elderly lady to a young girl, and say, “Let
me introduce Lady Mary ——”? We are glad you continue to value our paper.

PAULINE.—Perhaps one of your sisters might find hair-dressing suited
her. Of course, in one department you would have a good deal of
standing; but in the dressing of dummy heads for the windows, and the
making-up of false hair you could sit. The work is remunerative when
thoroughly acquired. Salaries range from 15s. to 30s. a week. Wig and
front-making may be done for shops at home.

AMIE.—We do not at a moment’s notice speak with authority on the
question you ask; but it is our impression that a woman need only
substitute the words “of full age” for the exact statement of her age.
In some cases a copy of your baptismal register might be required, and
in any case you had better consult the clergyman who is to perform the
marriage service.

HELIOTROPE.—We do not understand why you cannot have the friendship of
two schoolfellows as well as of one, or half a dozen. If you like them,
and they are attached to you, there is no occasion for you to “throw
off” the first you liked. As to “going with” either of them, it is not
a case of an engagement nor betrothal. Be kind to each in turns, and
say nothing of your preference to the friend you like the least, for
your newer favourite. Exercise a little tact, and avoid wounding her.

MARCIA.—You should procure a book on architecture. Of the Gothic
there are five varieties—the Norman, dating from William I.’s time,
1066-1189; the Transition, from _temp._ Richard I., 1189; the Early
English, from _temp._ Henry III., 1216; the Decorated, _temp._ Edward
II., 1307; the Perpendicular, _temp._ Richard II., 1377, until the
_temp._ Henry VIII., 1546. Since then, these several styles have
been reproduced; besides which there have been two combinations—the
Anglo-Norman and Semi-Norman. Of the Anglo-Saxon period in architecture
you have not inquired, nor have we space to add much more. Perhaps the
most curious specimens of this style are the tower of Sumpting Church,
in Sussex, and that of Barnack, Northants. The Anglo-Norman, which
succeeded it, deserves your attention, of which we may cite an example
at Castle Rising, Norfolk, the crypt at Westminster Abbey, and many in
Warwickshire. There is also the Semi-Norman style, which is beautifully
represented in the ruins of Croyland Abbey, Lincolnshire.

LOVER OF ANIMALS.—The grey parrot or jaco is indigenous to the
west coast of Africa, and, as a rule, is a specially good talker.
The cockatoo inhabits the Indies, isles of Oceania, and is docile
and caressing, but, according to Louis Figuier, it is not a good
talker. The very best that we ever saw in this respect, and the most
affectionate, was a very large and handsome cockatoo. When purchased at
Jamrack’s, it was exceedingly wild and fierce, but it became greatly
attached to the lady who bought it, and tame enough to walk at liberty
on the table, and quite harmless in company. Of course there are
beautiful parrots, which are natives of Australia, that can be trained
to talk, and if not teased when young, they do not scream.

L. W.—Chopin was not a Frenchman, though he resided for many years
in France, and died in Paris. Many of his mazurkas, nocturnes, and
polonaises were founded on Polish National airs, though adapted to the
French style. He was a Pole, and born near Warsaw in 1809. But France
may claim Gounod, who was a native of Paris, born in 1818, and the
French may be proud to own him. His style is considered to resemble
that of Meyerbeer.

ENQUIRER.—The knife is never used excepting to carve a joint, or fowl,
or game of any kind, and to eat meat, or bread, or cheese. Fish is
helped with a silver “slice” and fork, and by others a small silver
knife and fork are used, never a steel one. For pastry, puddings of all
descriptions, and vegetables, only a fork, or, if necessary, a spoon
may be used in the higher ranks of society.

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 602: no to not—“not believe”.

Page 606: responsibilites to responsibilities—“delightful
responsibilities”.]