THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 375.]

[Price One Penny.

MARCH 5, 1887.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

[THE STORM.]
[SOME OF THE POETRY WE READ.]
[VARIETIES.]
[HEALTH IN THE KITCHEN-GARDEN.]
[MERLE’S CRUSADE.]
[THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.]
[EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.]
[UNCLE JASPER.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

THE STORM

By ESTHER WIGLESWORTH.

Hark! hark! hark!

Hark to the thunder’s roar,

Hark how the maddened waves

Burst on the rock-girt shore!

Lashed by the furious winds,

Their foaming crests they rear,

Rush on with mighty bound,

Start back in shuddering fear.

Hark to the rattling hail!

Hark to the driving rain!

The heavens, a blaze of light,

Throb as in quiv’ring pain;

All Nature seems to work,

Unchecked, its own wild will,

While man looks on in awe,

And bird and beast are still.

God on the whirlwind rides,

The storm is ’neath His feet,

He holds in His right hand

The winds, His coursers fleet;

They bear creation’s Lord

In triumph on His way,

And in their maddest race

His slightest check obey.

The lightning is His glance,

His breath upheaves the sea,

The thunder His dread voice

Of awful majesty;

In Nature’s seeming war

Its Maker walks abroad,

And all its mighty powers

Are servants of our God.

THE COMING STORM.

All rights reserved.]

SOME OF THE POETRY WE READ.

A FEW NOTES ON THE MODERN USE OF THE OLD FRENCH METRICAL FORMS.

By J. W. GLEESON WHITE.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.—THE TRIOLET.

lsewhere in the pages of The Girl’s Own Paper a writer has explained the laws of form governing and underlying what we call “classical” music. To those who love art, in whatever guise it comes to us—as symphony, picture, or poem—a very slight amount of careful study of its accepted laws will repay a thousandfold the trouble taken. Having grasped even the faintest idea of the reason for the special shape of a sonata or a sonnet, the interest in the work itself becomes more keen. Then, too, it will be seen why literary men and artists choose the higher forms of their art to clothe their ideas. There is too often a feeling that the chief difference between popular and classical art is that the one is “dry,” while the other is pleasing. This is in part true, but only when scholastic rules are obtruded too prominently. For while it may be at once conceded that too great an attention to form produces dry bones, yet genius can make these live, for subject as they are to laws, and having clear sequence of form, they have inherent vitality and strength, relying on more than mere fashion to keep their hold on the people, in spite of the varying taste of each passing year.

Nature, to whom we all come alike for our simplest as our highest thoughts, works in many ways, but all subject to inviolable laws. These may often be not evident at a cursory glance, and still more often beyond our keenest search; we can only infer the law from the result. In mere human work, what one man produces is more or less easily understood by his fellow-man, and a knowledge of the rules to which he conformed, adds interest to our pleasure in his work, and makes us able to be real critics, to some extent, while mere taste or feeling can lay claim to no more than a personal and often valueless opinion.

The laws which govern music are probably better known than those which rule verse, as our English poets choose generally a freer and more flexible mode of expression than the old writers allowed. Again, in music the form is more easily seen, for two reasons: one, that constant habit of hearing pieces in strict form has given us knowledge, without our being able to formulate it; the other, that the subjects of music, being at most vague and abstract, are left out of the title of works by the great masters, save in a very few instances. Even the “Eroica Symphony” or the “Wedding March” merely suggests abstract feelings. To describe a rose or an umbrella, for example, is impossible in music. We can only suggest praise, or grief, and similar emotional feelings. Therefore the shape only is usually given in the title, such as a march, minuet, or sonata. But in poetry the shape is rarely described. Even in the most widely used of these fixed forms, the sonnet, the shape is not by any means invariably expressed in the title. In the verses written in imitation of the Old French Troubadours it is more often used. In the rondeau, the most widely chosen, it is not always given, but the triolet, villanelle, or ballade is almost always so described in the title, the shape, as in music, ranking worthy of interest in itself. These old shapes are more akin to the fugue and canon in music, as the whole work has inner laws governing each detail, and making the choice of words or notes decided beforehand to a great extent by the form.

It is intended in this paper to describe a few of the forms which have of late found favour with the younger school of living poets, for a twofold reason: first, that their readers may better appreciate their works; secondly, that the amateur verse-writer may gain a knowledge of these verse shapes, and thereby be able to produce trifles which are worthy of attention. Although it is not given to many to produce great thoughts, yet to acquire a polished mode of displaying lesser ones to advantage, is in itself worth the trying. The tendency to diffusiveness which weakens so much verse, until the pretty trifling becomes wearisome, would be lessened if a strict form were first chosen, and the subject necessarily compressed within its limits.

The greater number of these forms originated with the Troubadours, and here, for mere brevity’s sake, only a very few words must be said. The subject of their loves and their lives has been so fully discussed that a mere résumé of all that is known would fill many parts of this magazine. Hallam says “the earliest records cannot trace them beyond A.D. 1100, and they became extinct at the end of the next century. While they flourished they numbered many hundreds of versifiers in the language of Provence, though not always natives of France.” It would be interesting, if space allowed, to quote from some of the many histories. I had intended to do so, but the growing material forbade the idea of using it here, and so I must refer would-be inquirers to some of the more easily accessible works. Foremost is Dr. Francis Hueffer’s “The Troubadours,” published in 1878; it gives a scholarly and full account of the most salient members of the school and their works. “The Troubadours: their Loves and Lives,” by Mr. John Rutherford, is also interesting; while a work by M. Theodore de Banville, the “Petit Traité de Poésie Française,” affords an exhaustive analysis of the rules of their verse and its modern imitations.

Their verse was distinguished by its being subject to very strict and subtle laws, often involved and carried to an artificial complexity, perilously near the triumph of sound over sense; yet it has a charm peculiarly its own. The forms of this school being still exotic, and not (except the sonnet) incorporated into English literature, gives them a special fitness when employed for fanciful trifles on subjects of an older time.

The qualities termed “conceits” by the old English writers, are admirably expressed through the medium of these old shapes; a certain amount of extravagance of compliment and affectation is not out of place here. The flavour of the verse smacks of the “Moyen Age,” or “Powder and Fan” period beloved by artists. In these forms the shape of the verse itself takes the place somewhat of the costume and accessories of a painting, and gives local colour to the subject. When used in this way, as Mr. Austin Dobson has so often shown, they can be made (like a picture by Abbey) to reproduce the past in a living way, with its own domestic sentiment, far removed from a mere archæological or academic study of olden days, which often appeals to the intellect rather than the feeling, and moves us to criticise the method employed, instead of falling under the charm of the subject described.

But they are by no means limited to this class of subject, as Mr. Swinburne’s Roundels show. Nature and her moods may be sung as fitly in these, as in the most free forms of poetry.

Many estimable but badly-informed people think that poetry or verse (unluckily these terms are synonymous to them) is either a divine outburst of feeling, expressing itself almost spontaneously in rhyme, or, sad to say, a mere vehicle to hide the poverty of ideas, and eke out a repetition of fancies intolerable in prose. The multitude are slow to realise law in any shape, and in art no less than nature look upon most results as the effect of what a critic has termed “the glorious gospel of haphazard.” To these poetry suggests no art in itself, only a more or less musical jingle of pretty sounds, gay or plaintive feelings, while the whole is unreal and fantastic.

But to avoid further preface, let us take a specimen of the aforementioned forms, choosing a dainty little epigrammatic verse known as the Triolet, to start with. This form, complete always in eight short lines, is peculiarly a product of the old French school of verse, and is in itself, to some extent, an epitome of all the rest. Almost new in English poetry, the first examples dating from a volume of poems published in 1873 by Mr. Bridges, it has yet won many friends, although, so far as diligent search by the present writer has been able to trace them, a selection of the best would fill but a few pages of this paper.

Flexible only in the rhythm and length of its lines, which are generally about six feet (syllabic feet, of course) in length, it is stern, and forbids tampering in all other respects, allowing but two rhyme-sounds for the whole of the lines. The lines themselves are repeated in a certain unalterable order; the first two serve again for the seventh and eighth, while the fourth is also a repetition of the first; no syllable even, in the best examples, is changed in these lines. But on each fresh appearance the words should, if possible, convey a fresh phase of the idea, the emphasis alone serving to mark the distinction. On studying the examples given, it will be found that the crux lies in the treatment of the fifth and sixth lines, while the way the third is connected with the fourth, and the neatness with which the final couplet is repeated to form a necessary part of the whole, and not a mere repeat to fill up the prescribed form, is almost as difficult. The following example is a very perfect one; it comes in a sequence of triolets by Mr. Austin Dobson, entitled “Rose Leaves.” The first version ran:—

“I intended an ode,

And it turned into triolets.

It began à la mode:

I intended an ode;

But Rose crossed the road

With a bunch of fresh violets;

I intended an ode,

And it turned into triolets.”

This has a literary interest apart from its own merits, as the critics, on its first introduction, blamed Mr. Dobson severely for attempting to english the word triolet. “Suppose an audacious person were to extend the license, and introduce cabriolet as a thirdsman?” said The Academy, on June 23, 1877. In spite of Mr. W. S. Gilbert, in Princess Ida, trying also to rhyme it to violet—

“Oh, dainty triolet! oh, fragrant violet! oh, gentle heigho-let! (or little sigh)”—

the word remains French; and in a later version Mr. Dobson has re-cast the poem.

“I intended an ode,

And it turned to a sonnet.

I began à la mode.

I intended an ode;

But Rose crossed the road

In her latest new bonnet.

I intended an ode,

And it turned to a sonnet.”

This may be better rhyme, but the raison d’être is gone; it has not turned to a sonnet, but is still a triolet.

To understand the form more clearly, it is best to take one and dissect it, thereby showing its structure. To avoid mutilating a master’s work, and possibly misinterpreting it, I will take one in my possession, not yet published, printing it, not as it would be, but displayed (to use a technical term), thereby exaggerating the emphasis with which the writer intended it should be read.

“A Waverer.

She has a primrose at her breast:

I almost wish I were a Tory.

I like the Radicals the best,

SHE has a primrose at HER breast,

Now is it chance she so is drest?

Or must I tell a story?

She HAS a primrose at her breast:

I almost wish I WERE a Tory.”

Here we see the whole is a soliloquy in the historic present tense. The first two lines explain the incident, the third the speaker’s own comment on it, noting in the fourth how it differs from his own opinion. In the fifth he meditates on the reason which has affected him. In the sixth he wavers between insincerity and politeness or truth and the chance of conveying a sense of unfriendliness; while in the last he concludes that it is a fact they differ, and, still undecided in action, wishes the reason had not existed so that he might sincerely agree with the supposed Primrose lady, and avoid feigning a political acquiescence of opinion. So trifling an incident will not bear analysis on its own merits, and is merely dwelt on to explain the structure of the verse.

A triolet should be complete in itself. In a very able article in the Cornhill Magazine (July, 1877) Mr. E. W. Gosse points out the danger of a fascinating tendency to connect a sequence of triolets. The constant recurrence of the lines would soon become fatally monotonous. One or two at the most are bearable.

A typical pair appeared in a number of The Century (January, 1883). Thoroughly American, they show well, first the half-bantering, half-real feeling of the poet, artificial in expression, yet not altogether untrue, while her answer shows the American girl pure and simple, the conventional courtesy of the first being happily balanced by the naïve frankness of the second.

“What He Said.

This kiss upon your fan I press—

Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don’t refuse it?

And may it from its soft recess—

This kiss upon your fan I press—

Be blown to you a shy caress,

By this white down, whene’er you use it,

This kiss upon your fan I press—

Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don’t refuse it.”

“What She Thought.

To kiss a fan!

What a poky poet!

The stupid man,

To kiss a fan,

When he knows that—he—can,

Or ought to know it—

To kiss a fan!

What a poky poet!”

Harrison Robertson.

Yet another American one, by H. C. Bumer, may be quoted to show a subject not at first sight so suitable to the triolet form.

“A pitcher of mignonette,

In a tenement’s highest casement;

Queer sort of a flowerpot, yet

That pitcher of mignonette

Is a garden in heaven set,

To the little sick child in the basement,

A pitcher of mignonette,

In the tenement’s highest casement.”

If space allowed there are other dainty flowerets to be culled from this bunch of French exotics, which seem to be cultivated more in America than at home at present. None of our greater poets has, I think, published a triolet. The influence of this form is seen in Mr. Swinburne’s oft-quoted poem, “A Match” (If love were what the rose is); and Longfellow has an evident translation of one, although he has not followed strictly the peculiar repetition of the lines.

But many of our younger poets have published triolets. Mr. Austin Dobson is facile princeps in this form (as indeed in nearly all these Provençal rhythms), while Mr. John Payne and Mr. Andrew Lang rarely if ever use it, although rondeaux and ballades are very frequent in their volumes. Miss Pfeiffer has used it once. Miss A. Mary F. Robinson has a very charming triolet sequence “Fiametta,” which almost reconciles one to the connected triolet. But two or three variations from the strict form, while relieving the monotony of the poem, prove yet more strongly the truth of the warning given by Mr. Gosse. Miss May Probyn in her volume a “Ballad of the Road,” has several good specimens, and here and there among periodical literature sufficient are to be found to warrant a hope that the dainty little epigrammatic verse may yet pass into accepted currency, and supply for epigram or pretty trifling fancies the place the sonnet has acquired for the presentation of stately images and profound thought. While the very care with which the accepted form may be filled up appears at first sight to augur great popularity, probably that very reason has made writers more cautious in using it, since it can be so quickly abused and made unbearable doggerel, unless the recurring lines have a reasonable pretext for their repetition. Finally, a word of advice to those who attempt a triolet. Choose a slight, fanciful incident; let the rhymes be exact and easy; and be content with the “suggestion” (which, like a clever sketch) it gives of some trivial event or idea, avoiding complex subjects or too deep thoughts, for which the form is not well suited.

(To be concluded.)

VARIETIES.

What is Death?

There is no death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but the suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call death.

—Longfellow.

An Approving Conscience.—The most exquisite of human satisfactions flows from an approving conscience.

Aiming at Perfection.—Aim at perfection in everything, though in most things it is unattainable. However, they who aim at it and persevere will come much nearer to it than those whose laziness and despondency make them give it up as unattainable.

Cultivating the Mind.—The mind is but a barren soil—a soil which is soon exhausted and will produce no crop, or only one, unless it be continually fertilised and enriched with foreign matter.

Plain Proofs.—Ungraceful attitudes and actions and a certain left-handedness (if I may use that word) loudly proclaim low education and low company.—Chesterfield.

Too Amiable.—There are many women who would be very amiable if they could only lose sight for a little of the fact that they are so.

The Importance of Food.—The question of food lies at the foundation of all other questions. There is no mind, no work, no health, without food; and just as we are fed defectively and improperly, so are our frames developed in a way unfitted to secure that greatest of earthly blessings—a sound mind in a sound body.—Dr. Lankester.

Keeping Secrets.—A man is more faithful in keeping the secrets of others than his own; a woman, on the contrary, keeps her own secrets better than those of others.—La Bruyere.

Not a Bad Match.

An attorney brought in an immense bill to a lady for some business he had done for her. The lady, to whom he had once paid his addresses, murmured at the charges.

“Madam,” replied the limb of the law, “I wanted to convince you that my profession is lucrative, and that I should not have been a bad match.”

Ways of the Wise.—Philosophic-minded people hanker not after what is unattainable, are not inclined to grieve after what is lost, nor are they perplexed even in calamities.

HEALTH IN THE KITCHEN-GARDEN.

By MEDICUS.

f the thousand and one ills—the word “one” signifying “all the rest”—that afflict humanity, young and old, by far the larger proportion are what may be called chronic troubles. And I do not refer to any particular or decided form of illness, but when I say “chronic,” I mean the term to relate to people who are seldom overwell, who are easily tired, subject to fits of low spirits, have but small inclination for the exercise which they know they need, who have at times no pleasure in other folks’ society, and none in their own, whose stomachs are easily put out of order, who do not always sleep as well as they would wish to, whose systems are dry and irregular generally, who suffer at times from headache, at times from backache, and at times from aches all over.

What a tremendously long sentence I have just written! It almost frightens me to look back at it. Well, this class of complainers—for if they do not complain to others they do so to themselves quietly, and have fancies that all the world is heartless and cold, and a dozen other things that “it didn’t houghter to be,” as the old charwoman said—this class, I say, are nearly always work-a-day girls; I do not refer altogether to manual labour, but to businesses that necessitate a good deal of mental thought and calculation. But many belong also to this class, who have nothing at all to do, and whose minds might be said to be preying on their constitutions.

Well, at all events, there they are, these chronically poorly people. They will not admit that there is anything very much the matter with them, but at the same time no class of sufferers have a sharper eye for the advertisement of some infallible nostrum, that is going to banish sickness from this world entirely, or a sharper ear to listen to any suggested remedy, no matter who it is that recommends it. It may be an old wife’s cure. That does not signify; they simply console themselves with the belief that old wives often know a deal more than doctors, and swallow the compound.

Now let me tell this class of invalids: I. That medicines are probably not wanted at all in such complaints as theirs. II. That medicine of any kind often does more harm than good. III. That it is folly to think or believe that a complaint which has lasted perhaps months, can be charmed away in a day or two by the best doctor in life. For the time a cure takes must bear some proportion to the time the complaint has lasted. I wish you to pin your faith on those facts, and bear them in mind.

If it be true that in nearly all cases of the chronic debility I refer to—and I sincerely believe it is true—the blood-making process is primarily at fault, then, before we can remove the symptoms, it is evident we must attend to the cause. And to do so we must go to the fountain-head from which all the evil flows, and this will be found to be the stomach. In other words, these chronic complaints—with all their aches and rheums and pains, bad sleep, lowness of spirits, fluttering at the heart, palpitations, and what are termed “indescribable feelings”—may be due to a kind of dyspepsia. The system is wholly too sluggish; the liver is inactive, and consequently the heart itself is weak, and being unable to supply the brain and nervous system generally with good, honest, life-giving blood, all kinds of symptoms may occur. These are often called imaginary, but they are real enough, for all that.

I have said that the taking of medicine may do actual harm. Have we any substitute? Yes; and we find it in the use of vegetables and fruit, both of which are very much neglected.

These supply the blood with certain salts of a cooling nature, and without which the principal internal vital organs are unable to secrete material to keep the system regular.

Very often these organs act with great irregularity, or by fits and starts, so that we may have a patient complaining of two different states of system in the same week.

Now, it is possible that the reader of these lines is not to be ranked among the rich, who keep one, two, three, or more gardeners, but that still she lives in the country, and is in possession of a patch of kitchen-garden. If so, I seriously advise that it should be turned to the very best account. I do not wish this to be thought a gardening article, but, nevertheless, I ought, for health’s sake, to throw out a hint or two about the vegetables that ought to be grown for health’s sake, and I will leave it for others to say how this green food is to be cooked.

Ladies are fond of doing a bit of flower-gardening, but, as a rule, they abjure the cultivation of vegetables, or they know nothing really about it. It is a pity this should be so, for the kitchen-garden, if not a large one, certainly does not entail a deal of hard work, and the work is of a sort most conducive to health.

I shall suppose that you have secured the services of some “male creature,” in, say, the month of February or March, to do the first or rough work—the turning over of the ground with the spade—and that he has secured sufficient richness of the soil, and done his work well, and left it level, and that you yourself are to sow the seeds.

Under your own superintendence, then, the beds are mapped out, the width of each being exactly the same (say six feet), and their length equal to the breadth of the plot of ground to be under cultivation. Between each bed there is formed a hollow division or path about a foot wide, and the beds are not to encroach upon the borders round, which are sacred to gooseberry bushes, rose-trees, flowers, and currants, black and red.

Choose a fine, sunny day to sow your seeds. First rake your beds most levelly and carefully, not leaving a ball of earth even an inch in diameter. When well raked they should be as level as a dining-room table, not all in little heaps, as if the Cochins had been scraping them.

Make the drills—by aid of a garden line and foot rule—with the back of the rake, and not more than an inch and a half deep, each drill to be nine inches apart; put peas in two rows, only six inches apart, and a foot and a half between each double row. This foot and a half may seem a waste of ground, but it need not be so, as in the centres you can put a drill of summer spinach.

Having sown your seeds, rake the ground gingerly and tenderly, filling up the little drills, and making each bed a thing of beauty. About two weeks or less after this, it really will be a thing of beauty, for I know of few prettier sights in a garden on a lovely spring day than rows of green seedlings that have just burst through the earth. You can watch them grow day by day, and listen to the birds singing at the same time. If the weather is propitious they will soon want thinning, and for a week or two your work will be cut out for you. Do not say you can ill spare the time. It will be time saved and health gained. Rise in the morning and work an hour before breakfast, and do a little more in the evening. In thinning the plants, leave in the best and biggest, and let there be six to nine inches between each. Pluck all the weeds out at the same time, and put weedings and thinnings all in a small basket; I say small basket, because there is no room for a big one between the beds, and no mark must be left of foot or anything else on the bed itself.

I can assure readers that work like this may be done by the most dainty fingers, and that it will restore the bloom to lips and cheeks, however pale these were before. You may wear what you like and look as charming as you please when gardening; thus, so long as you do the work honestly, you may wear the most dainty hats and gloves, and have a mahogany handle to your hoe if so minded, though, between you and me, six-button kid gloves are not the best suited for weeding onions in.

The great advantage in growing one’s own vegetables is that one can always have them fresh. Lettuces cool, green, and tender; potatoes laughing from the mould, and peas with the drops of morning dew still lingering inside their pods.

That is all I mean to say about gardening; if you wish to learn more, buy a book, and study it, only I can promise you health if you adopt gardening as an exercise and a hobby.

But you must partake of the fruits of your labour; and this leads me to say a few words about the benefits to the health of a partly vegetable diet. Remember, I am not a vegetarian, but I can tell you as a fact that you could live far longer on vegetables alone than you could upon meat alone.

Potatoes come first. No dinner—or to my thinking, no luncheon either—is complete without them.

Some interesting papers in the early part of this volume gave hints as to the cooking of potatoes. Let me add another. To the delicate no vegetable is more difficult of complete digestion if not boiled to a nicety, but they ought to be mashed as well, and I do not think I ever saw them properly mashed at an English table. They ought to be as smooth and white as custard, though not so thin, otherwise little lumps remain, which, even if no bigger than a pea, are most indigestible, and never fail to create unpleasantness afterwards.

Done as the French do them, namely, fried in oil, they are also indigestible.

Potatoes are not only most nutritious, but are calmative to the nerves, and to some extent, narcotic, especially new potatoes.

A potato salad—lettuces included—is a most valuable adjunct to a supper dish.

We have to learn from the Scotch how to serve potatoes, and we must also cross the Border to find out the most delicious and digestible form in which to serve ordinary green vegetables. These include cabbages, curly greens, sprouting broccoli, savoys, turnip-tops, spinach, and kale of all kinds; and all these should be mashed for the delicate, the strongest portions of midribs being taken out, and a little butter and salt well mixed with them in the mashing. They should be served hot, and eaten off a hot plate with a little bread, as a dish, before any meat has been partaken of.

In this way we not only get their full flavour, but the greatest benefit to the blood from their use.

Next in point of value to the delicate come cauliflowers and Brussels sprouts. These need not be mashed, but ought to be used as a dish, with a little bread and butter. The same may be said of seakale.

No one should omit having half-a-dozen times at least during the early spring months a dish of nicely-cooked nettle-tops.

Nettle-tops should be very young and tender. Only those of a light spring-green colour are to be culled. They possess the same properties—of a blood-purifying order—that asparagus does.

Watercresses may usually be had all the year round, and are far more valuable than most people would imagine; but I desire to warn my readers against eating them unless very well washed indeed, as the eggs of certain parasites sometimes cling to their leaves.

Parsley is not over-digestible, but if it agrees it will do the blood good, and help to cool and sweeten the system.

Beetroot is invaluable to all who suffer from indigestion, with a dry condition of the body.

As to roots, besides the potato, which ought to go with everything, we have turnips, parsnips, and carrots. On these we can ring the changes. But the same rule as to serving applies to them as to ordinary green vegetables. Let them be carefully boiled, then well mashed, butter and salt being mixed.

There are many other vegetables that I have not space here to say a word about; but as, with the Editor’s kind permission, I may have an autumn or late summer paper on garden herbs and their dietary and medicinal values, I can then mention those I have here omitted.

I have not said what I wanted to about fruit either; but the delicate should not let a day pass without using it in some form. Especially is it of great value before breakfast.

As to onions and all vegetables of that sort, while I admit their great value and efficacy in chronic complaints, I must bid you beware. Use them only if they can be easily digested and leave no dryness in the throat or taste in the mouth next day.

Now from this paper I hope many will adopt valuable hints. If they do, they will be rewarded with obtaining purer blood in their veins, stronger nerves, and a happier frame of body and mind altogether.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XX.

ROLF’S PENITENCE.

rom a child, that story of Casabianca had fascinated me, and I could see it fascinated Rolf.

“How I do like that fellow Cassy——what do you call him?” he exclaimed, enthusiastically, when I had finished. “I call that plucky, and no mistake, to stick to the burning ship. What a brave man he would have made if he had lived!”

“Yes, indeed; but he lived long enough to do a man’s work in the world—faithful until death. ‘Faithful in little, faithful in much,’ Rolf. Casabianca would never have disobeyed his mother, or thought he knew best, would he?”

“No, Fenny,” in a contrite voice, and sidling up to me again.

“I am afraid you can never be a soldier, dear!”

“What do you mean?”—sitting up erect in bed, with his beautiful eyes quite glaring at me in the twilight. “I mean to be a soldier, I tell you, and use father’s sword! I shall be Colonel Markham, too, one of these days, unless I am killed in battle.”

“You cannot be a soldier unless you learn to obey, Rolf; you cannot rule your men until you have submitted to rule yourself. Officers are gentlemen, and gentlemen are never cowards; and I call it cowardly, Rolf—quite a mean trick—to creep into the nursery in my absence. Honour should have kept you from crossing the threshold.”

Now Rolf could not endure to be called a coward, so he lost his temper, and, I am sorry to say, called me a nasty, spiteful old cat, “which you are Fenny, you know you are, and a great deal worse!” And the next moment he had thrown a rough pair of arms round my neck, his penitence inflicting on me excruciating pain.

“There, there, never mind”—hugging me—“I don’t mean it. You are a dear old thing, Fenny, and I mean to marry you when I grow up. You are such a plain young woman, as mother says, that no one else would ask you, so I will.”

“Do you think I could marry a coward, Rolf?”

“There you go again”—in a vexed voice—“but I shall never be a coward any more; I mean to be a brave boy, like Cassy—what do you call him? I mean to mind mother, and not forget; and I will throw my cannon into the sea to-morrow, though I am so fond of it, and Mr. Rossiter (Walter I call him, but he does not mind) gave it to me. It cost a lot—indeed, it did, Fenny—but, all the same, it shall be drownded dead.”

“If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.” I think there was something very real in that childish sacrifice. It was his treasured plaything, but it had tempted him to disobedience; he would fling it away with both hands. How few of us repent in that way! Mea culpa, we say, but we hug our darling sin close to us; it is not, like Rolf’s cannon, “drownded dead.” Brave, poor little faulty Rolf, I begin to have better hopes of you!

So I kissed and comforted Rolf, and he clung to me quite affectionately. I asked him if he had said his prayers, and he said no, he had been too unhappy, because no one would forgive him; so we said them together, and afterwards we had a little more talk. I was just going to leave him when a light crossed the threshold, and there stood Mrs. Markham, with a lamp in her hand. She looked very ill and unhappy, and I am sure she had been shedding tears.

Rolf sprang up in bed. “Oh, mother, do forgive me!” he cried. “I am sure I have been miserable long enough. Fenny has been telling me about Cassy—you know the fellow; and I mean to be like him. I will drown my dear little cannon, and I will never, never, never disobey you again!”

I think Mrs. Markham was longing in her heart to forgive him. She had suffered as much as the child. She said nothing, but sat down on the bed and held out her arms, and Rolf nestled into them. She kissed him almost passionately, but a tear rolled down her face.

“I think you will break my heart one day, Rolf, as your——” She checked herself, and did not finish her sentence. Did she mean Rolf’s father? Colonel Markham had been a brave officer, I knew, and had died in battle; but he had not made his wife happy.

“Oh no, mother,” returned Rolf, “I am going to be a brave man, like father, and fight for everybody. I mean to take care of you when you are an old, old woman. Won’t that be nice? You won’t mind my marrying Fenny when I am quite grown up, will you, mother? Because she is such an old dear—not really old, you know, but so nice.”

Mrs. Markham smiled faintly at the boy’s nonsense, but she looked at me very pleasantly.

“Thank you for talking to Rolf, Miss Fenton, and helping him to be good. He is sorry, I think, and I hope this painful lesson will teach him to be less mischievous. But now you look very unfit to be up. You have done us all good service to-day, and we are all extremely grateful. Let me help you back to your room.”

I was very much astonished at this civility, but I declined her assistance and wished Rolf good-night. I was still more surprised when she held out her hand.

“You must be careful of yourself, Miss Fenton, for my sister’s sake,” she said, so kindly that I could hardly believe it was Mrs. Markham’s voice.

I marvelled at her manner greatly as I retraced my steps to the night nursery. She was really grateful to me, I could see that. Probably she realised that my prompt action had saved her and her boy a lifetime of regret. To extinguish life accidentally must be a bitter and sore retrospect to any human mind. Rolf’s boyhood would have been shadowed if his little cousin’s death had laid at his door.

I tried to cheer myself with these thoughts as I laid awake through the greater part of that long summer’s night. I could only sleep by snatches, and my dreams were full of pain. I imagined myself a martyr at Smithfield, and that the faggots were lighted about my feet. I could see the flames curling up round me, and feel their scorching breath on my face. Excruciating pain seemed to tingle in my veins; I cried out and woke Joyce, and then the misery of my burns kept me restless. I was quite ill the next day, and could not stir from my bed; but Mrs. Markham and Rolf came to see me more than once, and Reggie played on my bed, and was so dear and good, and Joyce kept creeping up to me to know what she could do for nurse, and every two or three hours Gay’s bright face seemed to bring sunshine into the room.

She had always some pleasant thing to tell me: a kind inquiry from Mr. Hawtry, and some flowers and fruit that Mrs. Cornish had arranged; a book from the vicar’s wife, who had been very shocked to hear of the accident, and thought I wanted amusement; a message from Squire Cheriton, with a basket of fine yellow plums that he had picked himself; and, later in the evening, a tin of cream and some new-laid eggs from Wheeler’s Farm, that Molly had brought herself.

I begged to see Molly, and she came up at once, looking very respectable in her Sunday gown and straw bonnet crossed with yellow ribbons. She shook hands heartily until I winced with pain, and then begged my pardon for her carelessness.

“Thank you so much for your delicious presents, Molly,” I said, gratefully.

“Oh, please don’t mention it, Miss Fenton; it is pleasure to me and father to send it, and father’s duty; and there is a chicken fattening that will be all ready for eating on Thursday; and there is a pot or two of cherry jam that I shall take the liberty to send with it. It is just for the children and yourself, as I shall tell Mrs. Murdle.”

“Everyone is far too good to me,” I stammered, and the tears came into my eyes, for the old Squire and Gay had been so kind, and there was all those beautiful flowers and fruit from the Red Farm, and now this good creature was overwhelming me with homely delicacies. Molly patted me with her rough hand as though I had been a child, and then kissed me in her hearty way.

“There, there, poor dear, who could help being good to you, seeing you lie there as helpless as a baby, with your poor arms all done up in cotton wool, and the pain hard to bear? Never mind, the Lord will help you to bear it, and He knows what pain means.” And with this homely consolation Molly left me and went in search of Hannah.

When Gay came to me to see I was all comfortable for the night, I asked her rather anxiously if she expected to hear from Mrs. Morton in the morning.

She looked as though she were sorry I had asked the question. “Well, no—the fact is, I wrote the letter, Merle, but father forgot to post it, and it has not gone yet. I am very sorry,” as I uttered an exclamation of annoyance, “but it cannot be helped, and it was all father’s fault; he is so careless with letters; but now Adelaide has written to say how well Reggie seems to-day, and both of them shall go by the same post to-morrow morning. Benson shall take them.”

It was no use saying any more. Gay was sorry enough, and it was not her fault, so I only asked her to add a word or two to explain the delay, and this she promised to do. She wanted to write to Aunt Agatha as well, but I would not hear of this. Aunt Agatha was very tender-hearted, and could not bear to hear of any suffering that she could not remedy, and I could see no benefit in harrowing her feelings. I would tell her myself one day.

Dr. Staples had given me a sedative, so I slept more that night, but it was three days before I could leave my bed, and all that time we heard nothing of my mistress. On the fourth day I put on a dressing-gown Gay lent me, with loose hanging sleeves, for my arms were still swathed like mummies, but the pain had lessened; and though I was weak enough only to lean back in an easy chair and watch the children at their play, I liked to be with them, and it was pleasant to sit by the nursery window and look out on the terrace and sundial and the sunny orchard with the old white pony grazing as usual.

Gay had come up that morning with rather a troubled face. They had had a letter from Alick, she said, but he had not received either hers or Adelaide’s. Violet had seemed so ill that he had taken her home to Prince’s Gate that Dr. Myrtle might see her. They had left Abergeldie before their letters had arrived, and he could not possibly receive them until the next morning, but of course they would be forwarded at once.

I was much distressed to hear that the letters had miscarried, and still more that my mistress was ill. It was dreary taking her back to that great empty house; but then Dr. Myrtle understood her constitution, and would do her more good than a stranger. I begged Gay to tell me what was the matter, but she did not seem to know. It was a collapse, Alick had said, a sudden serious failure of strength; he had written very hurriedly, and seemed worried and anxious.

“I wish I need not have told you all this, Merle,” she finished. “It has made you paler than you were before. Violet has never been strong since Joyce was born, but I do not see that there is any need for special anxiety.” But though Gay insisted on taking a cheerful view of things, I could not bring my spirits to her level. I felt nervous and unaccountably depressed. I had not sufficiently recovered from the effects of the accident to bear the least suspense with equanimity. In spite of my efforts to be quiet and self-controlled, I grew restless and irritable; the least noise jarred on me; it was a relief when Hannah took the children out and I had the nursery to myself. My nervous fancies haunted my dreams that night, and I woke so unrefreshed that Gay scolded me for not getting better more quickly, and pretended to laugh at my dismal face when I heard there was no letter from Mr. Morton.

“It is nonsense your fretting about those letters, Merle,” she said, in her brisk way. “Alick has them by this time, and we shall hear from him before evening. Do, pray, pull yourself together, and I will ask Dr. Staples if a drive will not do you good; your indoor life does not suit you.”

I did not contradict her, but I knew there would be no drive for me that day; perfect quiet and rest were all I wanted, and I knew Dr. Staples would be of my opinion. The afternoon was showery, so the children played about the nursery. I did not admit Rolf, for his noisy ways would have been too much for me, but he was very good, and promised to stay with Judson if he might come to me a little in the evening.

I had gone into the night nursery to lie down for an hour when I heard footsteps coming down the passage. The next moment I heard Mr. Morton’s voice speaking to Gay.

“You can go in and see the children, Alick,” she said, “and I will join you directly, when Adelaide has finished with me;” and then Joyce called out “Fardie,” and I could hear Reggie stumping across the floor.

I waited a few minutes before I made my appearance. Much as I longed to see Mr. Morton, I thought he would rather meet his children alone. I almost felt as though I intruded when I opened the door. Hannah was not there, and he was sitting in my rocking-chair with Reggie in his arms, and his head was bowed down on the little fellow’s shoulder. He started up when he heard me, but I never saw him look so pale and agitated. I knew then that he was a man of strong feelings, that his children were more to him than I had dreamed.

“Miss Fenton,” he began, and then he bit his lips and turned away to the window. I saw he could hardly speak, and there was Reggie patting his face and calling “Fada, fada,” to make him smile.

“Reggie is quite well,” I said, feeling the silence awkward.

“Yes, yes,” quite abruptly, “I see he is; thank God for that mercy; but, Miss Fenton, you have suffered in his stead. You are looking ill, unlike yourself. What am I to say to you? How am I to thank you?”

“Please do not say anything to me,” I returned, on the verge of crying. “Dear little Reggie is all right, and I am only too thankful. Tell me about my mistress, Mr. Morton; we are all so anxious about her.”

I thought he looked a little strangely at me. He held out his hand without speaking. That hearty grasp spoke volumes. Then he cleared his throat and said, quickly, “She does not know; I have not told her; she is very weak and ill. Dr. Myrtle says we must take great care of her; she has been over-exerting herself.”

To my dismay and his I burst into tears, but I was not quite myself, liable to be upset by a word.

“Oh, she is always over-exerting herself; she does more every day than her strength will allow,” I cried, almost hysterically. “It makes one’s heart ache to see her so worn out and yet so patient. Oh, Mr. Morton, do let me come home and nurse her; she is never happy without the children; it will do her good to see them; she frets after them too, and it makes her ill. Do let me come home; there is nothing I would not do for her.”

I heard him beg me to be calm. I was ill myself, I heard him say, and no wonder, and he looked pityingly at my bandages.

“I only wish you could come back to us, Miss Fenton,” he went on, so kindly that I was ashamed of giving way so. “The home feels very empty, and I think it would do my dear wife good to have the children’s feet pattering overhead. She is too weak to have them with her just now, but it would be pleasant to know they were near.”

I pleaded again that we might come home, and he smiled indulgently.

“You must get well first,” he said, gently, “and then I will come and fetch you all back myself. Just now you require nursing, and are better where you are; and it is still hot in London, and the sea breezes will benefit the children a little longer. Come, you will be sensible about this, Miss Fenton.”

And then, as Gay joined us, he turned to her and reiterated his opinion that I must stay at Marshlands until I was well.

Of course, Gay agreed with him; but I thought she was a little graver than usual. I knew Mr. Morton was right. I was no use to anyone just now; but, all the same, it made me feel very unhappy to see him go away and leave us behind. He could not stay any longer, he said, for fear of arousing his wife’s suspicions. He should just tell her he had run down to have a peep at the children; that would please her, he knew. He bade me good-bye very kindly, and told me to keep up my courage, and not lose heart. I could see he was not vexed with me for giving way. No doubt he attributed it all to weakness.

I sat down and had a good cry when he had left us, and there was no denying that I was homesick that night, and wanted Aunt Agatha. I felt a poor creature in my own estimation. Perhaps I was impatient; Dr. Staples told me I was, and his eyes twinkled as he said it; but it seemed to me I recovered very slowly. The burns were healing nicely; in a few more days I could put on my dress and enjoy the country drives; but I did not resume my usual duties for some time.

I could not dress and undress the children; walking tired me, and my spirits were sadly variable. The news from Prince’s Gate did not cheer me: my mistress continued in the same unsatisfactory state. Mr. Morton wrote every day, and both Mrs. Markham and Gay had gone up to town for a few hours. I heard more from Mrs. Markham than from Gay. She thought her sister looking very ill, and considered there was grave cause for anxiety. She had an excellent nurse, and her husband was most devoted in his attentions; she had never seen anyone to equal him. Here Mrs. Markham sighed; but her sister looked dull and depressed, and she thought she missed the children.

The bright September days passed away very slowly. I was growing weary of my banishment; and yet Marshlands and Netherton had become very dear to me, and I had grown to love the quaint old nursery. I was thankful when my strength permitted me to resume our mornings on the beach and our afternoons in the orchard. I felt less restless out of doors, and I liked to have Rolf with me. I saw very little of Gay; just then she was busy with parish work. I heard from her casually one day that Mr. Hawtry had gone to Italy. I suppose I looked astonished, for she said, quickly—

“He called the other afternoon and asked to see the children, but Adelaide had taken you all for a drive. I thought he seemed a little sorry not to say good-bye to them, as he expected to be away some time. He hoped you were better, Merle, and desired his kind regards.”

“And he has gone to Italy?”

“Yes; a young cousin of his is lying dangerously ill at Venice, and so this Don Quixote has started off to see after him. It is just like him, he is always doing things for other people.” And with this speech she left me.

I was sorry not to say good-bye to Mr. Hawtry; he had been very kind to us, and it seemed such a pity that we had missed him that afternoon. I often thought about our visit to the Red Farm, and how pleasant and hospitable he had been. It seemed rather tantalising just to make friends (and he had always been so friendly to me) and then not to see them again, but perhaps next summer we should come down to Marshlands again.

(To be continued.)

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LEWES CARNIVAL.

rs. Shelley was quite right in saying Fairy’s sorrows were short-lived. For one whole day she had been very miserable, the day after Rex had asked her, and she had promised, to be his wife, when Mr. Leslie had called and told her she was not to see Rex any more till the carnival. Coming so soon after her great happiness, Fairy could not bear this sudden reverse with equanimity, and so, as Reginald had told the baroness, she had cried all day, until John had meekly yielded and allowed another interview.

After this Fairy was quite satisfied; Rex loved her, and that was in itself happiness. That he would be true to her she no more doubted than she doubted the sun would rise the next day, and so, though of course she would have preferred him to remain at Oafham and spend his afternoons with her, she acquiesced cheerfully in Mr. Leslie’s plan, and was as bright and happy during the months of October and November as it was possible for even such a little sunbeam to be.

When November dawned, and it was arranged that Fairy should go to the Leslies on the 3rd for a week or two, her excitement was so great that Mrs. Shelley told her if she did not take care she would be ill and unable to go, at which she only laughed, and said there was no fear of her being ill, and as for eating, she was much too happy to be hungry. One little thing was rather troubling Fairy; she was half afraid her dress was not quite all it ought to be for such a grand gentleman as Rex’s father, whose acquaintance she was to make on the 5th. If it had only been summer-time it would not have mattered, for nothing could be prettier than one of her simple white frocks; they would do for anyone or anything; but she could not wear a thin white dress in November. Her best winter dress was a red merino, new for the occasion, and as she dressed herself in it when it came home, she could not help acknowledging inwardly, as she glanced at her dainty little self in the glass, her delicate complexion set off to the best advantage by the dark red merino, if she only had some lace to put round the throat, her toilet would compare favourably with the blue silks of the Leslie girls.

THE LEWES CARNIVAL.

Perhaps there was some lace among the things she had on when John Shelley found her; she believed there was, so, unlocking the drawer in which she had always kept these relics, she pulled them out and glanced at them. There on the top lay the blue satin quilt, the large piece missing which she had cut out years ago to make a shaving-case for Jack. Poor Jack! Where was he now? What would he say to her engagement? Would he be pleased at it? Somehow Fairy feared he would not. But there was enough of the quilt left to make a shaving-case for Rex; it would be just the thing for him, and nice work to do at the Leslies’, so the remains of the quilt were packed up to go with her. Then came the red Indian shawl, in which the baron had wrapped his little daughter. How handsome it was! Why, not one of the Leslie girls had such a handsome shawl as this, all embroidered with gold. She would certainly take this with her; it would do beautifully to wrap round her in the balcony from which they were to watch the carnival. Rex would like this shawl, she was sure, so that, too, was packed up. All the other little garments, yellow with being laid up so long, were now looked through to see if there was any lace that would do, but no, it was all too narrow, and Fairy was about to shut the drawer when she caught hold of the lace handkerchief which had been tucked into her dress under her chin as a feeder when she was found. She looked at it with a critical eye. How fine it was, and what lovely lace, and how pretty that crest and coronet worked in the corner were! This handkerchief was the very thing; she would fold it so that the corner with the crest showed, and wear it round her throat instead of a lace tucker.

So the handkerchief was packed up with the other things, and on Monday afternoon Fairy went to the Leslies to stay. The carnival was not till Wednesday evening, but she hoped to see Rex on Tuesday, as she knew he was expected to reach Oafham before then. Nor was she disappointed, for on Tuesday morning Rex arrived to lunch, and spent a long afternoon.

Fairy found he was most anxious she should make a conquest of his father, and seemed to think their future happiness depended in a great measure upon the effect she produced upon Mr. de Courcy, so that Rex was looking forward to the carnival with somewhat mixed feelings, and, to the disappointment of the Leslies, could not be persuaded to appear in fancy dress, which they assured him was the correct thing for young men in all ranks of life on this unique occasion. But Rex refused, declaring he only intended to be a spectator, and his time would be fully occupied in taking care of Fairy, which no one for one moment doubted. Since masks were considered indispensable, he agreed to wear a wire mask to protect his face from the squibs and crackers, which are recklessly flung in all directions, often doing serious injury to some of the passers-by, but this was the utmost he would concede, and Fairy seconded him, declaring that though she liked him very much as he was, she was by no means sure how she would like him if he were dressed up like another person.

The Leslies had hired a window in the High-street, and here Mr. de Courcy and Rex were to meet them at seven o’clock to watch the revelry, and then they were all to return to the rectory to supper. Fairy, who had of course often seen the carnival before, was full of childish delight at the prospect, and kept assuring Rex it was the most wonderful sight he had ever seen; there was nothing like it in England; she was sure he would be enchanted; the only drawback was there were sure to be one or two riots, as some turbulent spirits always insulted the Roman Catholics before the evening was over.

“Well, I hope they won’t insult my father; he is a Roman Catholic,” said Rex.

“Your father a Roman Catholic, Rex! Are you one, too?” asked Fairy, turning a little pale.

“No, I am a Protestant, so is my mother, but I don’t think it right to make game of other people’s religion, and insult them because it differs from ours, do you?”

“You are like John. He says it is very wicked, and that the carnival does more harm than good. He only goes to try and help to keep order, but I like it, it is such a pretty sight,” replied Fairy, eagerly.

In Lewes the preparations began early in the afternoon, when the shops were closed, and all the lower windows in the High-street, through which the procession was to pass, were boarded up—a very necessary precaution, for the reckless flinging of lighted torches, squibs, and crackers would otherwise have broken the windows, and perhaps set fire to the houses.

In the Market-place arrangements were made for the making of an enormous bonfire, in which the effigies of Guy Faux, the Pope, and any public person, whether of local or of wider fame, who happened just then to be in bad odour with the Lewes people, were to be burnt at midnight—the closing scene in the drama.

A little after seven o’clock the Leslies’ carriage drove up to the house in which they had hired the drawing-room balcony to view the proceedings. At present all that was to be seen were young men and boys with lighted torches in their hands, and most of them in fancy dress, rushing wildly about the streets, shouting and singing and throwing squibs and crackers in all directions.

Mr. Leslie hurried his party into the house as quickly as possible, and then sent the carriage home, for later on all traffic would be stopped, and the girls had come prepared to walk back.

On reaching the drawing-room they found Mr. de Courcy and Rex had just arrived; a large fire was blazing on the hearth, but there were no other lights in the room, interior darkness being the rule at the Lewes carnival, in order that the outside festivities may be all the more brilliant.

Mr. Leslie introduced Mr. de Courcy to his wife and daughters, and then to Fairy, who was looking so bewitchingly pretty with her red Indian shawl twisted round her head in some wonderful way which exactly suited her, that it was evident Mr. de Courcy was struck by her beauty, the flickering light of the fire and the shawl which hid her lovely golden hair, and partly veiled her slight figure, only piquing his curiosity. He began to talk to her at once in his broken English, and her charming manners fascinated him almost as much as they did his son, and when he found she spoke French fluently, and with the prettiest accent possible, Fairy’s triumph was complete. Mr. de Courcy, always a great admirer of girls, was quite captivated, and Rex whispered to Fairy she had succeeded already. The procession was to leave the Market-place at eight, and go round the town, but even now it was a weird scene, the masqueraders passing up and down the streets in their costumes, some of them excellently got up, others so grotesquely as to be quite as amusing as the elaborate fancy dresses prepared by costumiers, the torches carried by them throwing a weird, uncertain light on their wild, uncertain antics. From time to time a passage of arms occurred between some passing Cavaliers and Roundheads, but at present all was harmless fun, everyone being in a good temper at this early stage of the proceedings.

Fairy and Rex managed to get a corner of the balcony to themselves, from which she tried to explain the various costumes, oftener, as Rex told her, discovering the original people than the characters they were intended to represent. These two alone were not impatient for the procession to pass, being so much occupied with themselves as to pay but little attention to what was going on in the street. Occasionally a grand excitement was caused by the rolling past of a lighted tar-barrel, which illuminated the whole street, its attendant youths, many of whom were dressed like demons, looking in their black masks and asses’ ears more like fiends than men as they lashed their blazing barrels with their torches, sending the sparks far and wide.

“This is the Bournemer barrel, and that is Charlie with an axe, dressed as an executioner. I made his black mask for him. Look, Rex,” cried Fairy, as another and the last of the barrels rolled into the Market-place, to return presently with the procession.

A few minutes later there passed a riotous group of violent anti-papists, bearing a banner with “No popery” on it, carried reluctantly by a scarlet woman, or rather a man dressed in woman’s clothes of bright red, supposed to represent the Church of Rome. On one side of her was a man in Geneva gown and bands, on the other another in a long surplice, hood, and stole, carrying a large book, and these two, with a great deal of rough horseplay, kept the scarlet woman up to the mark. This centre group was surrounded by men and boys carrying torches and screaming, “Down with popery!” at the top of their voices.

“That group will have a row before they are satisfied,” said Rex, turning away, and looking in the opposite direction, as the group passed on to the Market-place. “But look, Fairy, who is this good-looking man masquerading without a mask as a shepherd? See, he is looking up here,” said Rex.

Fairy looked, and saw by the light of the torches cast behind by the anti-papist group, a tall, handsome man, dressed in a smock-frock and carrying a crook, a face which, in spite of a beard and moustache, she knew very well.

“Why, Rex, it is Jack; it is, it is! I must speak to him. Jack, Jack, where do you come from? Come up and speak to me directly. Fancy Jack being here! I must go, Rex, and let him in. Oh, Mr. Leslie, here is Jack!” and Fairy ran into the drawing-room, the red shawl falling off her head, and her beautiful hair, which was disarranged by the shawl, streaming down her shoulders in wild confusion. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her great brown eyes sparkling with delight, as she went forward with both hands outstretched, to meet Jack at the top of the stairs.

Rex was at first quite put out of countenance by this unfortunate contretemps, as he could not help thinking it; it would undo all the good impression Fairy had made upon his father; for not knowing Jack, Rex supposed he was like the rest of his family, and trembled for the consequences if his father now discovered Fairy was the foster-daughter of a shepherd. How he wished he had not called Fairy’s attention to the young man, and how pleased they were to see each other again. There really was no occasion for that very long handshaking. But here Mr. Leslie, seeing Rex looked very crestfallen, went up to him and whispered it was all right; Mr. de Courcy would only suppose the truth, that Jack was masquerading. Moreover, he added, he is an excellent young fellow—very superior, too, to his family; he might pass very well in a crowd.

Rex was somewhat reassured; and when Fairy drew him to Jack, whispering that this was her fiancé, he tried to be as pleased as Fairy could wish to make his acquaintance, but somehow both young men felt instinctively they were rivals, and their intercourse was constrained on both sides. Indeed, Jack was anxious to get away as quickly as possible, although he had come all the way from America to see Fairy, and judge for himself if the stories he had heard in his mother’s last letter were true. It did not require long to see that they were, and his errand accomplished, he felt his only safety was in flight. That demon of jealousy which, two years ago, had changed the whole course of his life, and so nearly caused him to be guilty of a terrible crime, was again rising in his bosom, as he watched the tender protecting air which Rex assumed over Fairy. Though he had learnt a severe lesson in self-control, and had so far profited by it that he was able to subdue the feeling of envy towards his rival, and to mask from Fairy the bitter sense of disappointment he felt on seeing her the betrothed bride of another, he felt the strain he was putting upon himself would not last long, and so he hastened to find an excuse in order to be gone, inwardly resolving that when he left the room he would never of his own free will set eyes on Fairy again.

She had drawn him out on to the balcony, where he had a few minutes’ conversation with Mr. Leslie, to whom he confided in an undertone that he was going to Liverpool the next day with his mother, on a visit to an uncle, where he would remain until the next mail sailed for America, where he had now decided to remain for the rest of his life. He had excellent prospects out there, and was already getting on far better than he had ever hoped to do in so short a time. Already he had been made cashier, and he had no doubt in a few years he would be appointed manager of the bank, as Mr. Leslie’s friend had taken a great fancy to him. He was now able to carry on his natural history studies, and was making great progress, and had hopes of one day becoming a naturalist, for he now had the means of procuring books which were before far out of his reach, and the new country opened out to him a new field of research.

All this he managed to tell Mr. Leslie while the procession was still preparing to start. He did not tell him what had brought him to England, but Mr. Leslie knew without being told that Fairy was the motive power which had induced him to cross the Atlantic, in the vain hope of persuading her to return with him as his wife. One glance at Rex and Fairy had told Jack this hope was futile, but still it was a satisfaction to see for himself; and he would now go back to his mother, and persuade her to accompany him to Liverpool the next day if possible.

He had only arrived at Lewes that morning, and on finding that Fairy was staying at the Leslies to go to the carnival with them and Mr. de Courcy, he had settled to go too in the hope of seeing her without being seen. He had chosen to wear his smock-frock for the first and only time in his life, partly to please his father, for whom Jack felt he could not do enough to repay his kindness, when he was under that black cloud which had cast a shadow over all his life; partly he wore it because Fairy made it, and partly because he would attract less attention among the masqueraders, who would imagine he was a shepherd come from some of the neighbouring sheep farms to see the carnival, and would not interfere with him; whereas if he had walked about in plain clothes—and he had no others with him—he would probably have been mobbed.

He could not have settled in America until he saw for himself that there was no chance for him of winning Fairy. Now he saw his fate was sealed, his boyish dream shattered; there was nothing left for him but to live it down; and in a distant country, where there was nothing to remind him of the love of his youth, and where he had plenty to interest and occupy him, he would in time learn, not to forget her—that was impossible, she was his first love, and could never be altogether driven out of his heart; one little secret chamber, never peeped into even by himself, would always remain sacred to her memory—but he would learn to live without her; and since the sooner he began this lesson the better, he looked about for an excuse to say good-bye.

(To be continued.)

EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.

A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.

By JAMES MASON.

PART V.

e quoted a wise rule in our third article to the effect that money should never be allowed to lie idle. Put to work on its own account money will make money, and go on growing and growing even whilst the person owning it is asleep or taking holidays.

Of course the wisest thing is to employ it in one’s own business, turning it over and over at a profit, under one’s own management. But such advice is thrown away on those who have no business.

What, then, are those who have money but no business to do? They must entrust it to people who want money for use in some way or other, and are willing to pay interest for the loan. It may be lent, for example, to the British nation or to a foreign government, or to some great railway, or to a bank, or a gas company, or some municipal corporation. Besides these opportunities for investing money profitably, we have shares in joint stock companies of all kinds, some of them safe enough, but not a few of them to be avoided by prudent people.

There are two things essential to a satisfactory investment: First, the principal must be quite safe; and, secondly, there must be a reasonable certainty about the payment of the interest. There is a third point necessary to complete the happiness of the investor: the interest must be the highest possible under the circumstances. We say “under the circumstances,” because in these days really high interest and first-class security never meet.