THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1004.]

[Price One Penny.

MARCH 25, 1899.

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

[A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.]
[OUR MEDICINE CHEST.]
[“OUR HERO.”]
[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]
[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
[VARIETIES.]
[A NEW GAME.]
[HIS GREAT REWARD.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]
[OUR PUZZLE POEMS.]
[OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITIONS.]

[A POINT OF CONSCIENCE.]

“THE DAINTY PORTFOLIO.”

All rights reserved.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you mean the illustrations of Romola?”

“Yes, please!”

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

Jessie took it up eagerly.

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

“And did she make the case too?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear, dear, I am sorry!”

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

“But can nothing be done?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,

Ringing with echoes of Italian song;

Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,

And all the pleasant place is like a home.”

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

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

Cecil Vincent.

[OUR MEDICINE CHEST.]

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

PART I.

THE SURGICAL DRAWER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Carbolic Acid.
1 in 20.
POISON.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

[“OUR HERO.”]

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

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

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polly and Molly exchanged glances.

“His name, Drake?” the former asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are we to do, Polly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another tear fell.

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

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

“Not ask!”

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

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

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

“Not even how Denham is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roy was trying still to conjure up the past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I do understand.”

“Den is not the man to change.”

“Many men do change—so easily.”

“Not Denham. That’s not his sort.”

She smiled a little.

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

“Spring of 1805.”

“And you were then—how old?”

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

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

“Go on,” she whispered.

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

“He has a warm advocate in you.”

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

Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.

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

Roy’s coat-sleeve received a little squeeze.

“But—so long ago!”

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

She bent towards him.

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

(To be continued.)

[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]

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

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

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

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

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

[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

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

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

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

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

FOUR SPRING GOWNS.

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

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

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

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

TEA-GOWN FOR A YOUNG LADY.

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

TAILOR-MADE GOWN OF SHEPHERD’S PLAID.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]

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

CHAPTER XXV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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