THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1008.]

[Price One Penny.

APRIL 22, 1899.

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

[“OUR HERO.”]
[OUR LILY GARDEN.]
[CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.]
[SPRING SONG.]
[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]
[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]
[SHEILA.]
[THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

A PERILOUS RIDE.

[By permission of Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.

All rights reserved.]

[“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 XXX.

A HAZARDOUS RETREAT.

he work intended by that spirited advance was done. Nothing remained for Moore but to fall steadily back before overwhelming odds.

All the bright expectations, with which he had started on this expedition, were dashed to the ground. In every direction he had met with indifference, vacillation—even opposition—where he ought to have found only warm co-operation. The Spanish forces had proved themselves worthless. Moore’s little Army stood alone in the heart of what was now practically an enemy’s country.

With almost superhuman energy the greatest General of his age had exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the complete annihilation of the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find his stupendous efforts unavailing. For the first time in Napoleon’s career, he was decisively foiled.

Yet the utmost that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from destruction. To that aim he buckled his powers with unfaltering resolution. As Sir William Napier wrote in after years: “The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained; and with a firm heart he accepted that gift.”

By the greater number of Moore’s troops this long ten days’ retreat to the coast had to be done on foot. There were steep mountains to be climbed; there were deep valleys to be passed; there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while a confident Army, far outnumbering them, and accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which twice had failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from all hope of escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon their rear.

It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short; the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often, adding to their difficulties. Shelter was hard to find; provisions were scarce; time for cooking there was not. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore’s earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the food on which it depended, and blocking the roads with carts and mules.

That race between the English and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, made it imperative that not an hour should be lost. At all costs the men had to press onward, putting forth their best speed. Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued—through rain or snow or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found; on and on, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.

In the van and centre of the Army some confusion reigned; but in the reserve, where Moore was always to be found, generally riding beside his friend General Paget, discipline remained perfect, and an impregnable front was offered to the pursuing foe. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander; and his presence, even more than the close presence of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again the French advanced guards were charged and driven back.

Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady disheartening rearwards tramp, with the trained battalions of Napoleon ever “thundering” behind them. He would not forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rear-guard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man who, by sheer force of will, held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.

Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour; and the very hardships of the march seemed to him less hard to bear than those of a certain march which he could recall—from Verdun to Bitche. For then he had been alone; he had felt himself to be treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and affection.

He hated the fact of having to retire, but his trust in the judgment of Moore was complete; and at any time it took a great deal to lower Roy’s buoyant spirits. Moreover, the reserve had too much of actual hard fighting on hand, to admit of their growing downhearted. Any one of them might chance any day to win a smile of commendation from Moore; and that was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for.

Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme delight of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy then that life needed nothing more.

Journalising went to the wall during this retreat. Roy made some efforts to keep it up, but soon gave in. By the time that the day’s duties were done, he was commonly fit only for sleep.

He managed, however, to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him one day that if—if something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other man, it would be wished that he should have written once more to his twin-sister. Whereupon he set to work so soon as ten spare minutes could be found.

“Dec. 30th, 1808.

“My dear Molly,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on, with Despatches from Headquarters, and I w^d fain have one ready. Close upon the end of the year—truly an eventful year to me. Jack and I keep well, I am glad to say. There is much that I c^d tell you, but have not time. An event which took place yesterday, will, however, be of interest.

“We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Lord Paget as usual was to bring up the rear. At nine o’clock the Enemy was seen to be examining a ford near to the bridge which had been blown up, and next thing six hundred of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard came over. By-the-by, at the time of the blowing up of the bridge, Napoleon himself was seen by one of our officers standing over on the other side.

“Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose ’em, and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns; and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all went at the Enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted, they charged back, and broke through again, and so got ’emselves quick out of that scrape.

“Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge, supported by the 10th Hussars. The French broke before ever they c^d get up with ’em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among ’em is Marshal Lefebre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn’t Boney love dukes?—Commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul that!

“No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be expected. General Lefebre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn’t send our Dragoons flying yesterday, though. ’Twas just about the other way.

“And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear. Lefebre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner, and his men being beaten. He counts himself a ruined man, for, says he, ‘Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.’ Sir John was all kindness to the poor chap. Lefebre had a slight wound in the head, and the first thing that Sir John did was, not only to try to comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the wound! Can’t you picture the way it was done? Wasn’t it like Moore?

“Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked to dine at the General’s. So he came in for a scene, which, I should conjecture, has perhaps been scarce matched since the days of the Black Prince. Just before they all took their seats, Sir John turned to the French General, and asked him—was there anything he wanted? And Lefebre said never a word, but looked down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a meaning way.

“In a moment Sir John unbuckled his own sword—’twas a fine Eastern scimitar—and gave it to Lefebre. I wish you could have heard Jack and Captain Napier tell it all—the graceful way in which the thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness and ‘soldier-like sympathy’ on Sir John’s face. Napier tried to describe it to me, and finished off with, ‘It was—perfectly beautiful! But when does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect!’[1]

“Take good care, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond yourselves, and above all, on no account risk that it sh^d find its way into print. For yourselves, ’tis a tale worth remembering of one who is the very Flower of Chivalry in Modern Days. This George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack’s friend, brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and to William Napier of the 43rd—a brave trio.”

The letter begun thus waited unfinished for some days. Roy’s time was occupied otherwise than in penmanship.

Advices by this date received from the coast decided Moore to shape his course, with the bulk of his Army, for Coruña, where he expected to find the British transports waiting.

At Nogales, on the road to Constantino, occurred the one instance of treasure to any large extent having to be abandoned. A sharp action took place between the English rear-guard and the French advance-guard; and the rear-guard coming on found upon the hillside two guns broken down, and two carts heavily laden with casks full of dollars, to the value, it was afterwards said, of twenty-five thousand pounds. The bullocks by which both the carts and the guns had been drawn thus far were utterly exhausted, quite unable to go any farther.

Matters had reached this stage, when Moore rode up, and in a moment he grasped the state of the case. It was a question between sacrificing guns and treasure, or running the risk that his rear-guard should be cut off by the enemy. Moore did not hesitate. He turned to Roy, who happened at that moment to be the nearest junior officer, and said decisively, pointing to the edge of the precipice—

“Take those carts and guns to the brink, and roll them over.”

“Sir, it is money!” exclaimed one present in consternation.

“So are shot and shell,” replied Moore.

Roy promptly carried out the order, and, under the energetic action of his men, both guns and treasure soon went plunging down the depth—out of sight of the French advance-guard, which only five minutes later passed this very spot. They, however, did not know what had just taken place. Moore’s hope, that the money might in the end fall into Spanish instead of into French hands, was fulfilled. Some Spanish peasants found it not long after.

On January 5th, at Constantino, much fighting took place; and in the evening a heavy trouble fell upon Roy.

Jack was missing!

All searching failed to find him; all inquiries brought no result. Among the sick and the wounded Roy went, alone or with Jack’s friend, George Napier, but in vain. On the field, amid the slain, he hunted, torch in hand; and as he turned up face after face of those who had fallen, finding not Jack’s features, a low-breathed “Thank God!” again and again escaped him. The only explanation seemed to be that Jack was surely taken prisoner.

At Lugo the whole Army was halted. The march thither had been severe, through deep mud and pelting rain, with much suffering and fatigue. Collision here again took place between the English and French, and Moore in person led his troops, sending the enemy flying with heavy loss.

Then, during two days, he offered battle to the French; and hardly was his intention known, before the whole British Army presented, as by magic, a changed look. Stragglers came hurrying in, the ranks were filled up, and all were in the highest spirits, eager for a fight.

But though the British were by this time reduced to only nineteen thousand—three thousand having been sent under General Crauford by another route to Vigo, and many having fallen out by the way[2]—yet Soult, with his greatly superior numbers, did not respond. The lack of provisions made it impossible for Moore to delay longer.

While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words to his unfinished letter to Molly.

“Jan. 6th. Near Lugo.

“We had yesterday a sharp brush with the Enemy, after reaching this; and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him, he was well in advance of his Company, waving his sword, and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the Enemy to rout; yet Jack may have fallen into their hands. I with others searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and those who were killed; but, thank God, Jack was not among them. He must therefore, I fear, be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should opportunity offer, until I know as to Jack. I w^d not awake Polly’s fears for naught. He may even yet turn up again unharmed. We rest here for two days.”

Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the ground in a bare little hut, which he occupied while at Lugo. Some slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up, with a spring of hope. Had Jack returned?

A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he had received an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last face that he would have expected to see at that moment—a face pale, tried and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had flinched before life’s battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore’s temperament—having to retire before his Country’s foes.[3]

The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain had followed strain; disappointment had followed disappointment; while still through all his dauntless spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite everything, he was as a rule not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again a shadow of deep though passing sadness would fall upon him, as at this moment.

Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign’s sympathies. Then in a flash dread seized upon Roy. What might this visit portend? Moore could rebuke his subordinates scathingly—crushingly—when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But he had not consciously failed in his duty. Could it, perhaps, mean ill news of Jack?

Sir John glanced round before speaking.

“Not too luxurious quarters, Baron,” he remarked, and his smile lacked its usual brilliance.

“Good enough, sir!” replied Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which from the first had marked him out in Moore’s eyes. “If only Captain Keene——”

“Ay! You are anxious about Keene.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been able to find out nothing.”

“So Napier informed me. I was passing this way, and I have looked in to tell you. He is prisoner.”

Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To be aware that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much.

“Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him. His leg was wounded and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their lines.”

“Thank you, sir!”—gratefully. “I’m glad to know. It might have been worse.”

“You are writing home, perhaps. Make light of his wounds. I hope he is not in any danger.”

“Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister.”

Moore stood for a few seconds, lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up, he met the concerned gaze of Roy’s frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response, Moore’s hand was laid on Roy’s arm, with one of those quick gestures of overflowing kindness, which went far to enthral the hearts of those about him.

“I hear no report of you but what is good. Keep on as you have begun. You are treading worthily in Ivor’s steps.”

Roy’s power of speech failed him, with something which went far beyond ordinary joy. This—from Moore himself! Despite Jack’s misfortunes, Roy’s world grew instantly radiant.

Moore smiled again at the boy’s look, yet he sighed. There were some in his force, and not young fellows only, of whom he could not have spoken in such terms—some who gave the rein to bitter discontent at having to retreat, and who did not do their utmost to preserve discipline. But they were not in the Reserve.

“We may hear of Keene again before long. Give your letter to Napier, and it shall go with the first despatches that are sent on.”

Then he was gone. Roy, after seeing him off, drew out the latest page of his scribbled journal-notes, that he might write down those priceless words, while they were fresh in his mind. Not that he ever would or ever could forget them. But some day he would show them to his father and mother—to Denham—to Molly.

Having thus turned anew to his journalising, he found time for two more brief entries during days following.

“Jan. 8. Near Lugo.

“Nothing further as to Jack. I fear that for a while I shall see and know no more of him. I wonder much where he may be sent. Both yesterday and to-day General Moore has challenged the French to battle; but they do not accept his challenge.

“Jan. 10. Betanzos.

“We came hither by a night-march from Lugo, thus evading the French, who w^d seem to have been somewhat awed by Sir John’s fearless defiance of ’em at Lugo. For some hours our rear-guard was not Harassed as usual, and the Enemy’s advanced guard did not get up with us till twenty-four hours or more after our start. Since we left our camp-fires burning, they doubtless did not know till dawn that we had given them the slip. It may be too that, after that defiance, they were in no vast hurry to follow.”

On the day following this entry, the 11th of January, Coruña was reached.

As they drew near to the coast, Moore, quitting at last his post with the Reserve, went forward, passing regiment after regiment, and anxiously scanning the distant sea for the transports which he hoped to find in waiting.

But they were not there.

During the greater part of a fortnight he had been incessantly at work, conducting this arduous retreat, bringing his Army through dangers and difficulties innumerable. Perpetual fighting had been the order of the day. Yet not once had the Regiments of the Reserve, either horse or foot, been beaten; not once had the rear-guard quailed.

Some seventy or eighty thousand soldiers, trained veterans of Napoleon, at first under Napoleon himself, and then under two of his most experienced commanders, had striven hard to overtake Moore, to outflank him, to cut off his little force of twenty-three thousand men. But they had been baffled.

More than two hundred and fifty miles of rough country had been traversed, in bleakest winter weather; and the Army reached Coruña, somewhat lessened in numbers, it is true, yet absolutely unbroken. And though baggage had had to be abandoned or destroyed, for lack of means to convey it further, though a few small cannon had had to be left behind for the same reason, not a single British gun had been captured in fight, not a single standard or military trophy of any kind had been taken.

In after years there were men who lightly criticised this retreat, calling it needless, and wondering why Moore had not made a stand, or had not continued his advance.

Small wonder was it that Charles Napier, who in the Reserve had gone through the whole, and who from actual knowledge understood it all, should, in the face of these after-criticisms, break into bitter and passionate words in defence of that beloved Chief, under whose eyes he had fought. And though he was somewhat hard upon the people of England, not only because they had no means of knowing the true state of affairs, but because also it was but a section of them who criticised thus, yet one can well understand what he must have felt.

“Had Moore sacrificed an Army, instead of saving one, he would have been perfect in the eyes of his country. Nothing but his unpardonable humanity, which made him fancy England cared as much for her soldiers as he did, caused him to act as he did act. Had he saved his own life, and contrived to have twenty thousand bayoneted—and I firmly believe he was the only man in our Army who could have saved us—he would have done a job for which England would have made him anything he wished. Alas, for himself, he thought of everything but himself! Fortunately, another Hero has come up. But we want both!”

So wrote Charles Napier, himself one of England’s Heroes.

(To be continued.)

[OUR LILY GARDEN.]

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

A few years ago the culture of the lily received a great impetus from the arrival in England of “the golden-rayed lily of Japan.”

Some bulbs were sent over to us from Japan which were said to be of a very large lily which grows wild upon the Japanese Islands.

Fabulous prices were charged for the bulbs, and of those who had paid through their teeth for these rare bulbs very few obtained any recompense.

The first consignment was a failure, but the gorgeousness of the plant was sufficient inducement to the Japanese growers to send over another batch.

The bulbs rapidly became cheaper, and the lily at once rose to a foremost position amongst garden plants.

The Lilium Auratum, or golden-rayed lily, is perhaps the most popular member of the genus. Its flowers are immense, indeed, it has the largest flowers of all the lilies. Of fine colour, producing many flowers on each stem, of great hardiness and of moderate ease to cultivate, it is not surprising that this lily should have attained its high popularity.

The Lilium Auratum is the most variable of all the lilies. There are eight named varieties. But even these are liable to considerable variation. If you were to plant one hundred bulbs, probably not more than three or four would be absolutely similar.

This extreme variability is very remarkable, when we remember that this lily is a wild flower, but rarely cultivated until recently either in Japan or elsewhere.

Vast numbers of the bulbs of this species are sent over to England from Japan every year, so that the species is by no means difficult to obtain. The bulbs are large, heavy, and if good, they are very compact. They are of a yellowish or purplish colour.

When you buy bulbs of L. Auratum, do not go for the mammoth bulbs. These are very rarely the best, though always the most expensive. Buy small, very heavy bulbs, and purchase them from November to January.

The shoots of L. Auratum begin to show about the middle of March, though this lily, as indeed is every other, is very variable in this respect. The season has a lot to do with it. In a warm rainy year the shoots often appear in February. The time when the bulb was planted and the depth at which it was placed also affect the time at which the lily shows above the soil.

When the shoot has appeared, it grows with great rapidity. We had a specimen in our garden which grew nine feet in twelve weeks! You could almost see it grow!

In connection with the shoots of lilies, there is an important point to notice, which is often overlooked and leads to misconception, unless it is fully appreciated. Lily shoots present extraordinary differences. The shoot of L. Umbellatum or L. Candidum, when it first appears, is like an exceedingly thick head of asparagus. From this many people imagine that if a lily shoot is not thick and solid, it is not going to produce a flower. This opinion is quite wrong. Some lilies, especially L. Speciosum, never start with a thick shoot, but show above ground as a thin lanky growth.

L. Auratum begins as a thin shoot, but it rapidly gains in size and strength if circumstances are favourable.

As in every other particular, L. Auratum is exceedingly variable in the height to which the stem grows. We have had in our garden bulbs from the same source, planted at the same time, in the same soil and position. They have all flowered well, yet some are only thirty inches high, while others tower to the height of nine feet!

The golden-rayed lily does not show its flower-buds until the stem is almost fully grown. The buds are borne on long stalks, each furnished with a single bract. From one to forty buds are produced on each stem.

The leaves of this species are long and linear in the type, but in the variety Platyphyllum they are very broad. There are rarely more than thirty or forty leaves, which are of a deep glossy green.

We have followed the lily to the stage when its buds become apparent. The next chapter in its history is too often one of mishaps. The strain on the plant at this stage must be enormous, and it is no wonder that such a large number of plants die at this time.

The buds develop quickly until they become the size of a large capsicum. Then they change colour, and if the weather is dry, they open in about a week.

Rain at the flowering time is the greatest enemy to this lily.

What a magnificent object is the L. Auratum when in full blossom! How beautiful is the wide open perianth! And what a size! Ten inches across, at the least, and fully a foot when measured from the tips of the petals! How elegantly do the goffered segments curl round at their tips! The brilliant stripe of golden yellow running down each segment, which has given the flower its name, is exceedingly characteristic; and the brownish purple spots, curiously elevated and in places raised into a distinct spine, relieve the pure white of the background.

THE GOLDEN-RAYED LILY.

(From photo by Valentine and Sons, Dundee.)

Proceeding from the centre of the flower are the seven greenish threads which constitute the floral organs. Each is armed with a deep brown extremity, the pistil with a trefoil, and the six stamens with crescents!

As we have said before, the flowers of L. Auratum are sometimes extremely numerous. We saw one plant last summer (we believe at the Royal Gardens, Kew) of one of the varieties of this species which bore thirty-seven well-developed blossoms.

But it is not the prize specimens of L. Auratum which are the most beautiful. Plants bearing four to six blossoms give the finest effects, for here each flower has room to fully expand, and so the extreme elegance of the blossoms can be appreciated. In plants bearing twenty or thirty blossoms on the other hand, the general effect from a distance is one of extreme luxuriance; but on closer examination the effect is not so striking, for the individual blossoms cannot be perfectly formed, and the result is often bizarre and unsatisfactory.

L. Auratum has an extremely strong scent, which though pleasant in the garden is far too overpowering in a room.

In no lily does one meet with such great variety as in this species. The blossoms are exceedingly variable; but there are some varieties which are sufficiently marked and constant to have gained special names.

There are eight named varieties of L. Auratum, and the difference between them is so striking that a person without previous knowledge would take them for separate species.

We append in tabular form the chief differences between these eight varieties.

All these varieties are fine, and are all worth growing; but some are expensive, and some are very difficult to cultivate.

Of all the varieties we prefer that known as Platyphyllum. Its fine large foliage, immense and gorgeous blossoms, and its hardy constitution, make this lily the most desirable of all. Indeed, we would put a well-grown sample of L. Auratum Platyphyllum in its perfection as the most beautiful of all the vegetable productions of our planet.

A few years ago L. Auratum Platyphyllum was a very rare lily; but last year this lily did exceedingly well, and consequently very good bulbs can now be obtained at a cheap rate. All over the country this variety did well last year, and many were the correspondents who wrote in enthusiastic measures to the various papers about this wonderful plant, which not a few of the writers imagined they had discovered.

The variety Wittei is a most beautiful one, but it is difficult to grow, and is moreover rather expensive.

The red varieties of L. Auratum are fine in their way, but are a little crude in colour and not altogether satisfactory.

The cultivation of L. Auratum and its varieties does not present much difficulty. A well-drained peaty soil with plenty of sand suits it well; but the soil must not be too loose. A few lumps of clay may be placed round the plants if the soil is too sandy.

No manure should be placed near the bulbs, but a good dressing of rich old manure may be applied to the plants with advantage as soon as the shoots are a foot high.

If grown in a good soil and looked after carefully, L. Auratum does not degenerate, but increases and improves year after year. Both the type and the varieties are perfectly hardy.

The varieties are not all equally easy to grow. Platyphyllum, Macranthum, and Rubro-Vittatum are as easy, if not easier, to grow than the type. Wittei and Virginale are very difficult to do well with.

The two hybrids mentioned in the table will be described later on.

All the varieties of L. Auratum make excellent pot-plants.

The lily which bears the title of Speciosum, or showy, was formerly the most admired member of the genus. Even at the present day this lily is looked upon by many as being the finest. Personally we cannot concur with this opinion. There is a certain falseness about its blossoms and a hardness in their shape which to our minds places it far below L. Auratum for beauty.

Yet there can be no question that Lilium Speciosum is a very fine plant. It has a tremendous number of points in its favour which must not be overlooked by the flower-grower.

L. Speciosum flowers late in the year, usually at the end of September, a time when showy flowers are not numerous; too late for summer blossoms, but too early for chrysanthemums.

Although this lily is supposed to be tender, it is perfectly hardy in England. The blossoms, which are produced very freely, are not so much injured by rain at their flowering time as are most lilies. Deformity of the flowers is not very common, and the peculiar shape of the blossoms renders any slight deformity which may be present of little consequence.

Another point in favour of this lily is that instead of degenerating, it increases rapidly, blossoms every year, and gives scarcely any trouble.

L. Speciosum is a native of Japan. Both in its native land and elsewhere this lily has been cultivated for years. There is now an immense number of named varieties of this plant; but, unfortunately, there are very many more names than there are distinct varieties.

Probably the variety we call Rubrum is the type of the species.

The bulbs of L. Speciosum are large with loose scales. The flower spike is not often so evident in the bulb as it is with most lilies. The bulbs vary a good deal in colour from white to deep purple; but the colour of the bulb is no criterion as to the colour of the blossoms. In the variety known as Kraetzeri the bulbs are usually yellow.

This lily first sees the light as a thin, lanky shoot. In fact, those who have grown other lilies but not Speciosum would at once pronounce a perfectly healthy shoot of this lily to be “blind.”

When we first grew L. Speciosum, and saw the feeble-looking shoots appear, we felt certain that they would not blossom. But fortunately we were mistaken in this surmise, for they did blossom, and they blossomed well.

The stem of L. Speciosum is thin but very flexible. Indeed, the lily rarely needs a stick, as it bends before the wind. We have never had the stem of one of these lilies broken.

The leaves are broader than is usually the case in this genus. They somewhat resemble the leaves of L. Auratum Platyphyllum.

The flower buds grow out from the main stem, and when they are fully grown they are furnished with very long stalks. This enables us to cut the flowers singly—which is very desirable, for one can take flowers from a single plant for some weeks, removing each as it opens.

The flowers themselves are about five inches across, with the segments very much recurved and the edges beautifully curled. The colour varies from pure white to deep crimson with white edges. A green line, deeply sunk, runs down the centre of each segment, being broad at the attachments and narrowing to a point about half way down. These six green lines give the appearance of a green star, which is highly characteristic. It is most evident in the white varieties, and especially so in the variety called Kraetzeri. The petals which are broadest about their centre are roughened with numerous spines and tubercles. The pollen is brown.

The scent of this lily resembles that of chocolate creams. It is not very powerful in any of the varieties, while some forms are apparently scentless.

The varieties of L. Speciosum may be grouped under the headings of white, rose, red, and purple kinds.

All the white varieties are fine. Lilium Speciosum Album Kraetzeri, notwithstanding its big name, is the smallest of the white forms. But though small, it is extremely delicate in colour and shape. The green star is very conspicuous. It is, however, rather tender and requires a certain amount of care to cultivate properly.

Of the rose varieties, the “Opal” and the “Rose” are undoubtedly the finest. The former is the more beautiful in colour, but the blossoms are rather thin and straggling.

The old Rubrum is the best of the red varieties. It is the most prolific of all the varieties.

The deepest coloured of all is a Japanese variety, Melpomone. This is a very fine big flower. Its colour is blood-crimson, spotted and bordered with white. The exterior of the blossoms is pale pink. Rubro-Cruentum and Purpureum are other fine purple varieties. They differ very slightly from Melpomone.

Some forms of L. Speciosum in which the stem splits into two or three parts are called monstrous or corymbiform varieties. There are white, red, and purple monstrous forms. They are inferior to the ordinary varieties.

But little need be said of the cultivation of L. Speciosum. Where L. Auratum will grow, L. Speciosum will grow; and it will grow in most places where L. Auratum will not grow. It likes a peaty soil with plenty of sand. Water must be given freely during growth.

L. Speciosum makes an excellent pot plant, and is grown by many people in their conservatories. In fact, it shares the honour with Lilium Harrisii of being the only lily commonly grown under glass. As a cut flower it is very useful.

Just a word about cutting lilies. Never cut the stem down near the ground. Always leave about twenty leaves, else the bulb may suffer.

If you are going to bring lilies up to town from the country, cut the buds off just before they open. These stand less risk of damage in moving, and they will open perfectly if placed in water.

Cut lilies are thirsty plants and need a lot of water. They last from one to two weeks if plentifully watered, but die almost immediately when water is withheld. We have before warned you against spoiling your lilies by removing the anthers.

A lovely little lily is Lilium Krameri. The delicate pink of its blossoms, its slender growth, its early flowering, and its fragrance render it worthy of a place in every garden.

Like most of the lilies we have described, L. Krameri hails from Japan. In most particulars it resembles a little L. Auratum, but its flowers are totally different from any other species. They are about four inches across, of a waxy white to deep blush pink colour. The anthers are brown.

This lily flowers in June. It is not easy to do well with. It is rather tender and very susceptible to early frosts. Its cultivation is similar to that of L. Auratum.

Last year there was exhibited in London flowers of a new lily somewhat resembling L. Krameri. It flowered at Kew in June, and we were fortunate enough to flower a specimen in our own garden. This new species has received the name of Lilium Rubellum, and, though it resembles L. Krameri, it is undoubtedly a true species.

The flowers are small (our one was two and a half inches across), the petals have the tissue-paper look like a Cistus instead of the waxy appearance presented by most lilies. The colour is a full rich pink, and the anthers are yellow.

Its cultivation is similar to that of the other Archelirions.

(To be continued.)

[CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.]

By MARGARET INNES.

CHAPTER VII.

WE MOVE INTO OUR HOME.

t was delightful to feel that we would soon be once more in comfortable quarters, with room for order and cleanliness. The Californian dust is perfectly impossible to deal with in such conditions as the barn afforded, or as would be involved in camping.

While we were still living in our little house in San Miguel, I had seen one or two camping parties returning after an absence of ten days or a fortnight in the mountains, and had wondered, with dismay, what could have happened to the women and men of the party, that they should look as though their persons and clothes had been rolled, and soaked, and stewed in the grey dust. Now I understood only too well. Soon, all the plastering was finished, and we were looking for the painters, who arrived, unfortunately, in the midst of another desert wind.

The head painter was a Norwegian, and though a very good workman, he was absolutely dense about colour. All day, in the midst of that howling hot wind, we struggled with him to get the tones we wanted, he becoming more and more depressed and obstinate, and we more feverish and anxious. The carpenters looked on with amused interest, expecting, so they said afterwards, “that someone would have to be pulled off somebody!” However, before the twilight came down on us, we had evolved some delicate shades that would pass, and were thankful to creep into the barn and rest if we could, knowing that we must be up betimes to-morrow, to see that the Norwegian did not make any mistake.

On Sundays, when the men were free, they generally went off hunting for honey. They were very clever at finding the nests of the wild bees, and were very much in earnest on these expeditions, having fashioned for themselves extraordinary headgear and gauntlets, like armour in a comic opera, as a protection against stings. They made, too, quite an ingenious contrivance for running the clear honey out of the comb, and sold this and the wax for a nice little sum. Liza used to look after them with longing, envious eyes; they were so much more successful than she in their hunting. But then they used dynamite when the nest was behind some great rock, and she with all her savage strength could not remove the stones unaided. But though they were kind, friendly fellows, and almost all men in this wild West are particularly nice to women, they never asked her to join them.

The architect who came out regularly from town, during the building of the house, and closely superintended every detail, was a more welcome comrade to them. He joined them in their expeditions, and lent us too a helping hand.

Our ranchman was absent on some business connected with his land, and we were very much puzzled as to who was to milk the cow; we ourselves had not yet learned, and none of the carpenters could help us, though they would have been very willing. When our friend the architect heard of our difficulty, he at once exclaimed that he would milk the cow. And so he did in the most business-like and thorough manner.

The carpenters were very like boys when working hours were over, and I remember one evening, when the building of the house was almost finished, and they were to return to town in a few days, we were all startled by hearing a terrific report, somewhere quite close at hand. Everyone rushed out into the beautiful starlight to know what disaster had happened, and then we found Mr. Scott gravely remonstrating with the men, who were looking very sheepish. It seems that finding they had quite a store of dynamite over from their bee-hunting, they determined to set it all off together for their own amusement. They had not expected quite so much noise, and were apologetic. Mr. Scott turned to my husband and said with a disgusted air, “Some of them carpenters has more powder than brains!”

The day had come at last, when we were to move into our house. I sent my darkey back to town, and was delighted to see the last of her, even though I had failed to find anyone to replace her. I had, however, the help of a young Englishman, who had left a clerkship in the Corporation offices at Liverpool, and come out to rough it in California, glad of the open air life, and glad too of the change of work, though it happened, as at present, to include such jobs as digging out a rain water cistern, and acting as temporary scullery maid.

However inexperienced he was at this last work, he was willing and pleasant, which was a delightful change from the “gorilla.”

The carpenters helped us to move in the heaviest pieces of furniture, and I think I shall never forget the luxury of that first night when we slept in the house—it was so airy, and fresh, and cool.

We were very busy for many days after, putting all in order, but it was delightful work to us, however tiring, for the house was lovely and comfortable beyond all our expectations, and now that all the old furniture was standing about us, dusted and polished, and almost smiling, it felt so homelike and friendly that we seemed no longer like strangers in a strange land.

Now occurs an opportunity to tell some of our “domestic help” experiences. We feared that our place would be too lonely for a Chinaman; the nearest Celestial within reach was at a ranch some five miles away, and though there was quite an active centre of Chinese life and light at the laundry gentleman’s shanty at the village of El Barco, still that was six miles away, and Chinamen are bad walkers, and few of them can drive. Also, their wages are very high, thirty dollars to thirty-five dollars a month being the lowest; some of them get as much as fifty dollars and sixty dollars a month. So we thought we would try our luck with a woman servant; we could talk our own language to her and lend her books, which would overcome, to some extent, the loneliness of the life for her, and we would only have to pay her twenty to twenty-five dollars a month.

Our first was an American girl; her manners were new to us, but not refreshing. We did not keep her long, for she proved to have something wrong with her heart, and could neither stoop nor carry any slight weight without turning blue in the face. The boys did not take to her. She would saunter into the dining-room when it was time to lay the cloth, and if I were not there, she would take up one of the papers on the table, and either stand very much at her ease reading it, or sit down to it, often at the same time using a toothpick. Or she would slap my sons on the shoulder, saying, “Now then, boys, clear out!”

I was not able to go into town this time, so I telegraphed to my friend at the agency office, a nice helpful Irishman, who always did his best for me.

Though the little village of El Barco has but a scattered population of about two hundred, they have had a telephone into San Miguel for many a year. So I sent a message asking for a servant of some kind at twenty-five dollars a month. In answer, my Irish friend asked, would I be willing to try a nigger, adding that he was not very black! He knew my feelings about the “gorilla.” When I heard further that he was a willing, pleasant-spoken fellow, with a very good character for honesty, I agreed to try him. So he was sent out by the evening train. We became quite fond of him, and though he knew very little about cooking, he was exceedingly quick at learning, and was very capable in other ways, and so obliging that much could be forgiven him. He had great pride in all he learnt, and liked to know the proper orthodox names of the different dishes, though he could never conquer the word rissole, but always called it “free soul!” He had left his wife and family in Tennessee, where he had formerly kept a dairy farm, but his health had failed, and he was threatened with lung trouble; so he came to this sunny climate, and hoped to be able to send for them to join him before very long.

As he could not read or write, I was his secretary, and had often great difficulty in keeping a grave face when reading his home letters. They were a jumble of revival meetings, the arrival of families of young pigs, names of different neighbours who had “got religion,” and advice as to how he was to make the bread for us, finishing up with “howdies” from everyone. It often took me quite a long time to puzzle them out. However we soon began to teach him to write and read, and he was so quick in learning that before he left us he was quite independent of my help in his correspondence. His worst drawback was the colour of his hands, which being a kind of neutral grey brown, never let him know clearly whether they were dirty or clean, and I soon found his finger marks on many treasures. However, such things are trifles in this life, and I should have kept him till this day, I believe, but that, in an evil moment, we again made the experiment of getting a woman servant from the old country.

The woman we had heard of was willing to pay her own passage out, for the sake of the £70 wage which she could never hope to get at home; so we engaged her and let our little nigger go.

(To be continued.)

[SPRING SONG.]

Oh, come let us wander

Where the wide meadow lies

Hid in the dreamy dell;

By woodlands to ponder,

Where fickle butterflies

Flirt with the flower bell!

One song will I sing you,

Sweeter than ever fell

Music from waterfall;

One heart will I bring you,

While warbleth Philomel

In liquid madrigal.

Oh, come where the wood-dove

Bids thy compassion move

While youth to thee belongs;

For there shall my true love

All my confession prove

In sighs and tender songs!

E. M. W.

[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]

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

CHAPTER IV.

THE STRONG PULL.

hen Lucy Challoner found herself shut into one of those “secret pavilions,” which God erects so often in the heart of life’s storms—quiet resting-places into which neither the tempest which is overpast, nor the after-swells which are to come, can find entrance. The tossed heart is hushed like that of a little child, and looking neither before nor after, is content with the peace and the benediction of the passing hour.

It was cheering to see how the sea-breeze brought healthy tints to Charlie’s pale face, while every hour found him stronger and more fit to throw aside the little physical frailties which hang about one after a great illness.

For the first day of their visit they were content with one little stroll on the pier, and then they sat at their window discovering endless interest in the fact that “Lloyd’s” station was in the house next but one to theirs, so that every ship which hove in sight became voluble in nautical signs. Then their walks grew longer, extending ever further down the shingly shore.

“Now, Lucy,” said Mr. Challoner, “was not I right to come here instead of to any mere invalid resort? Why, it lifts up one’s soul—and one’s body with it—just to look at these Deal boatmen. They’re so ready to give their lives for you if need be, that a kind of exhalation of health comes from them.”

Before they left Deal, Lucy Challoner not only fully approved of her husband’s choice as for himself, but felt convinced that he had made his choice for her too, and with equal wisdom and foresight.

As the days passed on, and Charlie and his little boy made friends with many of the old salts who lounge along the shingle as if life was nothing but the sea view (which seems reflected in their very eyes), Lucy sometimes stayed indoors and occupied herself with details of her husband’s outfit. Her landlady came in and out of the room, generally silent, but cheerful and ready to respond to advances.

“We can see the Goodwin Sands very plainly to-day,” Lucy said once. “What a terrible trap they are.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. May answered. “And if those in the other world know aught about what’s done in this—and why shouldn’t they?—I wonder how those men feel who neglected to keep down those sands, because they wanted to build a big steeple instead of doing their duty? On wild nights here, when we’re almost certain poor souls are going down by the score, I never can help thinking o’ those others. It must be mighty bad for them surely. And yet maybe they didn’t know what they were doing was so bad—or didn’t think! I’d not make them out worse than most of us, and we all need God our Saviour. Maybe God lets ’em receive the poor drowned souls, and comfort ’em and care for ’em.”

“But is it true that the sands became dangerous through neglect?” asked Lucy. “I have heard the story, but I have heard that geology has a different word to say.”

Mrs. May shook her head slightly.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “I’m speaking as if the story be true. And certain it is that men and money have been able to do a good bit to lessen the risks of the Sands as they are, and it is a pity that they did not do it sooner. And maybe they might do a great deal more yet. I wish gentlemen in power would think over such things instead of wanting to spend money on guns to kill poor folks in far-off countries. It’s wonderful what has been left for private folk to do before the others stir. I daresay you’ve never heard of one Powell, of Deal, living nigh two hundred years ago?”

“No,” answered Lucy reflecting, and unable to recall any Powell of popular memory, save Mary, the wilful wife of the poet Milton.

“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. May, with a slight drawing-up of her neat figure. “That Powell of Deal (my mother was of the family, though, of course, generations later), he seemed to be one of the first to think of saving people off the wrecks on the Sands. There were no lifeboats in his time, you know.”

“I know,” Lucy assented. “There were no lifeboats till nearly a hundred years after that, and very few until about seventy years ago.”

“Well, that Powell was Mayor of Deal in those days, and pretty well off for just a shopkeeper in the town—a tailor and outfitter he was. And there came a great storm one November night—it was such a storm as never was. It was the night the Eddystone Lighthouse was destroyed along with the man that built it, and people were killed in their beds, even in grand houses, and the loss of life and property was tremendous. We can guess what it was on the Goodwins, ma’am. There were thirteen men-of-war wrecked, and hundreds of men—more than a thousand—were drowned. Then the people who were watching from the shore saw that some had got on the Goodwins, and there they were sure to be washed away.”

Mrs. May paused and looked at Lucy with emphatic eyes.

“So Powell, he could not bear it, and he ordered out the custom-house boats, and offered a reward of five shillings for every sailor that should be saved. It was not much, for he hadn’t much. They say he went out himself. And two hundred men were saved that otherwise must have been drowned. And he took them all into his care, and fed them and clothed them. And though they were Royal Navy men, he had a deal of bother and loss of time before the Government made up the money he was out of pocket, which he could not afford to lose. He seemed to be the very first to show that it was anybody’s bounden duty to save the drowning. But he’s never been much talked of. The stories of fighting and killing are the stories that are told. He was only a tailor and outfitter, you see, ma’am, and most folks give such but a sneer. But my mother brought all her children up to remember him and to learn from him to look out to see what their hands can do. She used to say people laugh at a tailor as the ninth part of a man; but I say nine good men were rolled into one in my great-great-uncle Powell.”

“Then you have always lived in Deal, I suppose?” asked Lucy, interested in the sudden frankness of the hitherto reserved woman.

“Yes, ma’am; but I’ve been in London,” she said.

“When your husband was living?” Lucy inquired gently.

“No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. May. “I married a Kingsdown man, a pilot. His father’s still living in Kingsdown, old and frail, but he’s saved people’s lives by scores and scores. He has been a great man in the lifeboat.”

“Did your husband ever go out in the boat?” asked Lucy.

“He met his death in it,” said Mrs. May quite calmly. “We hadn’t been married a year, and it was the first time he had ever gone out. It was the Lord’s will that his father should go again and again and do great things and come home safe and sound, and be living at eighty-five. But my Jarvist was knocked over and washed away before he could do anything. But the Lord knew what Jarvist’s will was, and the Lord took it for the deed.”

Mrs. May stood gazing out towards the fateful line on the horizon. Lucy’s eyes were full of tears.

“Oh, Mrs. May,” she said, “how hard it was for you! How could you bear to go on living beside this cruel sea in sight of that terrible place!”

Mrs. May turned towards her with a wistful smile.

“Ah,” she said, “how many ladies have said that to me! (Not that I tell everyone who comes, for some would not care to hear. There are folks who go out to picnic and dance on the Goodwins!) But look here, dear,” she went on eagerly, her last reserve melted in Lucy’s tears, “we all see houses, and yet somebody has died in every house; we all see our beds, and yet we’ve seen dear ones die on them, and we look to die there ourselves some day. It’s all hard just at first. After a while, the thought of death settles into a bit of life. It’s the Lord’s will that it comes in one way to one and in another to another. But it’s all right if it means going to Him, and all we’ve got to do is to keep on following.”

“And you had your husband such a little time!” cried Lucy, thinking to herself that she and Charlie had already had more than seven years of happy life together.

“Yes,” said Mrs. May; “I was a widow at twenty-five. I’m just fifty now, and my people live long, so likely I’ve got a good bit to go yet. I had my Jarvist just for one year. But I reckon that one year was quite enough to soak through all the rest, back and fore, just as a fine perfume does.

“I took it very hard at first,” she went on. “I took it rebellious. But Jarvist’s father he came to me, and says he, ‘Joan’—and he put his hand on my shoulder, and it had a kind of feeling as if it pulled me up like—‘Joan,’ says he, ‘Jarvist has done his part. Now you’ve got to do yours. You married a sailor, Joan; he’s died at his place, you’ve got to live at yours. Don’t make no fuss about it, lass,’ says he (he speaks old-fashioned and homely), ‘you won’t see Jarvist a day the sooner. You wouldn’t have liked Jarvist to stay at home to please you, would you?’ says he. ‘And if he’d have done such a mean thing, and yet his time were come, then he’d have broke his neck a-trippin’ over a doormat,’ says the old man. ‘I’ll tell you something, Joan. Before Jarvist went out he said to me, “Father, if aught took me, you’d be good to Joan.” We all thinks that to each other,’ father-in-law says, ‘but the young men—specially the new-married—they generally says it once or twice before they feel it’s taken for granted. Said I back to Jarvist, “Joan’s a lass with grit in her, and she’ll be good to herself and to others, too, I reckon.” And that was my promise to Jarvist for you, Joan, and you’ve got to make it good,’ says he. So I’ve tried to do. That’s five-and-twenty years ago, and time is passing on. It’s not so long for any of us after all.”

“I beg pardon for speaking so freely to you, ma’am,” she went on after a short pause, while Lucy’s tears dropped; “but there’s a look in your face that if you’d been a man would have sent you out to the Goodwins. But the women have to do their part at home—keeping ready dry clothes and hot gruel sometimes,” she added with a quiet laugh, “as we did one day this spring, when one poor soul was left wrecked on the Goodwins after all his shipmates were drowned. It was said the lifeboat couldn’t go out; but then our men they couldn’t stay in! Never shall I forget that night at the little mariners’ service where I often go. The gentleman that was praying and reading the Scriptures saw the men’s faces, and he broke short off to say, ‘Can we go? Can we do something?’ Why not? It was all in the service of God. And they went, and they brought off the man safely—a poor Norwegian.”

Lucy had learned to fear contact with strangers since her husband’s illness. Their misjudged “sympathy,” their well-meant comments, had so often been as the rubbing of salt into the ever-open wound of anxiety, and the almost tenderer spot of hope. She had learned the lesson that if the greatest consolation for sorrow is to have beside us one who understands it and shares it, then the next greatest blessing is to be able to bear one’s burden alone, apart from those to whom one’s agony is but a spectacle or a dumping ground for commonplaces.

But she found there was no need to shrink from Mrs. May. When she confided to the landlady the plans that were in preparation, and the long separation which was impending, Mrs. May was full of encouraging hope. She could narrate cases in which the sea, despite its terrible side, had acted as a beneficent healer and life restorer. She could tell, too, of many who had suffered in the same way as Mr. Challoner, and were still alive—elderly people, with long useful years behind them. To Lucy Challoner this sort of cheer was the more acceptable because it came to her surrounded by an atmosphere, and supported by a foundation, in which neither life nor death were held to be the main things—but only “the will of the Lord,” which could make either death or life blessed both to those who were left and to those who were taken.

Very different was the tone of the notes which came from Lucy’s sister Florence. Mrs. Brand wrote a large hand, so that a very few words covered four sides of a sheet of note-paper; also she wrote, as it were, breathlessly, dropping pronouns and punctuation. She was very forcible in bewailing her sister’s departure to Deal—“So sudden—and such a place—and didn’t Charlie feel the journey—and it mightn’t be amiss if it turned him aside from the bigger scheme—couldn’t bear to think of it—poor dear Lucy all alone—well, the child, of course—and if for Charlie’s good, but it seemed a great risk—wasn’t beginning to look for a successor for Pollie yet; no good being in hurry—better not hire anyone till a day or two before wanted—and Lucy not coming back to London till the very night before Charlie sailed for the North—who was Captain Grant?—hoped he was a decent man—master mariners not always up to much; but if Charlie kept pretty well, perhaps he would not mind about trifles. Must get word as soon as they were sure of dates—must get last look of Charlie—and had good many evening engagements on. Poor dear Lucy, Florence really pitied—things had looked so different at Lucy’s marriage, but might turn out better, even yet.”

As Lucy read those notes, her pulse used to quicken with a sense of revolt. Charlie’s wife was no person to be pitied! Come what might, she was not to be pitied! Her anxieties, her possible sorrows, were not to be regarded as so much ill-luck, to be secretly contrasted by Florence with her own splendid fortune in stalwart, prosperous Jem, and her showy house, and large “visiting circle.”

After these rebellious sensations, Lucy always turned penitent—said to herself that she was silly and even wicked, and resolved to allow no such feelings to arise again. But Florence’s next note always stirred them anew. The east wind will ruffle us; we can but turn our backs to it, or veil our faces, and afterwards soothe the irritated skin with emollients. So there are natures which thus rush rudely on our souls. And we cannot change those natures, or their effect upon us; we can only avert the worst results by tact, hide our soreness in silence, and heal damages by patience and forbearance. Let us put our conscious misery to a good use by its keeping us humbly aware that any sweetness or amiability that we may seem to possess belongs, after all, almost as much to our environment as to ourselves!

The peaceful resting-time wore to an end. Charlie Challoner and his little boy had made friends with nearly all the Deal “hovellers,” lounging so easily on the shingly shore, watching the sea and the sky, as if there were nothing else to do in life, yet with the strength of scores of conquered storms wrought into their fine old faces. They had heard many stories grave and gay, and little Hugh had gathered up some queer treasures in the way of uncommon shells and stones, and even a little carved boat.

Lucy herself did not talk much to the old boatmen. Her happy relations with Mrs. May had not overcome all her shrinking from strangers, and she preferred to hear of them from Charlie, and to let him tell over their yarns to her. But when she went out with her husband they all gave her kindly greeting. It was Lucy’s delighted pride that whoever knew Charlie first seemed always ready to welcome and approve of her. She revelled in being regarded kindly for his sake. Yet it was as often something of her which had originally commended him. He or she who is wrapped round by a true and tender love carries its grace everywhere.

After Charlie had had his pleasant chats to some of those old men, the one of them had said to the other—

“Reckon that gentleman’s got a good woman belonging to him. Ye sort o’ feel it on him, like ye smell the spicy breezes before ye touch a port o’ the land where spices grow.”

“Course he has,” said the other; “haven’t ye seen her? A winsome lass—one of the little craft that can go through a great deal of rough weather—the sort that’s generally made for that purpose, to my thinking.”

Then came the last day before the returning day.

“We will go for a long walk inland,” said Charlie. “It will be my last sight of English trees for a long while; and if autumn has carried off some of their beauty, it has added more of its own.”

That afternoon Mrs. May announced that she was going for a walk up to Walmer Castle, and asked if the little master might go with her. Hugh was delighted—the sea was a perennial joy to him—to whom country lanes did not seem marvellously different from London squares and parks. Lucy gratefully assented. She never knew whether it was an accident, or whether the kind woman realised that she and Charlie would be thankful for a quiet ramble and an undisturbed conversation.

Perhaps they did not talk much during that walk. Hearts were too full and tears too near the surface. But each uttered solemnly those expressions of mutual love and faith which must generally lie half hidden under the little commonplaces of daily life. Each, as it were, rendered back the mutual charge of the other,—Charles promising faithfully to take care of himself, and to remember all the precautions Lucy would insist on, if she were with him,—Lucy pledging herself to keep as free as possible from worrying, to remember that, under all the circumstances, the coming of letters must be more or less uncertain and far between, adding a voluntary clause that she would do her very best to be brave and wise under any unforeseen conditions which might arise, and under which she could not seek Charlie’s counsel and support. That voluntary clause was due to Lucy’s tender self-reproach against the household secret that she was keeping, even for her husband’s own sake. Charlie received it, with assurances that he knew she would keep her word. Little did either of them then think how that little pledge was to return to their minds, to their common soothing and upholding!

Lucy felt that this quiet hour of spiritual nearness was their true farewell. With its thrilling emotions would be blent for ever the memory of the solemn November afternoon sky—sunless, but with suggestions of sunlight in its delicate opal hues—and the square tower of Munceam church, lifting its grey head from a mass of foliage, glorious with vivid autumn tints.

After that came the bustle of final packing, the farewell to Mrs. May—to whom Lucy felt she owed something which was not included in her modest bill—the railway journey, the return home. The house was in apple-pie order, and at this critical juncture Charlie ceased to wonder at Pollie’s unrestrained, fast-flowing tears. The Brands “looked in” late that night in evening dress on their way from a dinner-party. Jem Brand talked loud and fast to Charlie, while Florence patted her sister’s hands and whispered that she had not secured her a servant yet—they would go about that business together—the interest and excitement would be cheering to Lucy’s loneliness—there were still three or four days to pass before Pollie left—plenty of time.

“Plenty of time!” Lucy echoed absently. “What did it really matter? Charlie was going away!”

Then it was over. Lucy came back from seeing her husband on board the Scotch steamer for Aberdeen. She felt as if she had died, and had come to life again in an emptied earth. How strange the street noises sounded! How strange the familiar house looked! Even little Hugh seemed somehow different!

Lucy had not experienced enough to know that the worst was not yet. She had still to expect her husband’s telegram of his safe arrival in the north. She could look forward to one or two letters from him written from Peterhead. And when these came, full of cheer, of pleasant descriptions of scenery, fellow-passengers, and friendly welcome, together with good accounts of the dear wanderer’s own progress towards strength, poor Lucy began to feel as if she had passed the sharpest corner of her woe, and almost to congratulate herself on her own bravery.

Alas, beyond “the strong pull” on one’s courage and submission, there comes “the long pull.”

(To be continued.)

[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

There are several new additions to our list. We have grass-lamb, mackerel, the first salmon, salads, salad-herbs, cucumbers, spinach, spring onions, turnip and nettle-tops, but as yet no additional fruits. However, whilst we have such an abundance of good rhubarb and green salads, we have nothing to complain of, for what can be better for health than these, or more refreshing?—so welcome, too, after the winter. Fresh mint, sorrel, chervil, and water-cress add flavour to the bowl, and spring onions give it piquancy.

People who suffer from sleeplessness should try the effect of a sandwich of spring onions—bread and butter with finely-minced onion spread between—before retiring to rest. It is said to be most soothing and sleep-inviting.

I would specially recommend these “green” sandwiches to all who find a difficulty in eating salad-herbs in any other form—for instance, chopped mustard and cress, thinly-shaved cucumber and onion, chopped parsley, mint and sorrel—all are excellent when spread between thin slices of buttered bread, and very dainty, too, are they.

This is the month when we may begin one of our favourite dishes of spinach and eggs—one of our physic dishes, I might say, for on very good authority we learn that spinach contains more iron than almost anything else that can be mentioned, and when combined with the sulphur of the egg becomes a capital tonic medicine. So by all means let us eat plenty of it.

I have mentioned mackerel as belonging to the month of April. From now until the end of June they will be prime, and are a good fish to eat; but out of their proper season they are not wholesome. Perhaps they are nicest when carefully boiled and served with parsley sauce; but if baked with butter and accompanied by gooseberry sauce, or split open and broiled, with herb sauce, they are very nearly as good. Also they are excellent for breakfast when pickled and eaten cold.

It is hardly possible this month to lay too much stress on the virtues of salads; and to prepare these well, to make as many varieties of them as possible, and to mix the dressing with due art, is well worth careful study on the part of every housewife.