THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1029.]

[Price One Penny.

SEPTEMBER 16, 1899.

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

[ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.]
[VARIETIES.]
[THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.]
[THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.]
[THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.]
[LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.]
[OUR LILY GARDEN.]
[“UPS AND DOWNS.”]
[SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.]
[SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]
[DIAPER DESIGNS FOR EMBROIDERY.]

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.

WRITING A NEW STORY FOR “THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER.”

All rights reserved.]

In an age when many books on every sort of subject and vexed question are being daily launched into the world, it is a relief to turn to the pure, wholesome novels of Rosa Nouchette Carey, the popular authoress, who has steadily held her ground with her public since the production of her first book, Nellie’s Memories, composed and related verbally to her sister, while yet in her teens, though not actually written until some few years later.

The youngest girl but one of a family of seven, and in her girlhood delicate in health, which caused her education to be somewhat desultory, Rosa Carey soon displayed an aptitude for composing fiction and little plays which she and her sister acted, one of her chief amusements being to select favourite characters from history and from fiction, and trying to personify them, while her greatest pleasure was to relate short stories to this same younger sister over their needlework. It is a strange fact that, during her simple, happy, uneventful girlhood, chiefly spent in reading, in writing poetry, and in other girlish occupations, Rosa Carey, who was of a somewhat dreamy and romantic disposition, feeling the impossibility of combining her favourite pursuits with a useful domestic life, and discouraged by her failures in this respect, made a deliberate and, as it afterwards proved, a fruitless attempt to quench her longing to write. This unnatural repression, however, of a strong instinct could not be conquered, and after some years she yielded to it.

She was born in London, near old Bow Church, but has no very distinct remembrances of the house and place. Later, the family moved to Hackney, into what was then a veritable country residence, and there many happy years were spent. Her mother was a strict disciplinarian, and very practical and clever, while her father was a man universally beloved and respected, by reason of his singularly amiable character, his integrity, and his many virtues.

The next move was to Hampstead, where the young girl’s schooldays began, and it was then that she met and formed a strong friendship with the late Mathilde Blind, the talented author of The Descent of Man, and translator of Marie Bashkirtseff’s Journal and other works. This attachment, mutually enthusiastic and full of interest, was only interrupted by a divergence of religious opinions. Rosa Carey, adhering to the simple faith of her childhood, could not follow Mathilde Blind, who was educated in the extreme school of modern free-thought, and the friends, with sorrow but with yet unabated affection on each side, drifted apart.

Meanwhile, the large and happy family was being gradually broken up. First the beloved father passed away. On the same day that, three years before, had witnessed his death, their mother, too, was taken to her rest, and shortly after, the two sisters went to Croydon, to superintend their widowed brother’s home. Miss Carey’s real vocation in life seemed to spring up, and the literary work was but fitfully carried on, for, on the marriage of her sister to the Rev. Canon Simpson, vicar of Kirkby Stephen, Westmoreland, and the subsequent death of her brother, the sole charge of the young orphans devolved upon her.

As the years rolled by, circumstances tended to break up that home also. The young people grew up and scattered, and out of Miss Carey’s four charges three are now married. Then, her pleasurable duties being accomplished, the partially disused pen was resumed, and the author found leisure to return to literary pursuits. She has for the last twelve years made her home in the ancient and historic village of Putney, which, although it has lost much of its quaint and picturesque environment since the destruction of the toll-house and the old bridge of 1729, with its twenty narrow openings—erstwhile the delight of artists—has yet a few “bits” left that have escaped the hands of the Philistines.

Miss Carey’s pretty red-brick house of the Queen Anne style of architecture, and into which she has only more recently moved, is situated near the bend of the road. A broad gravelled path, running the whole length of the house in front, is bordered with shrubs and flowering plants. The spacious hall opens on the right and front into the chief living-rooms, the long French windows of which lead into the conservatory. One of the great attractions of the commodious and artistic residence is the pleasant garden at the back, at once the pride and delight of the author, where countless blackbirds, thrushes, and other singing-birds, are wont to congregate, and where in summer, under the gigantic chestnut tree with its widely-spreading branches, she and her home-mates spend many a happy hour. The home party consists likewise of her widowed sister, Mrs. Simpson, and of her friend, Helen Marion Burnside, the well-known poet and author of The Deaf Girl Next Door, and of a lately-published volume entitled Driftweed.

The drawing-room is bright and cheerful with its wide, lofty window, and pretty side windows, its parquet floor liberally strewn with Persian rugs, and its cosy corner hung with Oriental tapestries. Miss Carey’s own study is upstairs, half-way up the wide staircase, and overlooks the garden. There is an oak knee-hole writing-table, with raised blotting-pad. On one side well-filled bookcases, here a low spring couch, there lounging-chairs, big and little, and a cabinet covered with photographs, together with vases of flowers, and many little odds and ends of china. The whole is restful to the eye, thoroughly comfortable and attractive. Amid these peaceful surroundings Miss Carey writes her novels. She recalls to mind a little anecdote connected with her earliest effort—Nellie’s Memories. With no introduction, and quite unacquainted then with any publishers, she took the MSS., with much trepidation, to Mr. Tinsley, who refused to read it. This was a great disappointment, and some months later, she mentioned the matter to Mrs. Westerton, of Westerton’s Library. This kindly woman volunteered to induce him to change his mind, and did so with such good effect that, on hearing at a wedding-party the reader’s opinion was distinctly favourable, she hastened away from the festive gathering to impart the good news to the young author, a kindness that Miss Carey declares she “shall always remember with gratitude, and the very dress that the good-natured messenger wore on the occasion is stamped upon her recollection for evermore.”

This pretty domestic story of English home-life found favour with the public from the outset. It became widely known, and has been constantly republished up to the present date. The girl-author’s name and fame were made at once, at which no one seemed surprised but she. Old and young alike “took to” the charming tale, free from any dramatic incidents or mystery, owing to the unflagging interest, and the high tone of the work, not to speak of the striking individuality of the characters. Wee Wifie followed, and the author, who alone pronounced it to be a failure, actually refused at first to allow it to be brought out again when demanded lately, as she feared it might not add to her literary reputation, but upon being pressed, she re-wrote and lengthened it, without, however, altering the plot, and it has passed into a new edition.

Among her succeeding novels, which are too well known to need more than a passing comment, may be noted Barbara Heathcote’s Trial, Robert Ord’s Atonement, Wooed and Married, Heriot’s Choice, and Mary St. John. Ever anxious to do good and not harm, and to write books that any mother can give her girls to read, Rosa Carey’s works are characterised by a tendency to elevate to lofty aspirations, to noble ideas, and to purity of thought. During her residence at Putney she has also written Lover or Friend, Only the Governess, The Search for Basil Lyndhurst, Sir Godfrey’s Grand-daughters, The Old, Old Story, The Mistress of Brae Farm, and Other People’s Lives—a collection of short stories—while her latest book is entitled Mollie’s Prince. In The Girl’s Own Paper her short stories, which run serially for six months, are well known and eagerly looked for. In these, alike as in her longer works, the descriptive power, the fertility of resource and originality, prove that unceasing interest can be maintained while dwelling in a thoroughly healthy literary atmosphere. The first chapters of a new story will appear in our next monthly part.

It is clearly noticeable that while some of Rosa Carey’s earlier books indicate a tone of sadness running through them—a circumstance that she is somewhat inclined to regret, but they were tinged with many years of sorrow—the healing hand of time has done its merciful work, and she now writes in a more cheerful vein. Nor is there wanting a strong sense of quiet fun and humour which especially permeates her delightful novel Not Like Other Girls, a book that should surely stimulate many young women to follow the example of the three plucky heroines therein depicted with so much spirit.

While never exactly forming plots, when Miss Carey is about to begin a story, she thinks of one character, and works around that, meditating well the while over the others to be introduced. Then she starts writing, and soon gets so completely to live in and with her creations, that she feels a sense of loss and blank when the book is coming to an end, and while she has to wait until another grows in her mind. But, after all, her writing—the real work of her life—has often to be made a secondary consideration, for in her strong sense of family duty and devotion, and being the pivot round which its many members turn in sorrow or in sickness, the most important professional work is apt to be laid aside if she can do aught to comfort or to relieve them.

Nor have her sympathies been exclusively limited to her own people. Ever fond of girls, and keenly interested in their welfare, Miss Carey conducted for many years a weekly class that had been formed in connection with the Fulham Sunday School for young girls and servants over fifteen years of age, many of whom have had good reason to remember with gratitude the kindly encouragement and the wise counsel bestowed upon them by the gentle and sympathetic author, Rosa Nouchette Carey.

Helen C. Black.

VARIETIES.

Mansions.

“I am glad that His house hath mansions,

For I shall be tired at first,

And I’m glad He hath bread and water of life,

For I shall be hungry and thirst.

I am glad that the house is His, not mine,

For He will be in it, and near,

To take from me the grief I have brought,

And to wipe away every tear.”

T. O. Paine.

Death the Gate of Life.—Plato, the great Athenian philosopher, who was born 427 years before Christ, recognised the doctrine that death is but the gate of life. “My body,” he says, “must descend to the place ordained, but my soul will not descend. Being a thing immortal it will ascend on high, where it will enter a heavenly abode. Death does not differ at all from life.”

Useless Trouble.

“Why lose we life in anxious cares,

To lay in hoards for future years?

Can these, when tortured by disease,

Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?

Can these prolong one gasp of breath,

Or calm the troubled hour of death?”

Gay.

Women in Burma.—In Burma women are probably more free and happy than they are anywhere else in the world. Though Burma is bounded on one side by China, where women are held in contempt, and on the other by India, where they are kept in the strictest seclusion, Burmese women have achieved for themselves, and have been permitted by the men to attain, a freedom of life and action that has no parallel amongst Oriental peoples. Perhaps the secret lies in the fact that the Burmese woman is active and industrious, whilst the Burmese man is indolent and often a recluse.

She knew Nothing of Cycles.

Here is a story for cyclists. At a party on the Scottish Border last autumn, to which many guests rode on their cycles, the hostess made elaborate arrangements for the care of the machines, and a system of ticketing similar to that in use at hotel cloak-rooms was adopted, each cyclist being provided with a check ticket.

The housekeeper was entrusted with the care of the machines and the issuing of the tickets, and as they arrived the machines were carefully stored and labelled so that there should be no difficulty when they were required again.

But the housekeeper was not a cyclist and did not understand the mysteries of the pneumatic tyre. She pinned the labels on to the front tyres of the machines, where they could best be seen, and took good care that the pins were stuck well into the tyres.

The language that was heard when the guests came to take their machines away, was, as may well be supposed, more emphatic than polite.

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

CHAPTER XXV.

THE NEWS THAT CAME AT LAST.

rs. Bray’s end did not prove so imminent as her faithful Rachel had feared. She lingered on, though still unable to leave Bath for return to her desolated home. So Florence Brand came back to London, but she and Jem still often took “a week’s end” to run westward and visit the old lady. They never offered to take Lucy with them, and if “Jem” could not go Florence went alone. As for Lucy, she often yearned for those associations with her old easy girlish life which she would have found in Mrs. Bray’s presence. Such associations help to uphold our sense of identity, and often comfort us by revealing our own growth. They keep us tender, too, and tolerant, reviving the consciousness of what we were ourselves before we learned bitter lessons which may not yet have come to others. Also they strengthen us by revealing that not even to regain our old careless joys could we willingly be again our old careless selves. It is the “look backward” which best spurs us to go forward.

But Lucy could not afford any “unnecessaries” of leisure or railway travel. She turned at once to her life of steady labour, knowing that she must be henceforth a working woman, not for any temporary exigency, but as part of the natural and persistent order of things.

Even thus she had problems to solve. Her earned income, more or less uncertain, was not adequate for the reliable upkeep of the home of her married life. Nor could the demands upon it grow less, since Hugh’s education and start in life had to be taken into account.

Lucy could not yet give up all hope of her husband’s return. But her sweet, sane nature speedily realised that whatever hopes she might secretly cherish, she must nevertheless act as though Charlie had indeed “sailed for that other shore” whence he “could not come back to her.”

Yet these secret hopes made it very hard to contemplate the surrender of the home Charlie and she had made together—the sale of the leasehold, the dispersion and shrinkage of the household gods. These seemed almost sacred now when they might be all that remained of the old life.

The Brands warmly advocated giving up the house and selling off the furniture.

“It may not bring in much,” Florence said airily, “but what it does Jem will get well invested in some paying concern. Then you and the boy can board with somebody. You may do that moderately enough, for people who are glad to take boarders can often be screwed down to low terms. Then apart from that definite outlay, you’ll have whatever you can earn for yourself, and you’ll have no more worry with housekeeping. Many would envy such a lot. You see there are compensations in all things.”

Then it struck Florence that Lucy’s hesitancy might arise from reluctance to give up all hope of Charlie’s return, so she added hastily—

“And if what we all hope for should really happen, why, you would still have your capital, and you could buy another leasehold and get new furniture; it would just make a lovely new beginning!”

Lucy shook her head.

“I don’t want to do this if I can find some other way,” she said. “No other house could be to us what this one is, nor any new furniture that which Charlie and I bought bit by bit in our courting days. Practically speaking, too, breakings-up and sales, and buyings again, all mean loss in cash as well as in feelings.”

“Then, too, if you and the boy were boarding,” Florence went on hurriedly, “your wants would be drawn within narrow and defined limits, so that if there was any sort of misfortune, it would not be difficult for us to help you. We are not really rich, Lucy. We live as we do and spend as we do only that we may go on getting more. That is the way with one-half of the people in society. It’s trying. It tells upon Jem, it’s that which makes him take so much wine,” she whispered. “I should not like my family to heap any burdens on Jem.”

“I shall not do that, Florence,” replied Lucy, cool and quiet now, where once she would have been indignant and stung. “I shall certainly not allow myself to get into debt. I will look well ahead. If we have to go to the workhouse, I will make our own arrangements for going there!”

Other people took counsel with Lucy in a far different spirit. Miss Latimer said Lucy might rely on her remaining with her as long as they could possibly share a common home. That added her little income to the household funds. “Little indeed,” she said, but Lucy answered—

“Every little helps. And the greatest help is in the knowledge that one does not bear one’s burden alone.”

“Ay, two are better than one,” rejoined the old governess, “and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

“I’d like to be the third cord, but I’m only a bit of twine,” said Tom.

Another and stouter strand was soon to be woven into the household coil for that “long pull and strong pull” which Lucy was determined to make. The death of his old landlord had broken up the house where Mr. Somerset had hitherto lived. Diffidently, as if he were asking a great favour, he inquired if Lucy could entertain the idea of allowing him to rent her first floor, for which he was willing to pay a rent which at once made a substantial addition to the household finance.

As for poor Tom Black, he was distressed to think how small his payments were. “If he went away,” he said, “somebody more profitable might occupy his place.” Lucy had to reassure him by her own words and by the sight of Hugh’s tears at the bare thought of “Tom’s going away.”

Three months later Tom got a rise in his salary, and then he insisted on raising his monthly board fee. Lucy was slightly reluctant and almost aggrieved, but when she saw the lad’s face beaming with the power of his new prosperity, she let him have his own way in the matter.

So life settled down. Florence resented that her sister had chosen “to turn into a lodging-house keeper.” Lucy marvelled to note how strangely it “comes natural” to some women to belittle and contemn those ways of honest industry which lie nearest to woman’s true nature—housekeeping, house-serving, the care of the aged, and the young, and the solitary. And, oh, the pity of it! if such belittlement and contempt tend to relegate these high womanly functions only to unworthy “eye-servants”!

Months passed, yet the silence of the seas remained unbroken. Now and then Lucy and the captain’s wife wrote and asked how each fared. There came no day when either drew a line across life and forbade that hope should cross it. They did not put on widow’s mourning, yet when Lucy had to buy a new dress or ribbon, Miss Latimer noticed that she bought it of black or of soberest grey.

Months of such waiting had gone by ere Lucy wonderingly observed that there came to her no more her old nightmare vision of herself struggling lonely between a wild heath and a dead wall against a midnight storm. There was a sense in which the allegory of that vision was converted into fact—the silence as of death on one hand, the great rough world on the other, the storm of sorrow beating on herself. Yet now she realised that God Himself was with her on the dark wild way—she was not alone—and that made all the difference. God does not promise to uphold us in our fears and forebodings. These ought not to be. He has promised to be with us and to comfort us when the dark days shall really come.

Lucy never gave voice to many of her deepest experiences at that time—that secret speech which the Father keeps for each of His children. Sometimes it seemed to her as if shafts of light penetrated her very being, revealing or illuminating the most solemn mysteries of life. Sometimes she thought of Paul’s allusion to being “caught up into the third heaven” and “hearing unspeakable words which it is not lawful for a man to utter.”

This fleeting glory would fade out of Lucy’s soul even as sunshine fades off the earth. Yet Lucy felt that those “hours of insight” left her seeing “all things new.”

Lucy began to understand how martyrs can smile and speak cheerfully at their stake, because from that standpoint their developed spiritual stature lifts them to wider horizons than others know. What a message the blue sky must have had for the white depths of the Colosseum! Yet these things can never be told or written. Whoever would know them must learn them for themselves, though it be but “in part.” But it is because of these things that faith and hope and love have never died out of the world, since all the forces of unfaith and despair and cruelty end only in producing them afresh, because they are of the eternal life of God.

Lucy’s picture-dealer felt kindly towards the quiet client who gave so little trouble, showed so little self-conceit, and, while steadily business-like, was never exacting or suspicious. He thought “it would do Mrs. Challoner no harm” if he told her that one or two purchasers had said, “There is something in that lady’s sketches which we miss in many greater artists,” one old lady adding that “when she looked at Lucy’s pictures, she felt as if there was a soft voice beside her whispering something pleasant.”

That brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes and made her feel very humble, possibly because she could not deny to herself that there was truth in the gracious words. Oh, to have Charlie again, and yet to be all that she had grown into since he had gone away—since this awful silence! And an inner voice bade her take cheer, for was not this what was sure to happen here or there—sooner or later?

“What a pitiful bliss we should make for ourselves if we were left to do it without God!” Lucy cried, thinking even of the sweetest dreams of courting days, the best aspirations of married life. For after one taste of “the peace which passeth understanding,” one vision of the joy which has absorbed the strength of sorrow into it, mere “happiness” looks but a poor thing, even as a child’s cheap, pretty toy shows beside a masterpiece of genius.

Lucy’s slumbers now were deep and calm. Almost every morning she awoke with a sense of refreshment, as when one returns to labour after being among kind hearts in lovely places. Sometimes she knew she had dreamed, and such dream memories as lingered, elusive, for a few waking moments, were always bright and cheering. Visions of Charlie had come during the first nights after the great blow. He never seemed to speak, but he was always smiling, always confident that all was well and would be well. His dream form always appeared in positions and in scenes which Lucy could recall as having figured in peculiarly happy times. And yet these scenes had been at the time so slight and evanescent that Lucy had quite forgotten them till the dream revived the remembrance. It was as if, in her sleep, her soul was drawn so near the light and warmth of love that even the invisible records of memory started into view.

After those first few occasions Charlie came no more into any dream which she could recall even at the instant of waking. But the soothing spirit of hope and reassurance remained. If she dreamed of Florence, Florence wore the simple frocks of her girlhood and spoke as she used to do. Jem Brand, too, appeared only on his kind and helpful side. Once she had a curious dream of seeing two Jem Brands exactly alike, save that one was fresh and smiling and friendly, and inclined to nudge his strange dissipated-looking twin, and to ask why he was so grumpy and heavy. In her sleep, too, she saw Mrs. Morison, and Jane Smith, and Clementina, and each was back in her old place and doing well. Lucy could never remember what passed between them and her in the land of sleep, but somehow she knew it was something that explained things, something which made them feel that the past could not have ended otherwise than it had, but which also made her feel that it was quite natural that they should begin again and do better.

She thought to herself once as she awoke—

“I feel as if wherever Charlie is I am in his every thought, and that his every thought is a prayer always ascending on every way by which it can bring back blessing.”

It was about this time that it struck Lucy that strangers very often spoke to her. She scarcely ever entered an omnibus or a railway carriage without somebody appealing to her for some trifling assistance, or confiding to her some little difficulty which they seemed to think might grow clearer if it were talked over. Once or twice she noticed that old folks or little children let ever so many people pass them by and then asked her to ring a stiff bell for them or to decipher an address.

Sometimes she caught herself softly repeating Adelaide Proctor’s lines—

“Who is the angel that cometh?

Pain!

Let us arise and go forth to greet him.

Not in vain

Is the summons gone for us to meet him;

He will stay and darken our sun;

He will stay

A desolate night, a weary day.

Since in that shadow our work is done,

And in that shadow our crowns are won,

Let us say still, while his bitter chalice

Slowly into our heart is poured—

‘Blessed is he that cometh

In the name of the Lord!’”

Of course beneath all this high experience ran the undercurrent of simple daily living. Lucy was in no danger of losing hold of the practical. She had her regular duties at the Institute, and many little opportunities for the exercise of tact and common sense at home. The little household had a real organic unity in its common service of true friendship, but that did not rub off all the little human angles. Sometimes Pollie would say that “Mrs. May was more particular than a real mistress.” Sometimes Miss Latimer found a trial in the romps of Hugh and Tom Black. Mr. Somerset adopted vegetarianism and puzzled Mrs. May by desiring her to concoct dishes which seemed to her unsatisfactory and uncanny. But each trusted the other. Everybody knew that everybody meant well. If a sharp word were spoken unwarily, a kind word followed hard upon it. Each understood that all joys and trials were common property; shares therein might differ, but everybody had a share.

So the weeks grew into months, and the months completed a year. One evening Lucy was sitting in the dining-room glancing over her completed balance sheet with its tiny “surplus,” when suddenly it seemed to her that there was a new sound in the very rumble of the cab which was depositing Mr. Somerset as usual at the door, after his day’s study at the British Museum. She looked up, her pen in her hand listening.

Mr. Somerset generally went straight to his own apartments. Occasionally, however, when he had any news to tell or any request to make, he looked in upon the little party in the dining-room.

He did so now.

He sat down on the sofa and said abruptly—

“Mrs. Challoner, do you think joy ever hurts anybody?”

“Surely not,” she said, looking up with wide eyes. “The Bible says that hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.”

“Do you feel sure, dear friend, that you could bear——”

She had risen from her seat with clasped hands.

“Mr. Somerset, Mr. Somerset!” she gasped.

He rose too.

“Trust me,” he said, gently leading her mind to its new attitude. “I would not stir expectation ever so lightly for nothing. To-day I have received a message from the shipping office to deliver to you. Listen! The long looked-for word has come at last. Charlie lives! Charlie is quite well! Charlie is coming home! He is on his way!”

Lucy did not faint. She did not cry out. She sat quite quiet for a moment, and then broke into a peal of low happy laughter, which died away in a flood of soft healing tears, from which she looked up and said—

“Is it all true? Is it quite true? I can scarcely believe it!”

(To be continued.)

THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

By F. W. L. SLADEN.

PART V.

ugust is the month we most associate with all the active interests of the height of summer, but the bees in the hive are already quieting down and making preparations for their long winter sleep. The duty of the bee-keeper will be to make sure that these preparations are properly carried out by assisting them if necessary. One reason for their diminished activity is the disappearance of several honey-producing flowers on which the bees depend for their main crop. Breeding is not kept up so largely—the brood nest growing smaller; and many cells that contained brood last month will now be filled up with honey and pollen. Most of the bees now in the hive are to survive the coming winter, and they must preserve their energies as much as possible, because the colony will stand in great need of their services in the following spring. The drones, who gather no honey, and are of no further use in the hive are now attacked and killed, or turned out of the hive to perish from exposure. The ejection of the drones is rather a gruesome proceeding, but it is one that should give satisfaction to the bee-keeper, because it shows that the colony possesses a healthy and vigorous queen, and this, of course, is an essential condition for its well-being.

All through this month robbing will have to be guarded against, as, now that honey is scarce, it is easily induced, especially where there are a number of hives. To prevent robbing, the hives should not be opened too often, and then only late in the afternoon, and the work done as speedily as possible. No drops of honey or syrup should be left about, and if feeding is going on, care should be taken to prevent any bees from outside getting to the feeder.

When robbing and fighting are found to be in progress, the best means of checking the trouble will be to reduce the entrance of the hive with perforated zinc, so as to allow only one bee to pass in or out at a time. A rag soaked in a weak solution of Calvert’s No. 5 carbolic acid, wrung out nearly dry, and spread out on the alighting board will also help to keep the robbers off.

These measures need not be taken unless there is considerable excitement around the hive entrance. At this time of year there will often be a few strangers on the alighting board, which get pulled about rather roughly by little groups of over-zealous sentinels, but no notice need be taken of this.

The middle or end of August will be time enough to think about getting the bees into condition for the winter. A careful inspection of all the hives should now be made, and the following points carefully noted:

(1.) Every colony should have a good laying queen. The appearance of worker brood in all stages will be sufficient evidence of her presence without our taking the trouble to hunt her up.

(2.) The colony must be strong, the bees crowding on at least six standard frames.

(3.) The combs must contain not less than twenty pounds of good honey for food during the winter.

These three conditions being fulfilled, we may be satisfied that the colony is in good condition to withstand the rigours of winter without further attention, and only requires to be wrapped up warmly later on before the advent of cold weather.

If, however, the colony should happen to be queenless, or weak (that is, covering less than six standard frames), it will have to be united to another colony. Thus, two colonies, neither of which, alone, would be strong enough to stand the winter, can be united together to form one strong colony, which, if properly looked after, will almost certainly turn out strong in the spring and do well the following year.

The colonies which are to be united should stand near to one another; by this I mean within a yard or two of one another. If they are further apart or have several other hives standing between them, they will have to be brought together, the moving being done by degrees, a yard or two at a time, and only on fine days during which the bees fly freely, otherwise many bees will be lost.

For the operation of uniting a flour-dredger will be required, containing about half-a-pint of flour. Also a goose-wing for brushing the bees off the combs. The dome queen-cage is an appliance that may come in useful. It is made of tinned wire-cloth, and shaped like the strainer that is sometimes hung from the spout of a tea-pot to retain the leaves. Such tea-strainers make very good queen-cages. To use the queen-cage it is pressed into the comb with the queen inside.

The hive to contain the united colonies should be placed midway between the two old stands. The alighting-boards should be extended by means of the hiving-board which was used in hiving the swarm.

A bright calm afternoon will be the best time to do the uniting. We have already seen that bees belonging to different colonies when mixed will not, under ordinary circumstances, agree. If, however, they are prevented from recognising one another they will unite together quite peaceably, and this condition may be brought about by dusting them over with flour. Every comb must therefore be lifted out of both hives and the bees on them well powdered with flour from the dredger. In replacing the combs, one from one hive should be put next to another from the other hive, thus ensuring the better mixing of the bees. Combs containing brood should be placed together in the middle of the hive. The bees on the lightest of the outside combs may be shaken off on to the hiving-board, where they should receive a sprinkling of flour, the combs being then taken indoors at once.

During the operation a sharp look out should be kept for the queens on the brood combs, and if one of them should be preferred for heading the new colony she should be caged by herself on a comb in the manner described above to prevent any hostile workers from attacking her. The other queen must then be found and removed, and the bee-keeper must remember to liberate the caged queen on the following day. If left to themselves, however, the workers soon learn to recognise one of the queens as their mother, so that the trouble of finding and caging the queen is not really necessary in uniting, but it is an additional safeguard which the practised bee-keeper is glad to be able to take advantage of.

It was stated just now that the presence of worker-brood in the hive was sufficient evidence of the presence of a good queen. In some cases where there is a bad queen or no queen at all, drone-brood may be found in the hive. Usually the bees build a special comb with cells of a larger pattern for raising drone-brood in, but a bad queen will often lay drone eggs in worker-cells. In either case drone-brood may be known from worker-brood by its raised convex cappings, the capping over the worker-brood being almost flat. The best thing to do with a drone-raising colony is to unite it to another good colony without delay in the manner described above.

Having settled the question of strength, the next thing to see about will be the food supply. If each hive does not possess the minimum weight of 20 lb. of stored honey, combs containing food must be given from another hive that can spare them, or syrup must be supplied through the feeder.

Syrup for winter use must be made thicker than that used for stimulating in the summer, 10 lbs. of cane sugar being dissolved in only 5 pints of water. The syrup must be given quickly (5 or 6 lb. every day), otherwise much of it may be used for raising brood. For this purpose special rapid feeders, made to hold 6 lb. of syrup, are made.

If the stock-box contains more than 30 lb. of honey, we may take and extract the surplus from the outside combs, or one of these combs might with advantage be given to a colony that stands in need of it.

Bee-keepers who live in the heather districts of Scotland and the north of England will now be reaping the late honey harvest that this plant affords, getting their supers filled with the delicious heather-honey, which is so highly esteemed for its fine flavour. Persons keeping a few colonies a little distance from the moors find it worth their while to send their bees there while the heather is in bloom. Heather-honey has a deep colour. It is so thick that it is extremely difficult to remove it from the comb by means of the honey extractor. It should therefore be stored in sections, as these do not require extracting. Sections of heather-honey should fetch about threepence more than ordinary sections.

What to do with the honey obtained from their bees is a question, I expect, that will not trouble many of my readers. Still it will be a good thing to know some of the uses of honey. In the first place it is delicious eaten with bread and butter. It contains grape sugar, which makes it wholesome and easily digested, and particularly good for children in moderate quantities. Honey-vinegar and mead when well made are acknowledged to be excellent. As an ingredient in cakes and confectionary, honey greatly improves them. A delicious flavour is imparted to tea or coffee if sweetened with honey instead of sugar. “My son, eat thou honey, because it is good” (Proverbs xxiv. 13) is the recommendation the wise King Solomon gave honey.

Honey is also valuable as a medicine. Mixed with the juice of lemons it is universally acknowledged to be one of the best remedies for sore throat and cough. It has been proved to be beneficial in cases of rheumatism, hoarseness, and affections of the chest.

(To be concluded.)

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

CHAPTER X.

arion’s wedding-day was near at hand. Mrs. Grant, her cousin, who lived in Norfolk Square, had very kindly offered to have the wedding from her house, and this arrangement was the most convenient for everybody concerned. It had been at first intended that she should be married from her own home in Northamptonshire, but there would have been such a difficulty in putting up all the wedding guests, and Dr. Thomas’s house was already a very full one. So when Mrs. Grant offered the loan of her house for the occasion it was thankfully accepted.

Marion was glad to be in London for a week or two beforehand as she was so busy with her trousseau, and it made the shopping and trying on of dresses so much more easy. Her mother came up to town to stay in Norfolk Square for a fortnight before the wedding to help her with her purchases. The rest of the family were coming up for the wedding on the day and were going back to the country as soon as it was over.

Marion was disappointed at not being married from her own home, but she saw plainly that the present arrangement would save her mother a great deal of fatigue and inconvenience, and as Mrs. Thomas was not at all strong now, that was a great point gained. Anybody who has experienced the difficulties of making ready for a party, added to the planning and contriving necessary to the disposal of guests in an already over-full house, will heartily appreciate the benefits of Mrs. Grant’s plan.

Jane wrote to Mrs. Grant, whom she knew very well, and offered help for the wedding breakfast. As the cook in Norfolk Square had not been in her place very long and was rather inexperienced, Mrs. Grant was very glad to agree to Jane’s suggestion. The wedding was to be on a Saturday. Fortunately the day before was a free day for Jane, and so she would be able to devote it to making ready for the wedding.

There was to be a sit-down breakfast in the old-fashioned style, for the guests were limited to the relations and very old friends of the bride and bridegroom, and as several of these would be coming up from the country for the day, they would be glad of a substantial repast. The bride was to be married in a travelling dress, and was only to have one bridesmaid—her sister Lily.

As the weather was already crisp and cold this was a very sensible plan, for nothing is more unbecoming than the utterly unseasonable attire in which brides and bridesmaids are sometimes seen shivering. Fortunately Marion was not to go straight to a very hot climate, as Mr. Scott had work at Ootacamund for the next year. She received many delightful presents. A very useful one from one of her pupils was a cookery-book for Anglo-Indians, which she treasured very much, as she knew how very useful it would be to her in her new home.

Mrs. Holden gave her several presents, amongst which was some very beautiful lace which Marion had made up on a white silk dinner dress.

The enterprising Jane made the wedding-cake with Ada’s help. She had to buy a special tin to bake it in as she had not one big enough. It was cooked with the greatest care in the gas oven in which Marion had prepared so many meals in the days of their joint housekeeping.

The preparations took some days, for Jane had not very much time just then. She prepared half the fruit one evening and half the next. On the next afternoon she got home early, made the cake, and got it into the oven by six o’clock, and had it baked before they went to bed. The next evening she put on the almond icing and the plain royal icing, and on the next she ornamented it. It was allowed two or three days to set quite firm, and then the cake was wrapped in wadding, packed in a box and taken over to Norfolk Square in a cab, where it was kept under a glass case until the wedding. Our readers must have the recipe of this wonderful cake in case they may wish to emulate Jane’s industry for the benefit of their friends. Mrs. Oldham sent up a special box of eggs for its concoction.

Marion’s Wedding Cake.

Ingredients.—Two pounds of Vienna flour, one pound of French plums, one pound of sultanas, one pound of currants, one pound of citron peel, one and three-quarter pounds of fresh butter, one and a half pounds of castor sugar, ten eggs, one pound of sweet almonds, and vanilla essence.

For the Almond Icing.—Two pounds of ground almonds, three pounds of castor sugar, almond flavouring, enough beaten egg to bind.

Royal Icing.—Three pounds of icing sugar, whites of egg to mix, lemon juice.

Method.—Rub the flour through a hair sieve, stone the French plums and chop them finely, wash and dry the currants, and pick and flour the sultanas; cut up the peel, sift the sugar, blanch and chop the almonds. Beat the butter to a cream, and then add the sugar and work together until very light; add the eggs one by one, flour the fruit well, and stir it in gradually, the almonds also: lastly, stir in the flour, the essence, and the brandy. Line a tin with paper that has been brushed with clarified butter; pour in the mixture, and bake in a moderate oven.

Almond Icing.—Mix the ground almonds and castor sugar together and then work in enough beaten white of egg to bind; knead and roll out, lay over the cake and put near the fire to dry.

Royal Icing.—Rub the icing sugar through a sieve and work in with a wooden spoon enough white of egg to make the icing of the right consistency to spread over the cake; add a little lemon juice. Dry the icing in a cool oven, taking care it does not colour. Ornament the cake the next day, using royal icing mixed rather more stiffly than that which was spread over first. Put it on with a forcer.

Jane declared that she only breathed freely when she had deposited the cake in Mrs. Grant’s house, and saw it waiting for the wedding under a large glass globe!

Here we have the menu for the wedding breakfast.

MENU DU DÉJEUNER.

• Ox-tail Soup.
• Oyster Patties.
• Glazed Pheasants.
• Pigeon Pie.
• Tongue.
• Pistachio Cream.
• Claret Jelly.
• Fruits.
• Coffee.

The cook at Norfolk Square and Jane both worked hard all the day before and everything turned out very well. To ensure the pheasants and the tongue being well glazed and looking nice, Jane made some good glaze and brought it with her. This she did by making a pint of good beef-tea and boiling it rapidly down to a thick syrup. The pheasants and the tongue had each two coats brushed on and were then suitably ornamented, the tongue with a pretty design in creamed butter put on with a forcer and slices of notched cucumber laid round the dish. The tongue was a smoked one and was soaked for twenty-four hours before being cooked. Jane made all the puff pastry for the patties and the pigeon pie; the cook made the soup, cooked the pheasants and the tongue and prepared the inside of the pie under her supervision. She also prepared the moulds for the creams and jellies. Here are the recipes for the soup, patties, creams, and jellies. The quantity made consisted of two quarts of soup, two dozen patties, two creams (quart moulds), two jellies (ditto), and two pies.

Ox-Tail Soup.

Ingredients.—One ox-tail, one carrot, one turnip, two onions, two sticks of celery, two tomatoes, four mushrooms, bay-leaf, blade of mace, a bunch of herbs, twelve peppercorns, two teaspoonfuls of salt, two quarts of stock, two ounces of butter, three ounces of brown thickening.

Method.—Cut the ox-tail into joints and blanch it. Fry it well in the butter, add the vegetables washed and sliced, the mace, herbs, salt, and the stock, and simmer four hours. Strain and pick out the pieces of meat; take off the fat and return to the saucepan. Thicken with three ounces of brown thickening. Put in the pieces of ox-tail and the soup is ready.

Puff Pastry.

Ingredients.—Two pounds of Vienna flour, two pounds of butter, lemon juice, water to mix, two yolks of eggs.

Method.—Rub the flour through a hair sieve; wash the butter and rub one-third into the flour. Turn this on to the paste-board and make a well in the middle. Beat the yolks of two eggs with a gill of water and a little lemon juice and mix into the flour, adding more water if necessary until you have a flexible dough. Roll out to a strip, shape the butter to a third the size of the dough and lay it on; fold the dough over and roll out; repeat this and put it away to cool. Roll out again and repeat this four times. Roll out, cut as required, and use. For patties, cut into rounds with a cutter about the size of a wine-glass and mark it at the top with a smaller cutter. Bake in a very hot oven a pale golden brown, and when baked lift off the lid and scoop out the inside; fill with the required mixture and put on the lid again.

Mixture for Oyster Patties.—Strain the liquor from two dozen oysters and put it to boil for ten minutes with a blade of mace, three peppercorns, a little lemon rind, and some salt; strain and mix with a gill of cream. Work half an ounce of butter with as much cornflour as it will take up, stir it into the liquor and boil up over the fire; cut the oysters in small pieces, put them into the sauce and heat gently for a few minutes without letting it boil again.

Pistachio Cream.

Ingredients.—One pint of double cream, the whites of two fresh eggs, four ounces of castor sugar, a quarter of a pound of pistachios (chopped and blanched), one ounce of leaf gelatine, two tablespoonfuls of water, a half-pint packet of lemon jelly.

Method.—Take a plain round cake-mould that will hold a quart, and line the sides of it with lemon jelly. Sprinkle the bottom over with chopped pistachio, using a little melted jelly to set it. Whip a pint of double cream to a stiff froth, and mix it lightly with the stiffly beaten whites of two fresh eggs and the castor sugar (sifted). Pound the pistachios in a mortar, and add the sweetened cream to this. Have ready the gelatine, and when it is lukewarm stir it quickly into the cream. Pour at once into the prepared mould.

Before the wedding-day, Jane, Ada, and Marion had a little tea-party at “The Rowans,” at which it must be confessed they talked a great deal and ate very little.

“Well, we have had a very happy year at all events,” said Ada, “and if circumstances had not upset our previous arrangements, I should have been quite content to go on in the same way for a long time.”

“As circumstances, named Tom Scott and Jack Redfern, intervened, our housekeeping is at an end,” said Jane decisively. “I think I am the one to whom all apologies should be made. Of course, with you two gone, I could not bear starting the same sort of thing again with anyone else, but it has certainly been a most successful experiment. Has your dress come home yet, Marion?”

“Yes; and fits very well.”

“It is the prettiest dress you can imagine,” said Jane to Ada. “A grey Sicilienne skirt, with a grey glacé silk bodice, and cherry-coloured velvet at the throat and waist. A dear little cherry-coloured toque to wear with it, and a smart grey velvet cape with a delicate design in steel on it. I can’t help talking like a fashion plate when I think of it! Our dresses are sent back at last, and there is nothing that needs alteration.”

Jane and Ada were to wear their new winter dresses of green cashmere and brown velvet; big brown “picture” hats with rowans under the brim. Marion’s wedding-day dawned bright and sunny. The wedding was to be at two o’clock.

Jane had arranged to go over to Norfolk Square early to superintend the laying of the breakfast before the party went to church. The table was decorated with white flowers in specimen vases. Azaleas, chrysanthemums, and orange-blossoms, and sprigs of rowan-berries were laid on the pretty white satin table-centre which Ada had worked for her friend.

And now they are off to church.

Marion makes a charmingly pretty but very nervous bride. Everybody is bright and cheerful and there are no tears. Soon they come back and sit down to the breakfast, prepared with so much care. And now the time has come for us to bid farewell to our young housekeepers, whose plans and contrivances our readers have followed for so long. If their example will induce any to try the experiment for themselves, Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Redfern, and Miss Jane Orlingbury will feel that they have not worked in vain.

[THE END.]

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART XI.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—As you are one of the members of the committee for the bazaar in aid of the Nursing Home for Old People, I may be able to give you a few useful hints to avoid certain illegalities which beset the path of the unwary promoters of such charitable entertainments.

The great feature of a big bazaar should consist in having as many side shows as possible, so that people may be able, by the expenditure of a shilling or two, to escape from the importunities of the stall-holders into a concert-room, waxwork show, or other attraction, and not be driven out of the bazaar altogether.

If you want to have anything in the nature of a farce, operetta or comedietta played in the building, you ought to inquire if the hall which you are going to hire for the bazaar has a licence for stage-plays. If it has not such a licence, the performers and those responsible for the entertainment will render themselves liable to a fine, unless the proper licence is secured.

Fish-ponds, bran-pies, lucky tubs, and similar contrivances, are doubtless, strictly speaking, illegal, but are always tolerated at bazaars, where people do not expect to get the value of their money; but it is advisable to draw the line at roulette tables or anything in the nature of a real gamble or a lottery.

On the last day of the bazaar, it is often the custom to sell off the undisposed-of stock of the stalls by auction. The person who holds the auction should be a person having an auctioneer’s licence to sell by auction, otherwise trouble may ensue, as the auctioneers have recently made a determined stand against unqualified persons acting as auctioneers.

I think that these are the principal errors into which people who get up bazaars are liable to fall; but perhaps I ought to enlarge a little more upon stage-plays and the necessity for having a licence for their performance.

It is almost impossible to give any kind of a variety concert without unwittingly performing what is the legal equivalent of a stage-play; any song with dramatic action is a stage-play, and so are duologues and monologues, as distinguished from recitations.

Some people have an idea that so long as they do not take any money at the doors, they are quite safe and within the law in giving a performance in the cause of charity, but such is not the case. When money or other reward is taken or charged, directly or indirectly, or when the purchase of any article is made a condition for admission, the performers and the owner or occupier of the building render themselves liable to a fine.

This may sound very alarming, and would, no doubt, considerably startle those good ladies who lend their houses for performances for charitable objects in the season; but every time they do so, and anything in the nature of a stage-play is performed, they may be prosecuted and fined, although personally they take no benefit from such performances. The fact that they frequently do so with impunity does not affect the law on the matter, which is perfectly clear. Why it has not been altered before now, I am unable to say; hardly a day passes without its being broken, exemplifying the old proverb that “one man may steal a horse from a stable, and another may not look over the hedge.”

I know of a case where a gentleman who had turned part of his house into the Theatre Royal back drawing-room, and who permitted a performance of a play to be given on two occasions, to which admission was by ticket only, which could be obtained beforehand on payment of a fixed sum, in aid of the funds of a charity, was convicted and fined under the Act. The gentleman appealed against the conviction, but without success; the conviction was confirmed by the Court of the Queen’s Bench. So be warned, my dear Dorothy, and do not allow your friends to disregard my advice, and be assured that it is much better to avoid these risky entertainments altogether.

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

OUR LILY GARDEN.

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

Lilium Tigrinum (var. Fortunei).

We will conclude our remarks on the noble family of lilies by some notes and tables, which will be found of great value to those who wish to cultivate these beautiful flowers.

We told you in the first part of this book that we kept a note-book—a kind of diary—in which we kept a record of our work among the lilies. We advise everyone who intends to grow these plants to follow our example, and get a large manuscript book to put down the “proceedings” of her lilies. The following points should be noted. (1.) The name of the species and variety. (2.) The name of the person from whom you obtained the bulb. (3.) The day on which the bulb was planted, with a note as to the condition of the weather at the time. (4.) The circumference of the bulb, and a brief description of it, stating whether the flower-spike had begun to grow, or the new roots had appeared, or if any scales were mouldy or diseased. (5.) The soil in which the lily was planted. (6.) The date of the appearance of the shoot. (7.) The date of flowering. (8.) A brief description of the full-grown plant and its individual members. (9.) The condition of the bulb when exhumed.

Here is an example of the record of a bulb of L. Auratum.

“Lilium Auratum, var. Platyphyllum, bought from Mr. ——. Potted on the 3rd of November, 1897; a warm, dry day. Bulb seven inches in circumference; new roots just appearing. A sound, heavy bulb. One mouldy scale removed. Washed in lime-water; sprinkled with charcoal and potted in an eight-inch pot in a mixture of fine peat (one part), rich leaf-mould (two parts), a large handful of sand and a few small lumps of clay. Shoot appeared March 17th, 1898; grew rapidly. No disease. Flowered September 4th, 1898; five blossoms, all perfect, largest eleven and a half inches across. No rain when in flower. Lasted in blossom till September 20th, 1898. Bulb when exhumed quite healthy, showing two crowns nine and a quarter inches in diameter. Exhumed and replanted October 21st, 1898.”

If you have a record like this of every lily, you possess a most valuable book on the culture of lilies; and, as we said at first, the cultivation of these plants is little understood.

A thoroughly authentic, practical record will help you more to become proficient in the art of lily-growing than any amount of impracticable theory.

Now some words to those who are growing lilies in pots. As we have seen, most species grow well in pots. All do well except the following, which are unsuitable for pot culture. The reason why they are suitable is also given.

L. Cordifolium (too straggling).

All the Isolirions, because they are not sufficiently ornamental for pot culture.

L. Humboldti. This lily does not do well in pots; why we do not know.

L. Martagon, L. Pomponium, L. Pyrenaicum, L. Chalcedonicum, L. Monodelphum, L. Testaceum.

The last six lilies are unsuitable for pot culture because they require to become established before they will condescend to flower.

Most lilies grown in pots can be kept in the open air or in a room, or anywhere you please, but the following require protection of some sort:—

Half-hardy species. These should not be put out in frosty weather; otherwise they may be grown out of doors. If you have planted them in the ground at a sufficient depth, they will stand all but a very severe winter. L. Giganteum, L. Cordifolium, L. Formosanum, L. Wallichianum, L. Washingtonianum, L. Catesbæi, L. Polyphyllum, L. Roseum, L. Hookeri, L. Oxypetalum, L. Alexandræ.

The following usually need a greenhouse to grow them well:—L. Philippinense, L. Neilgherrense, L. Nepaulense, L. Lowi.

Would you like to have lilies in pots in your room? You can have them even if you do not possess a greenhouse. You can grow the lilies in the ground and transfer them to pots just before they begin to flower. For this purpose plant the bulbs in the open ground in rather lighter soil than you would if the lilies were to flower in the open. Place the bulbs about four inches deep. You need not remove the plant until the flower-buds are nearly fully developed. Then take up the lily with the surrounding earth, place it in a big pot, drench it with water, and leave it in a cool, shady place for three days. Then give it a good dose of liquid manure. You may then take it into your room, and it will flower as though nothing had troubled the tranquillity of its existence.

Not all lilies are suitable for this treatment; only those species which will grow in light soils should be used for this purpose. L. Longiflorum, L. Auratum, L. Speciosum, and L. Rubellum are most suitable for this form of culture.

About the beginning of November all your lilies in pots will have flowered and died down. What are you to do with them now?

Shake the bulbs out of the pots; examine them; remove any off-shoots; do not cut off the roots; wash them in lime-water and re-pot without delay.

Lilies do not rest during the winter. The pots should be kept in a place which is not too wet. The pots must not be kept too dry, but an occasional watering should be administered.

We append a list of the lilies, giving the exact composition of the soil in which we have grown them best, both in the open air and in pots. An asterisk is affixed to the most desirable species.

Grown in a mixture of one part peat, two parts leaf-mould, and a good sprinkling of sand:

Grown in a mixture of equal parts of peat and leaf-mould, with plenty of sand:

Grown in equal parts of rich loam and leaf-mould, enriched with the contents of an old hot-bed, but with no peat and very little sand:

Grown in soil like the last, but with a fair admixture of peat:

The following species have never been grown by us:—

During the greater part of the year you can have lilies in flower in your garden. If you possess a greenhouse you can have lilies in flower throughout the year.

ASPIRATION.

Naturally the lilies flower in the open ground from April till October. If you wish to have lilies in your garden in November you can do so, but mind you, if the weather is unfavourable the blossoms will not be worth much.

The lilies which will flower in the open ground in November are L. Speciosum and L. Auratum. For very late flowering the bulbs should be planted in May. Last Lord Mayor’s day we gathered a small bunch of L. Speciosum, and one very fair example of L. Auratum. The tiger lilies were also in blossom at that date.

But this late crop of lilies is worth very little; and, unless you have a greenhouse, we advise you to be contented with six months of lily flowers.

In a greenhouse it is easy to have lilies throughout the year. L. Longiflorum will flower from April to January, and L. Speciosum will flower from August to February if the bulbs are potted at intervals, and very gently forced when necessary. In the month of March you can have L. Rubellum in flower.

Doubtless some of our readers will wish to grow lilies for show purposes. Indeed, for this purpose few flowers are more satisfactory, for lilies are extremely showy, they last very well in flower, and are by no means impatient of removal.

As a matter of fact, growing lilies for show purposes can be conducted on two separate systems; either you can grow show plants or show flowers.

For the former purpose the stem, the leaves, the shape of the inflorescence, and the number, shape, size and colour of the blossoms must be above the average. For “show flowers” all your attention must be concentrated upon one single blossom.

For growing show plants choose a very big bulb. In our former articles we warned you against these mammoth bulbs, because they are so often unsatisfactory. But for show plants you must choose these big bulbs; but do not imagine that from every “mammoth bulb” you will get a fine spike. You will rarely get more than one really excellent plant out of six bulbs.

For prize plants pot the bulbs in large pots and keep them in a cold, dark place for a fortnight. When the shoots appear, grow them on as quickly as you can, but give no artificial heat. Keep the plants in a place where they are not likely to be injured by the wind, and where there is plenty of shade. As the flowering time arrives give plenty of liquid manure.

Of all manures, “Ichthumic guano” is the most satisfactory for show lilies.

You must turn your pots round every day, so as to keep the stems straight. Lilies always bend towards the sun, and unless the pots are carefully turned round every day the stems become twisted or bowed.

For growing prize blossoms choose a small bulb. Grow it as you did for a prize plant, but when the buds begin to turn colour, remove every one except one—the finest. Cut the flower with as long a stem as possible, and send it to the exhibition while it is opening, and before the pollen has become free.

Grow your show plants as carefully as you will, you will often find that many uncared-for plants in the garden beat the pampered one in the form and delicacy of their blossoms!

Like all other flowers, the lilies possess many more names than they desire, and in many cases even the slightest variation from the type has been labelled with a new name. You must therefore beware of paying high prices for cheap lilies with a new name—a fate which will damp the ardour of most amateurs.

Our work among the lilies is done. If our admiration for them has been great, it has never been excessive. The lilies are the loveliest of all flowers, and the study of them is wrought with delight.

“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

“UPS AND DOWNS.”

A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE.

By N. O. LORIMER.

CHAPTER III.

f you had peeped into the big attic bedroom the three girls occupied at the top of the high New York boarding-house, you would have seen Ada Nicoli in her pretty white dressing-gown—such a pitiful reminder of her former luxury—putting little Sadie’s hair into curl-papers. In her lonely life she had grown passionately attached to her two little sisters who were so dependent on her, and the thing that hurt her most about her poverty was seeing little Sadie look careless and neglected. Often at night she was so tired and weary that it took all her courage to brush and dress their two heads of hair, and see that their clothes were in proper order for going to school the next day. A hat-box full of Southern bank-notes, which had been Marjorie’s and Sadie’s amusement for many a day in their old home for playing at store-keeping, came in handy for curling Sadie’s hair, and the child always wanted Ada to tell her the same story, how her mother’s mother had saved up the bank-notes during the great war, believing that the South would be victorious, and how she had made some of the notes during the war by making slippers out of the felt carpets and selling them.

“If they were all real good dollars now, Ada,” the child said, “we needn’t live in this hen-roost any longer, need we?”

Ada took the child in her arms. “Poor little Sadie,” she said. “While we three are together, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? We can have a little fun sometimes, can’t we?”

“It isn’t so bad, siss,” the child answered, “but I do want to go to Barnum’s, and I wish the girls at school wouldn’t say, ‘When’s your father coming back? He’s been visiting for a long time.’”

Then Marjorie chimed in with—“I passed two of the girls I used to go to school with to-day, Ada, and they both looked in at a shop window when I passed.”

“Never mind,” Ada said, with her heart growing sadder every minute. “It’s a good thing not to be at school with girls who are so vulgar.” Ada’s own rich friends had also disappeared in a marvellous fashion. It is true she had left her old home so suddenly, and had to avoid seeing people whom it would be painful to meet in her altered circumstances, so much that, perhaps, they were not altogether to blame. She had been working for some months at Madame Maude’s now, and she had found that she had very little time in her busy life for musing over the faithlessness of her rich friends. Her mother’s mental condition had not improved, and she had not had a single line from her father. He had left the country to avoid disgrace as well as ruin. The cold weather had come, and Ada was feeling the hardship of walking every morning and evening to her business. It was a long way, and the girl’s constitution was not suited to the strain made upon it. The people in the boarding-house had watched her growing slighter and paler as the weeks passed, and her eyes had grown feverishly bright. Marjory was a selfish, peevish child, who did not do what she could to help her sister.

“She’s not worth Ada’s little finger!” the fat boarder would exclaim, when the child deceived her sister by making friends with girls that Ada had asked her not to know, and had spent Ada’s hardly-earned money on candies, and iced-cream sodas. “She’s her father’s own child, that’s what she is, and Ada Nicoli’s too fine a girl to kill herself for that saucy brat.”

But Ada could see no fault in Marjory, for Marjory was clever enough to deceive her. And so while Ada was toiling night and day to bring her up as a refined and cultivated child, Marjory was hankering after the society of vulgar companions, and paying little attention to her lessons. But little Sadie was a sweet and loving child, and her devotion to Ada was touching. At the boarding-house dinner-table it was a pretty sight to see Ada Nicoli with a little sister on each side of her. She was the prettiest, daintiest creature herself, and it was her greatest joy to see people look with admiration at her two children, as she called them. They were always wonderfully clean and freshly dressed.

“How long can she keep it up?” the fat boarder said. “She fairly amazes me, that girl. She had never even brushed her own hair a year and a half ago, and now she’s keeping these two children so sweet and fresh, and bringing them up so well, too. They are a deal nicer children than when they first came, but it’s wearing her out—that light burning up in her room till past twelve at night, and she’s up by seven o’clock in the morning.”

Beside the people in the boarding-house there was someone else who had been watching Ada working the soft curves of her face into sharper lines, and seeing the deeper shadows come below her bright eyes. It was an old man who drove to business every day on the Fifth Avenue stage-coach. He always knew that, if it was a wet day, Ada would be waiting at 20, East 32nd Street for the coach to pass, but if it was fine, she would save her twenty-five cents and walk. He was an observant old man, and somewhat of a character. He was supposed to be a miser, and very wealthy, though he lived in a small tenement house, and kept no servant. While he sat huddled up in the corner of the coach, which rattled and shook over the stones of Fifth Avenue like a relic from the last century, he had noticed every detail of the girl’s dress, he had seen the once pretty frocks become almost threadbare, and the dainty shoes lose their freshness. He had made inquiries, and found out her story. One day she had given the conductor a five-dollar bill to pay for her fare. The man gave her back a quarter too much change. The old man watched her count the money, and look at the extra quarter. It was bitterly cold weather, and he knew that that quarter would pay for her journey there and back for another two days. The girl’s expression said it as plainly as words could have done. “You’ve given me a quarter too much,” she said, with a little tremble in her voice. The man did not even say “Thank you,” but snatched the money out of her hand roughly. The old man smiled; he had long ago lost his belief in human nature, and this little act of honesty on the girl’s part did him good. If was like going near a fire on a cold winter day. The meeting of Ada coming and going from her work grew to be the one interest in the old hermit’s life. He had watched her so carefully that he had gained a knowledge of her life of which she was wholly unconscious. He had seen her tenderness to her little sisters when he met them out together on a Saturday afternoon. Often he had wandered over Central Park with his keen eyes looking out eagerly for the graceful figure of Ada Nicoli laced arm-in-arm with the two young children, and when they stopped to feed the swans on the lake, or rest in some summer-house, the old man seated himself where he could feast his eyes on his adopted family unseen.

Two or three times he had seen something very like tears in Ada’s eyes when a carriage with some beautifully-dressed women in it would pass the girl, and they would give her a stiff little bow of recognition.

It was one of the coldest winters New York had experienced for many years, but the old man’s shrivelled-up heart was, day by day, stretching and expanding towards the girl, who was always gentle. She had many times helped him as he got in and out of the Fifth Avenue stage-coach, and she had often offered to give up her seat in the snug top corner in exchange for his draughty one near the door, but beyond these natural, kindly little attentions, Ada Nicoli had thought little about the old man, whom so many people laughed and poked fun at. He had even taken the trouble to follow her to the private asylum where her mother lived, and would wait there until she came out with her sweet blue eyes filled with sadness. He had heard of her father’s cruel desertion, and many a time the old man could feel his fingers close upon the villain’s neck in his longing to thrash him.

On this particular day, when everything was a world of snow, and the temperature was twenty degrees below zero, the old man had been slowly following Ada to her mother’s home. He had long since learnt that Wednesdays were the visiting days in this house of sorrow, and that Ada Nicoli never failed to be there in her lunch hour. The house was in a quiet street, where there was little traffic or noise, and Ada hurried along as fast as her numbed feet would carry her. In the old man’s eyes she had never looked so beautiful, for the cold, crisp air had brought a lovely colour to her cheeks, and her hair was bright gold in the winter sunlight. Suddenly he saw her stop, and bend over something that had fallen in the snow on the side-walk. It was the figure of a man, and from his position it looked as if he was intoxicated, rather than overcome with the cold. There was no one in sight but the old man who was following her. Ada touched the man, and spoke to him, but he could give no coherent answer. He was too drunk to tell her even what his name was. When the old man came up to her she was searching the road with a troubled look.

“There is no sleigh in sight,” she said, “and he must not lie here, he will freeze to death.”

“Perhaps he ain’t of much account living,” the old man said; “folks like that are better dead.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Ada cried, in a reproachful voice; “he may have a wife and family dependent upon him.”