THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

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

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
[SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.]
[GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.]
[OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: "TO A GIRL GOLFER."]
["OUR HERO."]
[METHODS OF MOUNTING FOR GIRL CYCLISTS.]
[FILED—FOR REFERENCE!]
[OUR LILY GARDEN.]
[THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]
[OUR PUZZLE POEMS.]

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

SWEET SYMPATHY.

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER VII.

Peggy looked very sad and wan after her mother's departure, but her companions soon discovered that anything like out-spoken sympathy was unwelcome. The redder her eyes, the more erect and dignified was her demeanour; if her lips trembled when she spoke, the more grandiose and formidable became her conversation, for Peggy's love of long words and high-sounding expressions was fully recognised by this time, and caused much amusement in the family.

A few days after Mrs. Saville sailed, a welcome diversion arrived in the shape of the promised camera. The Parcels Delivery van drove up to the door, and two large cases were delivered, one of which was found to contain the camera itself, the tripod and a portable dark room, while the other held such a collection of plates, printing-frames and chemicals as delighted the eyes of the beholders. It was the gift of one who possessed not only a deep purse, but a most true and thoughtful kindness, for when young people are concerned, two-thirds of the enjoyment of any present is derived from the possibility of being able to put it to immediate use. As it was a holiday afternoon, it was unanimously agreed to take two groups and develop them straightway.

"Professional photographers are so dilatory," said Peggy severely; "and indeed, I have noticed that amateurs are even worse. I have twice been photographed by friends, and they have solemnly promised to send me a copy within a few days. I have waited, consumed by curiosity, and, my dears, it has been months before it has arrived. Now we will make a rule to finish off our groups at once, and not keep people waiting until all the interest has died away. There's no excuse for such dilatory behaviour!"

"There is some work to do, remember, Peggy. You can't get a photograph by simply taking off and putting on the cap; you must have a certain amount of time and fine weather. I haven't had much experience, but I remember thinking that photographs were jolly cheap considering all the trouble they cost, and wondered how the fellows could do them at the price. There's the developing, and washing, and printing, and toning, half-a-dozen processes before you are finished."

Peggy smiled in a patient, forbearing manner.

"They don't get any less, do they, by putting them off? Procrastination will never lighten labour. Come, put the camera up for us, like a good boy, and we'll show you how to do it." She waved her hand towards the brown canvas bag, and the six young people immediately seized different portions of the tripod and camera, and set to work to put them together. The girls tugged and pulled at the sliding legs, which were too new and stiff to work with ease; Maxwell turned the screws which moved the bellows, and tried in vain to understand their working; Robert peered through the lenses, and Oswald alternately raved, chided, and jeered at their efforts. With so many cooks at work, it took an unconscionable time to get ready, and even when the camera was perched securely on its spidery legs, it still remained to choose the site of the picture, and to pose the victims. After much wandering about the garden, it was finally decided that the schoolroom window would be an appropriate background for a first effort, but a long and heated argument followed before the second question could be decided.

"I vote that we stand in couples, arm-on-arm, like this," said Mellicent, sidling up to her beloved brother, and gazing into his face in a sentimental manner, which had the effect of making him stride away as fast as he could walk, muttering indignant protests beneath his breath.

Then Esther came forward with her suggestion.

"I'll hold a book as if I were reading aloud, and you can all sit round in easy, natural positions, and look as if you were listening. I think that would make a charming picture."

"Idiotic, I call it! 'Scene from the Goodchild family; mamma reading aloud to the little ones.' Couldn't possibly look easy and natural under the circumstances; should feel too miserable. Try again, my dear. You must think of something better than that."

It was impossible to please those three fastidious boys. One suggestion after another was made, only to be waved aside with lordly contempt, until at last the girls gave up any say in the matter, and left Oswald to arrange the group in a manner highly satisfactory to himself and his two friends, however displeasing to the more artistic members of the party. Three girls in front, two boys behind, all standing stiff and straight as pokers; with solemn faces and hair much tangled by constant peepings beneath the black cloth. Peggy in the middle, with her eyebrows more peaked than ever, and an expression of resigned martyrdom on her small, pale face; Mellicent, large and placid, on the left; Esther on the right, scowling at nothing, and, over their shoulders, the two boys' heads, handsome Max, and frowning Robert.

"There," cried Oswald, "that's what I call a sensible arrangement! If you take a photograph, take a photograph, and don't try to do a pastoral play at the same time. Keep still a moment now, and I will see if it is focused all right. I can see you pulling faces, Peggy; it's not at all becoming. Now then, I'll put in the plate—that's the way!—one—two—three—and I shall take you. Stea—dy!"

Instantly Mellicent burst into giggles of laughter, and threw up her hands to her face, to be roughly seized from behind and shaken into order.

"Be quiet, you silly thing! Didn't you hear him say steady? What are you trying to do?"

"She has spoiled this plate, anyhow," said Oswald icily. "I'll try the other, and if she can't keep still this time, she had better run away and laugh by herself at the other end of the garden. Baby!"

"Not a ba——" began Mellicent indignantly; but she was immediately punched into order, and stood with her mouth wide open, waiting to finish her protest so soon as the ordeal was over.

Peggy forestalled her, however, with an eager plea to be allowed to take the third picture herself.

"I want to have one of Oswald to send to mother, for we are not complete without him, and I know it would please her to think I had taken it myself," she urged; and permission was readily granted, as everyone felt that she had a special claim in the matter. Oswald therefore put in new plates, gave instructions as to how the shutters were to be worked, and retired to take up an elegant position in the centre of the group.

"Are you read—ee?" cried Peggy, in professional sing-song; then she put her head on one side and stared at them with twinkling eyes. "Hee, hee! How silly you look! Everyone has a new expression for the occasion! Your own mothers would not recognise you! That's better. Keep that smile going for another moment, and—how long must I keep off the cap, did you say?"

Oswald hesitated.

"Well, it varies. You have to use your own judgment. It depends upon—lots of things! You might try one second for the first, and two for the next, then one of them is bound to be right."

"And one a failure! If I were going to depend on my judgment, I'd have a better one than that!" cried Peggy scornfully. "Ready. A little more cheerful, if you please—Christmas is coming! That's one. Be so good as to remain in your positions, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll try another." The second shutter was pulled out, the cap removed, and the group broke up with sighs of relief, exhausted with the strain of cultivating company smiles for a whole two minutes on end. Max stayed to help the girls to fold up the camera, while Oswald darted into the house to prepare the dark room for the development of the plates.

When he came out, ten minutes later on, it was a pleasant surprise to discover Miss Mellicent holding a plate in her hand and taking sly peeps inside the shutter, just "to see how it looked." He stormed and raved; Mellicent looked like a martyr, wished to know how a teeny little light like that could possibly hurt anything, and seemed incapable of understanding that if one flash of sunlight could make a picture, it could also destroy it with equal swiftness. Oswald was forced to comfort himself with the reflection that there were still three plates left; and, when all was ready, the six operators squeezed themselves in the dark room, to watch the process of development, indulging the while in the most flowery expectations.

"If it is very good, let me send it to an illustrated paper. Oh, do!" said Mellicent, with a gush. "I have often seen groups of people in them. 'The thing-a-me-bob touring company,' and stupid old cricketers, and things like that. We should be far more interesting."

"It will make a nice present for mother, enlarged and mounted," said Peggy thoughtfully. "I shall keep an album of my own, and mount every single picture we take. If there are any failures, I shall put them in too, for they will make it all the more amusing. Photograph albums are horribly uninteresting as a rule, but mine will be quite different. There shall be nothing stiff and prim about it; the photographs will be dotted about in all sorts of positions, and underneath each I shall put in—ah—conversational annotations." Her tongue lingered over the words with triumphant enjoyment. "Conversational annotations, describing the circumstances under which it was taken, and anything about it which is worth remembering.... What are you going to do with those bottles?"

Oswald ruffled his hair in embarrassment. To pose as an instructor in an art, when one is in doubt about its very rudiments, is a position which has its drawbacks.

"I don't—quite—know. The stupid fellow has written instructions on all the other labels, and none on these except simply 'Developer No. 1' and 'Developer No. 2;' I think the only difference is that one is rather stronger than the other. I'll put some of the No. 2 in a dish and see what happens; I believe that's the right way—in fact, I'm sure it is. You pour it over the plate and jog it about, and in two or three minutes the picture ought to begin to appear. Like this."

Five eager faces peered over his shoulders, rosy red in the light of the lamp; five pairs of lips uttered a simultaneous "oh!" of surprise; five cries of dismay followed in instant echo. It was the tragedy of a second. Even as Oswald poured the fluid over the plate, a picture flashed before their eyes, each one saw and recognised some fleeting feature; and, in the very moment of triumph, lo, darkness, as of night, a sheet of useless, blackened glass!

"What about the conversational annotations?" asked Robert slyly; but he was interrupted by a storm of indignant queries, levied at the head of the poor operator, who tried in vain to carry off his mistake with a jaunty air. Now that he came to think of it, he believed you did mix the two developers together! Just at the moment he had forgotten the proportions, but he would go outside and look it up in the book; and he beat a hasty retreat, glad to escape from the scene of his failure. It was rather a disconcerting beginning, but hope revived once more when Oswald returned, primed with information from the Photographic Manual, and Peggy's plates were taken from their case and put into the bath. This time the result was slow in coming. Five minutes went by, and no signs of a picture, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour.

"It's a good thing to develop slowly; you get the details better," said Oswald, in so professional a matter that he was instantly reinstated in public confidence; but when twenty minutes had passed, he looked perturbed, and thought he would use a little more of the hastener. The bath was strengthened and strengthened, but still no signs of a picture. The plate was put away in disgust, and the second one tried with a like result. So far as it was possible to judge, there was nothing to be developed on the plate.

"A nice photographer you are, I must say! What are you playing at now?" asked Max, in scornful impatience, and Oswald turned severely to Peggy—

"Which shutter did you draw out? The one nearest to yourself?"

"Yes, I did—of course I did!"

"You drew out the nearest to you, and the farthest away from the lens?"

"Precisely—I told you so!" and Peggy bridled with an air of virtue.

"Then no wonder nothing has come out! You have drawn out the wrong shutter each time, and the plates have never been exposed. They are wasted! That's fivepence simply thrown away, to say nothing of the chemicals!"

His air of aggrieved virtue; Peggy's little face staring at him, aghast with horror; the thought of four plates being used and leaving not a vestige of a result were all too funny to be resisted. Mellicent went off into irrepressible giggles; Max gave a loud "Ha, ha!" and once again a mischievous whisper sounded in Peggy's ear—

"Good for you, Mariquita! What about the conversational annotations?"

(To be continued.)

[SOME PRACTICAL HINTS ON COSMETIC MEDICINE.]

By "THE NEW DOCTOR."

PART IV.

THE HANDS.

The appearance of the hands is secondary only to that of the face, and many women pride themselves upon their beautiful white hands. But it is not everybody who can have white hands. Manual labour will always make the hands red and rough, and no amount of applications will whiten them. General servants and laundry women cannot expect their hands to remain white. It is interesting to see why house labour should injure the appearance of the hands in this way. In the first place the hands must get a good deal knocked about by the rough work necessary in a household. Laying fires, cleaning grates, blacking boots, etc., make the hands rough from inflicting numerous small injuries upon them. You all know that if you cut your finger the place remains hard and horny for some time afterwards, and so hands that are exposed to rough usage will also get horny and coarse. Then, again, rough red hands, being less delicate, are better fitted to do hard work, and so Nature, who cares more for usefulness than for idle beauty, will tend to make the hands of those who do manual labour hard and coarse. Another reason why servants so often have red hands is the constant use of soda and water, which is necessary for cleaning the house. Soda is very bad for the hands, and this, together with the impossibility of keeping the hands dry, is another cause of red hands.

With a little care, nearly everybody can have white hands. Even in those who have to work hard a little care will often do wonders to keep the hands from becoming very red—not from becoming red slightly, for nothing will prevent this. When you wash your hands, always dry them afterwards on a fairly rough towel. In winter you should be very careful about thoroughly drying your hands, as it takes very little to produce chaps.

If you are desirous of having white hands, always wear gloves when you go out. This, indeed, will do more than anything else to keep the hands white.

In the winter most persons suffer from chaps. These are a more pronounced and more acute form of "red hands." But they are often very painful, and if not properly treated are apt to be very persistent and unsightly.

Prevention is better than cure, and we can do a considerable amount to prevent our hands from becoming chapped. It is the cold wind that produces chaps, and so, if you would be freed from this evil, you should always wear thick gloves when you go out in a strong north-easter. I have already mentioned that you should dry your hands very carefully after washing. If you are very liable to chaps, you should not wash your hands in cold water, but only use warm water, not hot (for this is worse than cold water for producing chaps), but just slightly warm. You must also be careful about the soap you use, as coarse alkaline soaps are very bad, and make chapped hands smart.

If the chaps are not very bad, a little glycerine and rose-water may be applied after washing. This is very efficacious in a mild case, but it is insufficient in more severe grades of the affection. The following preparation I have found invaluable for severe chaps—sulphate of zinc, two grains; compound tincture of lavender, one dram; glycerine, three drams; rose-water to the ounce.

A very much worse affair than chaps is a chilblain. Indeed, a bad broken chilblain is a very serious and unpleasant matter. Chilblains may occur in anyone, but they are most common in persons in whom the circulation is feeble. I have seen a terribly bad chilblain in an anæmic girl. Moreover, when the circulation is below par, chilblains do not heal properly, and give great trouble often for months together.

Warm gloves, warm stockings, loose-fitting boots, and flannel next the skin all over the body, are the best safeguards against this complaint. As chilblains are a kind of minor frostbite, keeping warm will necessarily prevent them, but it is very difficult for a person with feeble circulation to keep warm.

If you have a chilblain coming do not scratch it, for this makes it far worse. Bathe the part gently in warm spirit and water, and wrap the finger or toe, whichever it is, in a thick layer of cotton wool. If you do this you will probably prevent the chilblains from bursting.

There are a large number of messy preparations made of lard, dripping, tallow, cream, and other "pantry drugs," which are advised for chilblains. They are none of them any good. A broken chilblain is a septic wound, that is, it is a wound that contains germs. It should therefore be treated as a septic wound. Wash the place gently in diluted carbolic acid lotion (1 in 80), or warm solution of boracic acid. Then cover the broken surface thickly with powdered boracic acid, and put on a bandage. If you do this, and attend to your general health at the same time, you get rid of your chilblains more rapidly than by any other method.

Warts are more common on the hands than anywhere else. Of their cause we know but little. Irritation sometimes causes them, and they are to a certain extent infectious from place to place. We used to be taught that lady-birds produced or cured them, according to which version of the story we heard. There is about an equal amount of truth in each doctrine.

The best way to treat warts is to first soak the hand in hot water, and clean it thoroughly with soap. Then paint the skin surrounding the wart with vaseline, and drop on to the wart itself one drop of glacial acetic acid. Wait one minute, and then well rub the wart over with a stick of lunar caustic (silver nitrate). This treatment may require to be repeated, but I have never known it to fail.

(To be continued.)

[GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM.]

By ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING, Author of "Old Maids and Young."

PART II.

THE WITTY GIRL.

"She is pretty to walk with,
And witty to talk with,
And pleasant, too, to think on."

First let us understand each other.

By the witty girl is not here meant the girl—if such a girl exists—whose conversation has the high brilliancy which characterises the conversation of certain men and women.

No. The thing here meant is nothing more than the common domestic wit-snapper, generally, say her enemies, more of a snapper than a wit, concerning which statement it is perhaps not unpermissible to say that he who makes it shows himself to be less a wit than a snapper.

While all but invariably of a character that loses much by the process of retailing, the wit of the girl here in view will sometimes bear being brought to book. The samples of it given in this paper are all authentic and heretofore unpublished. They do not, perhaps, reach a high standard of excellence, but they who know girls will concede that they are good girl-wit of the middle order.

Take a case like this: "My name is May. I feel I am reaching the age when I should be called Hawthorn."

Or take this: "Your mother will miss you when you marry."

"No—then she'll 'Mrs.' me."

Such jests are the bric-à-brac of home conversation, and make it pretty.

He who listens to the talk between girls and their brothers will sometimes hear a thing worth noting, in compensation for the many things not worth noting which—if the truth is to be told—he will also hear.

The following does not show young Ethel at her best, but it also does not show her at her worst.

"D'you know, Jim," she said, "that two-year-old babies can marry on Jupiter?"

"Don't talk bosh, Ethel!"

"But they can. It's this way. A year on Jupiter is eleven years and ten months of our time, so the two-year-old babies are grown up. Ee—you didn't know that!"

A runaway match on Jupiter the bride being under age

Jim said nothing. But when young Ethel exploited her astronomy with Bob, she found her overmatch. This is precisely what was said by them—

Bob: "One can hear your voice ten miles off, Ethel."

Y. E.: "Make it nine, Bob?"

Bob: "Why?"

Y. E.: "Nine miles is the greatest distance at which thunder can be heard."

Bob: "TIT-BITS."

The fact is that young Ethel is less an astronomer than a student of current periodical literature. What matters it, after all, however, whence she gleans her general information, if her reading enables her to say—as I once heard her say—with veritable wit, to a girl who was wearing a primrose brooch—

"Blossom and leaves of the primrose are —— Radical."

There are funny men in Parliament who have never said anything much more funny than that.

In her captious mood the witty girl is very terrible. A North Briton has been thus described by her: "A big, lumpy, pale-faced, red-haired, freckled Scotchman," and it was a witty, but captious, girl who said of a certain pianist, a concert given by whom she had attended, "His feet obscured the platform."

A pianist's great feet

The literary appreciations of the witty girl are few. She is apt, in appraising poets, to take them at their weakest rather than at their strongest. She judges Wordsworth by his "Idiot Boy," and she would be capable of passing sentence on Cowper as having cut in his door three holes of different sizes for his tom-cat, his tabby cat and his kitten.

She thinks him a victim of heredity

Wordsworth's Idiot Boy

Yet another tendency of the witty girl which must be strongly deprecated, is to harp on phrases which may have once had a faintly comical ring, but which have long lost it; such phrases as, "Where does this live?" applied to inanimate objects, or, "Hang on to this," used in reference to objects held in the hand. It would be interesting to know who first evolved these mild witticisms destined to win such enduring popularity.

The singular phraseology of girls not minded to confine themselves to English of the academies has of late been made the subject of much comment. There follow here some specimens of it in which the facetious was aimed at, and in some cases not unsuccessfully.

Wordsworth was, by a Scotch Annie, described as a "baa-lamby;" a Welsh Beatrice described "a most wizened farewell concert;" her impressions of Holland were summed up by an English Madge in the words "flobby bread and flobby wall-paper," and an Irish Constance, writing to her home in Ireland from a school in France attended by her with her sister Ethel, penned this anomalous statement, "We are here six Irish, counting Ethel, and six English, counting me."

Wordsworth looking sheepish

Both these girls were the daughters of an Irishman and an Englishwoman. She who was accounted of the six English had been born in her mother's country, while she who was accounted of the six Irish had been born in that of her father. In drawing the fine line of distinction which made her English and her sister Irish, the young maid Constance aimed not at precision but at wit, and, as behoved her father's daughter, she did not aim at wit in vain. Her letter was read with laughter.

In almost all girls' letters there is a marked quality of phrasing which, even when not witty, is mirth-provoking. Take the following:

"Papa has just come back from London, and has brought me a very thin umbrella, with a steel stick running through it, just simply frightfully elegant; also a pair of shoes, fawn antelope, embroidered with gold beads. You needn't sniff."

Sniff, indeed? Perish the thought!

"Tinpot" used as an adjective does not spoil the following curious bit of description penned by a London girl during a stay in Ryde:

"I am enjoying myself very much in a quiet, non-dissipated, tinpot way—walking on the sea-wall and the pier, reading Carlyle and Marion Crawford, and making little vests for Kilburn orphans."

A dissipated tinpot

Only a girl could have written that, and of its kind it is admirable.

An idea largely held by girls, in common with women and men who have a witty tendency, is that appreciation is a form of ignorance. It was, be it here called to remembrance, to correct this notion, that Wordsworth wrote, "True knowledge leads to love," and that Browning wrote, "Admiration grows as knowledge grows."

Appreciation a form of ignorance

It is doubtless the circumstance that unkindness is so often confounded with wit that has led to the fact that of all good gifts the good gift of wit is the one held in least liking by the majority of persons. The truth would seem to be that, with wit, as with everything else not intrinsically bad, the thing of main importance is that it be handled carefully. Like gunpowder, it has its uses to him who knows how to avail himself of them. He who does not, would do well to do what certain savages once did. Having come into the possession of a bag of gunpowder, they carefully preserved it till the spring, when they planted it as they did their corn. It did not burst forth when the corn burst forth; so much the better for the sowers. That gunpowder was very safely deposited, and much wit might with equal advantage be held over till the next planting season.

PURE HONEY

BEST BALM

Another thing. The wit-snapper should always carry about with him a little balm and a little honey. That was a good sword that Cambuscan had; it could heal the wounds it gave. Only the wit-snapper who carries a little balm and a little honey will be as well equipped as was the knight whose story Chaucer "left half-told."

A further point which calls for passing comment is this. Wit and merriment do not always go hand in hand; indeed, they are often sundered wide. Thus, of the world's famous humorists, it is well known that they were mostly melancholy at the home-fireside. Something very similar holds good in the case of girls—and there are many such—who, while witty in society, are deplorably glum in the family circle, in this unlike a girl of girls whom her father called "Minnehaha"—laughing water—so merry was she in her home, beyond which her influence was to be shed so far that she is known to-day from Indus to the Pole as the friend of Indian women.

Nell Witty

If they be right who consider, in opposition to Juliet, that something is in a name, then those among us who hold that such a name as Juliet tends to annihilate wit in the possessor of it are not mere fancy-mongers, and we are entitled to a courteous hearing when we submit that on the other hand the name Nelly, and still more the variant of it by which it becomes Nell, almost announces the owner of it to be a wit. This circumstance is quite independent of the fact that Scott has said, in just so many words, in reference to a particular case, "Mistress Nelly, wit she has," and if any explanation of it may be hazarded, the one which will probably satisfy most is that persons named Nelly or Nell—and the number of such is, happily, legion—are hardly ever found lacking in whimsicality. In the few cases in which they are deficient in this quality they should be called—and, as a matter of fact, they are generally called—Nella, the name Nella being that form of Nelly or Nell by which all the sparkle is taken out of it.

In conclusion, a word on wits under their physiognomical aspect. That a certain type of face in general denotes a witty person may be allowed.

"The slightly tossed nose," says one of Thomas Moore's biographers, "confirmed the fun of the expression."

"The slightly tossed nose" for what the French call "nez retroussé" is happy wording. Girl-readers of this who have "tossed" noses are, by their faces, wits. Let this console them, if it so hap that they want consolation. On the other part, girls with short upper lips have a part of beauty, but lack a part of wit. Wherefore, if they be vain, let there be a curb put on their vanity, and let girls with long upper lips hold up their heads, for a long upper lip denotes wit.

[OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: "TO A GIRL GOLFER."]

SOLUTION.

To a Girl Golfer.

Take a helpless little ball,
Drive it into space;
If perchance you see it fall,
Try to find the place.
And, as it is very small,
Hit again that hapless ball
With a savage grace.

If your strength and courage stand
Such unwonted strain,
By-and-by your ball will land
On a little plain,
Near a hole—you understand—
Into which you putt it and
Then begin again.

Prize Winners.

Seven Shillings and Sixpence Each.

• Edith Ashworth, The Mount, Knutsford.
• Dr. R. Swan Coulthard, Coventry.
• Mrs. Deane, Lismoyle, Ballymoney, co. Antrim.
• Edith E. Grundy, 105, London Road, Leicester.
• Edward St. G. Hodson, Twyford, Athlone, Ireland.
• G. Honeyburne, 16, Hawkshead Street, Southport, Lancs.
• Louise M. McCready, Howth, co. Dublin.
• Annie Manderson, Waterfoot, Crumlin, co. Antrim.
• F. M. Morgan, The Library, Armagh.
• May Robson, Garry Lodge, Perth, N.B.
• W. Shattock, Hillmorton Villa, Sneyd Park, near Bristol.
• Mrs. Isabel Snell, 51, Mere Road, Leicester.
• Alice Woodhead, Tickhill, Rotheram, Yorkshire.
• Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.

Very Highly Commended.

Florence Ashwin, Rev. S. Bell, Nanette Bewley, M. J. Champneys, Edith Collins, Nellie R. Hasmer, Helen Lapage, Annie Roberson, A. C. Sharp.

Highly Commended.

Eliza Acworth, A. A. Campbell, N. Campbell, Rev. F. T. Chamberlain, Rev. J. Chambers, Mary I. Chislett, N. Chute, Nina Coote, Mrs. Cumming, R. D. Davis, Wm. Fraser, Percy H. Horne, J. Hunt, Alice E. Johnson, Mildred E. Lockyear, Winifred Lockyear, Annie G. Luck, Mrs. T. Maxwell, F. Miller, E. C. Milne, E. Nerve, Edward Roqulski, Gertrude Saffery, S. Southall, C. E. Thurgar, Aileen Tyler.

Honourable Mention.

Mrs. Acheson, Elizabeth M. Caple, Annie J. Cather, J. A. Center, Mrs. Crossman, Ellie Crossman, Winifred Eady, A. S. K. Ellson, Phyllis M. Fulford, Agnes Glen, Alice Goakes, Beatrice E. Hackforth, Sadie Harbison, M. Hooppell, Rose A. Hooppell, Mima How, A. J. Knight, E. M. Le Mottée, Carlina V. M. Leggett, May Lethbridge, E. E. Lockyear, E. Lord, E. Macalister, Margaret A. Macalister, Nellie Meikle, C. A. Murton, Jas. D. Musgrave, Mrs. Nicholls, Henrietta M. Oldfield, Hannah E. Powell, Ellen M. Price, F. C. Redgrave, Ada Rickards, James Scott, Violet Shoberl, Mildred M. Skrine, Marriott T. Smiley, Annie E. Starritt, Ellen C. Tarrant, S. Taylor, Mrs. Walker, W. Fitzjames White, Florence Whitlock, Emily Wilkinson, Edith Mary Younge, Helen B. Younger.

EXAMINERS' REPORT.

Hitherto we have been in the habit of associating all that was best concerning the game of golf with the Scottish Nation. In the future we shall have to remember that out of fourteen golf puzzle prizes, five went to Ireland and only one to Scotland, and modify our view accordingly. Of England's share we find it difficult to speak with becoming modesty.

If the north of the Tweed had been honoured by our earliest presence we should have found no difficulty in explaining away the National failure—for how else can it be regarded?—in connection with this puzzle. "A poem with such a title," we should have said, "must surely contain advice about our noble game. As we have played it with considerable success for at least four hundred and fifty years, we can need no advice, and therefore we will not trouble to solve your puzzle."

But our birthplace was many miles south of the Tweed, and such an explanation would not appeal to us with any force. The simple fact remains: Ireland receives one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence, Scotland, only seven shillings and sixpence, and England—well, modesty forbids us to say how much!

Not long ago golf was regarded as an occupation for elderly gentlemen whose time and energies were at the service of any respectable game. With much impressiveness they used to traverse the links decked in red coats, the brilliancy of which signified the extremity of the danger to which the unwary onlooker was exposed.

But a few years have changed all that. Now for one elderly, impressive, red-coated gentleman to be found, there are many young men who cannot afford red coats and maidens in plenty who wouldn't wear them if they could. To this last class our puzzle poem was addressed, not by way of advice but as a sympathetic intimation that we know all about the game in which they so freely indulge.

Naturally enough the title was frequently rendered "To a golfer," and after much serious consideration we decided to accept it. This being so, some who did not receive prizes will possibly wonder why. The explanation is simple enough: our ruling left us with so many claimants for the five guineas that we set aside those who did not trouble to indent the lines properly.

We wonder how many of the solvers who wrote "helpless" in the first line really discovered that the p was less than the other letters. It is also to be observed that the ball in the same line was much smaller than the others in the puzzle and therefore was intended to be designated "little." Hence the rhythm required the word "very" in the fifth line—s—very small. So many solvers failed to notice these points that it is necessary to call attention to them.

It was not even right to leave out the "little" and the "very," because then the rhythm of the first verse would not coincide with that of the second.

Authorities differ as to the spelling of by-and-bye; apparently the more modern ones prefer it without the e, and of course we accepted both ways as correct.

The statement in line thirteen does not seem to have been universally understood. When you are playing golf you do not "put" the ball into the hole—unless no one is looking!—but you putt it in, which is a very different matter. Curiously enough, not one solver who wrote "put" pointed out that the reading involved a mistake in the line.

If any of our readers would like a puzzle on any particular subject or subjects, let them mention it. Their wishes shall certainly receive consideration and very possibly fulfilment.

["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 VIII.

THE THREATENED INVASION.

Though no true-hearted Englishman believed for a moment in the possibility of his country becoming a French province, all knew that the threatened invasion might take place.

Many indeed regarded the attempt as almost certain, feeling sure that Napoleon would never be convinced of his own inability to conquer England, until he had tried and failed. And while the final result of such an attempt might be looked upon as a foregone conclusion, yet no doubt much personal loss and distress would be caused by even the most unsuccessful invasion of our shores.

On one point all were agreed—that safety lay and could only lie in getting ready beforehand.

At that date steamboats and railways were unknown, and telegraphs did not exist. There was happily time, through the slowness with which affairs moved, after the note of alarm had been sounded, to make preparations.

An extraordinary burst of enthusiasm throughout the whole country was the response to Napoleon's threat. Large supplies of money were freely voted and eagerly given. The regular army was increased, and the militia was called out; while a volunteer force sprang into being, with such rapidity that it soon numbered about four hundred thousand men.

These "citizen-soldiers," as it was the fashion to call them, were all over the country, each place having its own corps. But the regular troops, drawn from all parts, were stationed chiefly where the danger seemed to be greatest, between London and the south coast, Sir David Dundas being in command.

Along the shore were erected batteries and martello towers—the latter remaining to this day. And since Boulogne was the headquarters of the French army of invasion, an advanced corps was placed on the opposite coast, near Sandgate, under General Moore, in readiness to repel the first onslaught. There the General occupied his time in such splendid training of the regiments under his control that throughout the long years of the Peninsular War, after he himself had passed away, the stamp of his spirit rested upon them, the impress of his enthusiasm and of his magnificent discipline made them the foremost soldiers in the British Army. These were the regiments who, as the "Reserve," bore the brunt of the fighting in Moore's famous "Retreat," and who were known in Spain and at Waterloo as Wellington's unequalled and invincible "Light Brigade." Wellington used those regiments for the saving of Europe; but Moore made them what they were.

To the delight of Jack an opportunity offered itself whereby he might exchange into one of the Shornecliffe regiments, and he grasped at it eagerly.

He had for Moore the half-worshipping admiration which is sometimes seen in a young man towards an older man. Jack would be none the worse for his hero-worship, since happily he had fixed upon a worthy object. As yet he had seen little personally of the General, having met him but two or three times. But long before they came together, he had cherished an intense interest in the man, an interest awakened first in more boyish days by Ivor's vivid descriptions of campaigns in the West Indies and in Egypt, descriptions of which Moore was always the central figure. Jack had seized with avidity upon all such details.

When at length the two met he could feel no surprise at Ivor's intense and reverent love for his chief. The soldierly bearing of Moore, his grace of manner, the power of his unique personality, together with his chivalrous devotion to his mother and his courteous kindness towards all with whom he came in contact—these things from the first made a profound impression upon Jack; and the more he learnt to know of Moore, the more that impression was deepened. He counted himself thenceforward ready to live or to die for the General; and one day in a fit of confidence he said so to Polly.

"Nay, Jack; live for him; do not wish to die for him," pleaded Polly. "That will be the best."

Jack was not so sure. His imagination had been fired long before by the story, told to him by Ivor, of a certain heroic Guardsman—a man who, in the West Indies, had flung himself between Moore and the musket aimed at him, thus giving his life for that of his officer. But it was not needful for Jack to explain how much he longed to do the same. He merely smiled, and remarked, "In all England there is no other his equal. Of that I am convinced."

To the great disappointment of Jack, the General had been quickly summoned away on important duty; and intercourse between them came for the moment to a close. The young subaltern, however, found it possible to pursue acquaintance with the General's mother and sister; and gentle old Mrs. Moore had a great deal to say about this most idolised son of hers, where she found a sympathetic listener. Few listeners could have been more sympathetic than Jack Keene, who never grew tired of the subject. Mrs. Moore had other sons beside the General, but it was noticed that when she referred to him he was always distinctively, "My son!" not "My eldest son," or "My son John!" This did not touch the close friendship between Moore and his brothers, one of whom was a Naval officer of note.

Through those summer weeks of 1803 Polly was longing for Captain Ivor to come home. It was sad to think of him as a prisoner, forced to stay against his will in a foreign land. She knew, too, that any day Jack might be ordered off elsewhere; and one day, as she had feared, he rushed in, to tell them that he would be leaving immediately for Shornecliffe Camp, there to await Napoleon's first attempt to land on English soil.

The news was less a matter of congratulation for them than for Jack himself. At Sandgate he would be in the very forefront of the peril which threatened the land. Mrs. Fairbank had to rub her large horn spectacles more than once; and she was disposed to blame Jack for not referring the question to herself, before he accepted the offer of an exchange. Molly looked curiously at Jack, and asked—

"Are you glad to say good-bye to us all?"

"Not glad to say good-bye, but glad to be going. People must say good-bye sometimes, Molly. And I shall be fighting under one of the best and bravest men that ever lived. Would not you like that?"

Molly shook her head. "If Roy was here, I should never want to go away," she said decisively. "But if you care more for General Moore than for us——"

"Pooh! What nonsense!" retorted Jack; and Polly exclaimed—

"Molly, how can you say such a thing? Jack wants to be one of the first to fight in defence of England. Do you not see? It is but right. He would be no true soldier, otherwise. If Captain Ivor were but free to do the same! Yes, indeed, I do wish it! It is terrible for him to be cut off from action—but not for Jack to wish to be foremost. O fie, Molly dear, you must have more sense."

"Polly always understands," murmured Jack; and Molly would have given much at the moment to have had those words spoken of herself. She hung her head and was mute. Tender-hearted Polly could never endure to see anyone sad or abashed, and her hand stole into Molly's as she went on—

"But Molly will understand now. Jack, she and I have this morning learnt by heart a verse of Mr. Walter Scott's, which 'tis said he has but just writ. Molly, you shall say the words to Jack, for they are brave words. Hold up your head, dear, and speak out, as an Englishwoman should."

Molly obeyed, not sorry for the chance to redeem her previous error, and to re-establish herself in Jack's good graces, for which she cared more than she quite allowed to herself. She held her head well up, therefore, and spouted with considerable effect—

"'If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tricolour,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,
Then farewell, home! and farewell, friends!
Adieu, each tender tie!
Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die.'"

"Come, that is good. That was well said. You understand too, I see, Molly. I e'en thought it must be so—you, a British Colonel's daughter! And you'll both bid me God-speed. And when Napoleon is beaten, and old England is again in safety, I'll come back, and be grannie's home-boy once more. Eh, ma'am?"

"Yes, yes, Jack; yes, my dear boy." Mrs. Fairbank did her best to control her voice, and as usual when agitated she knitted at railway speed. "You will do your duty, Jack. I am sure of it. And General Moore will be a good friend to you."

"But now I have somewhat else to show you all, in return for Molly's poetry," observed Jack in cheerful tones, anxious to prevent a breakdown on the part of his grandmother. "What do you think it may be, Molly? Guess, all of you. Must I tell? Well, 'tis nought less than two letters about our Hero, which his mother let me see. They are writ some four years since to the General's father, Dr. Moore; the one from Sir Ralph Abercrombie, and the other from Sir Robert Brownrigg, who was secretary to the Duke of York, and Adjutant-General. Nay, these are not the originals, for I can assure you 'twould be no easy task to get them out of Mrs. Moore's keeping. But she permitted me to take copies of the same, and they are here. The engagement spoken of was that on the second of October, in 1799, between the English and the French in Holland; and General Moore was wounded early in the action, but nevertheless he fought on until wounded a second time. These, to his father afterwards, both make mention of his wounds. Shall I read?"

"Pray do so, my dear Jack," said Mrs. Fairbank; and, "O do, Jack!" entreated Polly.

Jack obeyed.

"'Headquarters. Zuper Sluys, Holland. October 4th, 1799.

"'My dear Sir—I cannot suffer the accompanying letter from my dear friend, your son, to go to you, without assuring you that the wounds he has received are attended with no danger. Mr. Knight, the Duke's surgeon, attends him, and gives hope of his speedy recovery. The wound in his thigh he received early in the action, but it did not prevent him from continuing his exertions for two hours afterwards, when a wound in his face obliged him to leave the field. It is through the cheek, and I understand has not wounded the bone. His conduct in the serious action of the 2nd, which perhaps may be ranked among the most obstinately contested battles that have been fought this war, has raised him, if possible, higher than he before stood in the estimation of this army. Everyone admires and loves him; and you may boast of having as your son the most amiable man and the best General in the British service; this is a universal opinion, and does not proceed from my partiality alone.

"'God bless you, my dear Sir. I hope in a few days to have it in my power to tell you that considerable progress is made in Moore's cure; and believe me, with great respect and regard,

"'Very faithfully yours,
"'Robert Brownrigg.'"

Jack paused, and repeated thoughtfully, "'Everyone admires and loves him—the most amiable man and the best General in the British service!' Yet by nature his is no easy temper, ma'am; of that his mother could assure me. She said that her son—ever the best of sons to her—gave her in his boyhood many an anxious hour, by reason of his hot and impulsive moods, and his readiness to fight. But listen now to the letter of Sir Ralph himself—

"'Egmond-on-the-Sea, Oct. 4th.

"'My dear Sir—Although your son is wounded in the thigh and in the cheek, I can assure you he is in no sort of danger; both wounds are slight. The public and myself are the greatest sufferers by these accidents.

"'The General is a hero, with more sense than many others of that description, in that he is an ornament to his family and to his profession. I hope Mrs. Moore and his sister will be easy on his account, and that you are proud of such a son.

"'Yours,
"'Ralph Abercrombie.'"

This time it was Mrs. Fairbank who quoted words from the letter. She said, "'With more sense than many others of that description.' Pray, my dear Jack, what think you Sir Ralph might have meant to signify?"

"Why, ma'am, I take it thus. Many a man is brave and fights well, who in fact is nought else beside. Whereas General Moore is a man of extraordinary genius and great nobility of character, one who shines in whatever society he may find himself, and above all, who is ardently beloved by everybody that knows him. What else might Sir Ralph signify?"

"To my mind, 'tis a somewhat droll mode of expressing himself, though, none the less, 'tis clear what he thinks of the General. Were he my son, I could fain be proud of him. Not that pride is so suitable a feeling as thankfulness."

"In truth, ma'am, his mother is proud and thankful too. She thinks that all the whole world holds no man equal to her brave son. And I—I am disposed to think the same."

Then Jack carefully folded his precious letters, stowed them in his pocket, and stood up. "Come, Polly and Molly," he said. "There is time yet for a turn before dinner? We will go to the Pump Room."

Molly looked anxiously for leave, and flew to obey. A walk with Jack was always delightful. They entered the old Pump Room together, finding there, as usual, a large assemblage of gaily-dressed ladies and fashionably-attired gentlemen, some walking about, some lounging on seats. The ladies wore short-waisted gowns, chiefly of white or figured muslin, with short cloaks or mantles of bright hues, or short spencers of silk or coloured crape, and great feathered hats or bonnets, and plenty of large gilt and silver buttons; and many of the gentlemen were in tights and long flowered waistcoats and silver-buckled shoes, while others wore blue coats with brass buttons. Pig-tails too might still be seen, though soon to be discontinued.

Jack gazed about for several minutes in vain; and then they came face to face with Mrs. Bryce, Admiral Peirce being her attendant cavalier.

Both were immensely interested to hear Jack's news—how, in less than a week, he would be off to Sandgate, there to be under the command of General Moore; and there also, as Jack hoped, to be called upon to bear the first brunt of Napoleon's invasion.

"Not you, my dear sir," objected the Admiral, with beaming face. "Before ever Boney reaches English shores, depend on't, he'll render a good account of himself to our ships of war. Trust gallant Nelson for that, since he's on the look-out. I doubt me, Boney won't contrive to give our Navy the slip."

Jack had no wish to get into a discussion. "Well, sir, well, our Navy and our Army too will both of them do their best," he said. "But he would be a foolish fellow who should trust all his eggs in one basket, as the saying is. And should by any chance the slip be given, and Boney arrive on our shores, why, then the Army will make him render his account, fairly! Has anybody seen Mrs. Moore, ma'am?" and he turned to Mrs. Bryce.

Mrs. Bryce had not the least intention of parting hastily with her second cavalier. To walk about the Pump Room, in view of all her Bath acquaintances, with a gentleman on either side, was highly desirable. So Polly and Molly were adroitly dropped behind, and she set off.

"If not Mrs. Moore, Jack, I have seen someone else of passable interest," she remarked. "Her name is Miss Jane Austen—a well-bred young woman, I do assure you. And only to think—the good lady has writ a book, which may by chance be one day printed. 'Twas told my husband in strictest confidence; and if I had not wormed it out of him——Ah, ha! Jack—wait till you get you a wife, and then you'll not smile on that side of your mouth."

"I have found my bride, ma'am. 'Tis my profession," declared Jack.

"Nay, nay, nothing of the sort, my dear sir. Wait a while, and you'll find your affections engaged in another fashion. Can you be so hard-hearted as to hold out even now, in the face of all this youth and elegance? See—there goes a bewitching young woman, though 'tis true she wears a shocking unbecoming gown! But she's a prodigious favourite, and she can dance as tolerable a minuet as any young female present. Then there's young Susie, yonder—something of a hoyden, may be, and calls herself 'a dasher,' but uncommonly pretty, and prodigiously good spirits. And if you'd sooner have a blue-stocking—why, I've but to introduce you to Miss Jane Austen herself."

(To be continued.)

[METHODS OF MOUNTING FOR GIRL CYCLISTS.]

By Mrs. EGBERT A. NORTON.

Nothing else, I think, affords one such a good opportunity of judging of a girl's general capabilities or style in riding as the way in which she mounts her machine.

In this matter as in so many others a "good start is most important."

Having already mastered the principle of steering, the mystery of the mount is a matter of balance only.

There are several points which, if borne in mind, will considerably help the beginner in first attempts, namely—

1. To select a road inclining slightly down-hill.

2. Stand on rather higher ground than the bicycle.

3. Incline the front wheel slightly to the right.

4. Be careful not to check the motion of the machine by too much pressure on the pedal after it passes its lowest point.

5. Do not catch the left pedal too quickly, or apply pressure before it passes the top centre.

There are five distinct methods of mounting for skirted riders, two of which are suitable for beginners only, the other three for more advanced riders.

I.

Imagine an individual who has some knowledge of riding, but who is unable to mount alone; refusing all offers of assistance she determines to assert her independence.

FIG. 1.

Standing on the left side of the machine with the right pedal just past its highest point, she steps across the frame, and places her right foot securely on the pedal, the saddle being so low that she is able to take her seat easily, the left foot being still on the ground. Then putting as much pressure as possible on the right pedal and pushing off with the left foot, she starts the machine—not perhaps without a few failures first, but nil desperandum. Independence must cost something, and if she will consider, I have no doubt her failure can be traced to one or the other of the above mentioned causes. But how tiring the ride will be, and how awkward the whole position, the knees moving most ungracefully high with each revolution of the pedal—all defects caused by the saddle being adjusted much too low.

II.

FIG. 2.

Now if she would only listen, I should advise her to raise her saddle inches higher until it is nearly on a level with the turn of the hip, and, if still determined to learn alone, wheel the machine to the kerbstone or other eminence, to enable her to seat herself in the saddle, and then push off as before. Her appearance once mounted is now greatly improved, and when I tell her so, after enjoying a nice little run with none of the previous feeling of tiredness, she is quite ready to listen to what further I have to say on the subject. Seeing that it is quite impracticable to always depend on the help of the friendly kerbstone, we will try and master mount

III.

FIG. 3.

Having already learnt the importance of the height of saddle or length of reach from pedal to saddle, first ascertain that this is adjusted correctly. When sitting erect in the saddle with the leg straight and pedal at its lowest point, the heel of the foot should be able to rest on the centre bar of the pedal with ease. The saddle is now so high that it is impossible to sit on it with the foot still on the ground, so for this reason "The Spring Mount" is the term generally given to this method of mounting. Taking a fold of the skirt in the right hand, pass the right foot over the frame and place it securely on the right pedal when it is about half-way between its highest and lowest point, the left foot resting on the ground close to the machine and well before the left pedal, stand quite central with the body perfectly free from the saddle, then by standing on the right pedal the machine moves forward, the body is raised and drops gently back on to the saddle, the other pedal rises under the left foot ready for the next thrust forward, and the deed is done, easily, steadily, gracefully, but from the first there must be no hurry, no quick jump for the saddle, or scramble for the left pedal, but first the weight on the right pedal, then the saddle moves forward under one, and the downward thrust with the left foot preserves the balance. This is the mount most generally adopted, with more or less degree of efficiency, and on the whole is really difficult to improve upon; the only thing that can be said against it is, that the first position standing with the leg across the frame and the foot raised is not particularly graceful. Personally I much prefer mount

IV.

The near-side mount. It is more uncommon and infinitely prettier in my opinion when well done, than either of the others, but it requires a little practice to get the skirt to fall well. Stand close to the machine with the left foot on the left pedal, then firmly holding the handles throw all the weight on the pedal, at the same time springing forwards and sideways to the saddle. In first attempts all the fulness of the skirt invariably falls to the left; this can be remedied as the machine is in motion by a little forward movement throwing the weight on pedals and handle-bar, then as the skirt falls straight down, move centrally backwards to the saddle again. Be in no hurry to reach the saddle and the skirt will adjust itself. Move well forward with the downward movement of the pedal, throw the weight on the handles as it rises, the peak of the saddle will then divide the skirt as you take your seat and give your first thrust to the right pedal.

FIG. 4.

This is worth a little practice, as correctly done the skirt needs no arrangement with the hand, and the mount is certainly quicker and more graceful than any other.

V.

Is somewhat similar, but is done while the machine is in motion, and is therefore pre-eminently the mount for busy thoroughfares.

Walking on the left of the machine, give a quick hop with the right foot, placing the left on the pedal when in any position, then a sudden pull on the handles, will lift one forward on to the saddle without checking the motion of the machine.

FIG. 5.

This is a most useful mount for traffic and for all occasions where a quick mount is necessary. It will probably require considerable practice to accomplish successfully, but the feeling of complete mastery it gives one over the machine is worth some little trouble to acquire, and when the feat is accomplished, I think you will look back on the learning of a new method of mounting as another pleasure added to the many enjoyments of cycling.

[FILED—FOR REFERENCE!]

He had let love and life slip past him, and now he lay a-dying, and love and life lay behind him for evermore.

Lying in his narrow bed, in the room which in all his days of grinding work, he had never troubled to make homelike or comfortable, his thoughts wandered back over the years with wearisome persistency. He had been a successful man. The name of John Saunders was known far and wide as the name of the shrewdest solicitor of his day; hard-headed, keen, practical—feared by friend and enemy alike; loved, men said, by none.

They called him "old Dryasdust" in his own office; they declared that his heart had withered away in the atmosphere of work and in the squirrel round of business in which he had lived. Some, indeed, went so far as to say that Nature had never provided him with a heart at all.

And now he lay dying—a lonely man, in his lonely chambers, looking wearily back across his life.

His grey head moved uneasily upon the pillows, arranged by his valet into clumsy discomfort; his eyes glanced restlessly round the room, turning almost impatiently from its severe dreariness, towards the window, through which he could just see a glimpse of a tree-top in the square garden.

He was tired, most dreadfully tired. It was a weariness to think, yet the busy brain, that in all his busy life had never learnt to rest, refused now to be stilled. Thick and fast there crowded before his mind memories of long forgotten cases, recollections of clients long since dead, worrying details of business, that had long ago been settled and done with.

His head moved again impatiently. He turned to look for the lemonade which should have been on the table by his bedside. An angry exclamation broke from him. The table with the lemonade was placed exactly where he could not reach it; what was the use of all his years of labour, of all the wealth he had acquired, if now he could not even obtain the common necessaries of life?

The electric bell beside the bed was close to his hand. He rang it furiously, and his valet arrived, panting and breathless.

"Why can't you put the things within my reach?" the old man asked irritably. "Am I to die of thirst, because you are careless?"

The servant moved the table nearer to his master, handed him the tumbler, and, in his own mind, considered the pros and cons of giving warning on the spot. A dim hope of a possible legacy gave the cons the victory, but the man did not remain in the sick-room a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. As he confided to the wife of the porter, in the basement, "Old Saunders was getting that unbearable in his illness, it was hard to stand him."

The sick man lay quiet after the servant had left him, his eyes fixed upon the waving green of the tree-tops in the square. A faint curiosity as to what tree it was that he could see, ran through his mind. Was it an elm, he wondered?

There had been elms in the meadow behind the old Rectory garden where he had played as a boy—great elms in which the rooks had built year after year. It was a long, long time since he had heard the soft cawing of the rooks. He had a faint remembrance of picking daisies and buttercups in those fields under the elms, whilst the rooks cawed soothingly overhead.

A little smile flickered across his hard old face. Perhaps the tree in the square was not an elm after all. It might be a lime. There had been limes in another garden, and the bees had hummed amongst their blossoms on that summer's day when—when—— Why, how many years ago was it? Forty? Fifty? Could it be forty years? He had been a young fellow then, at the beginning of his career, and life had been less crammed with work and business.

He moved restlessly.

Yes! He had been able then to notice the sweetness of a girl's eyes, to heed the music of a girl's voice.

Pshaw! It was utter folly to let his thoughts wander to so remote a past. What was the good of remembrance?

And yet—— If he had not been so wrapped up in his work, to the exclusion of everything human and loveable, he might now have had other hands than those of Richard his valet to tend him. A woman would have made his room look less like a prison cell. A woman would not have put his things just out of his reach. She would not have been in such a hurry to leave him to himself!

Again he stirred irritably. He hated the sight of those rustling leaves now, even though they held some strange fascination for him; but they reminded him too strongly of youth, and love, and happiness. And he had wilfully put them all away from him with his own hands. Ah! fool and blind that he had been! And now—now, he was old and dying—and alone!

The door opened softly. Richard stepped quietly in, and seeing that his master's eyes were shut, laid a note upon the table, and as quietly departed again.

"Bother the man!" old John Saunders muttered. "He seems afraid to stay with me. A letter for me? Strange—very strange." And he stretched out his hand and took up the envelope.

A faint sense of something familiar stirred within him as he glanced at the handwriting—a something which he could not quite recall out of the past. He opened the envelope and drew out the letter almost rapidly. It was very short.

"Dear John,—I wonder if I may still call you that, after all the years that have gone by? I would not have troubled you with a letter now, but that I heard, only to-day, that you are ill and alone. And I thought I must write to you for auld lang syne, and ask you whether you would let me come and see you. We are both old people now, John; but let me come to see you, for old sake's sake.

"Yours, as ever,
"Joan Bentley.

"P.S.—Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"

The letter dropped from his hands. The keen grey eyes grew dim.

It was strange that this should have come just when the remembrance had returned to him of the lime-trees in her father's garden, of the bees that had hummed among them forty years ago.

His dreary room faded from his sight. It was as if the walls melted into space, and he could feel the warm air of July blowing round him, smell the fragrance of the lime-flowers, step upon the softness of the smooth turf beneath his feet.

He was young again! A man with his life before him, and love within his grasp.

He could see the tall hollyhocks by the gate—the hollyhocks she loved. There were tall white lilies there as well. The sweetness of them filled the air, mingling with the scent of roses that clambered up the old red wall. The wood-pigeons cooed gently in the copse across the road, and the rooks cawed as they swung upon the boughs of the lime-trees.