THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 999.]

[Price One Penny.

FEBRUARY 18, 1899.

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

[LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.]
[A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.]
[“OUR HERO.”]
[EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.]
[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]
[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
[OUR LILY GARDEN.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]
[SAMBO PENWIPERS AND HOW TO MAKE THEM.]

[LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.]

“‘GIRLS, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU IF YOU WILL LISTEN.’”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER IV.

“Life with its narrow round

Day after day

Widened and perfected

By one sweet ray.”

Next evening the girls were gathered as usual in the small schoolroom. They were allowed an hour to themselves after preparation and before prayers. This was their own hour, and many and various were the occupations and recreations indulged in then. There was a tiny room adjoining the schoolroom, where now and then a studious pupil would go at this hour to continue study. To-night it was occupied by Linnæa alone. Throughout the day her set, white face had kept all at a distance; no one dared address her, indeed, no one had anything to say that would soften the blow of yesterday’s revelation, no excuse to offer, no explanation to make.

The face which had been changing into something almost attractive during the last week, had again undergone a complete change—but was it back to the old indifference? No—something had been aroused that would never again lie dormant—if she could not love, then she would hate, and the glitter in her eyes showed only too plainly that hatred had taken the place of dawning love.

Gwendoline was not of their number that night. She too was changed; so much changed as to be almost unrecognisable. She, the queen of the school, whose will was law, and whose opinion was sought upon every question, had been to-day the quietest and most subdued of them all.

Things had not turned out as the girls had anticipated. They had expected that in a little while Gwendoline would call upon them to acknowledge how well she had succeeded in her undertaking—as she had indeed been successful, far above the expectations of any of them. They had had vague ideas that Linnæa would then be gradually allowed to drop, would sink back into her old insignificance, and would be again a figure in the background, as she had been before the advent of Gwendoline.

As they sat at their various occupations—less talkative than usual—Gwendoline entered.

After glancing round the room as if to satisfy herself as to which girls were present, she said—

“Girls, I have something to say to you if you will listen.”

Immediate silence followed. What was she about to say? Would it be about Linnæa? They knew Linnæa was in the adjoining room and the dividing door was half open; would it not be better to tell Gwendoline? But, after all, what could she say that would be worse than Linnæa had already heard? Before anyone had spoken, Gwendoline began.

“You all heard my foolish vow ten days ago. Perhaps you think I have been acting all this time and have only been drawing Linnæa on to make my poor, mean triumph; but I have not. Oh, no, I have not! Almost from the first night I saw her I have loved her, and I love her now passionately. I wanted you to know it, so that you might forget my silly words. I did not know how much I loved her until her love was removed—and justly—it was right she should know it had been begun under false pretences.”

Was that tears they saw—the haughty Gwendoline in tears?

Yes, tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, and it was in a broken voice she continued appealingly—

“She would not believe me now, although I were to tell her I loved her. Could none of you make her believe? I cannot bear her to hate me like this!”

Before anyone could speak, the door between the rooms was opened and a figure appeared. It was Linnæa. Her face was radiant and her arms outstretched. Gwendoline looked up, saw her, ran to her, and was clasped in the welcoming arms.

Onlookers were forgotten in that close embrace—words were needless at that moment.

Linnæa drew Gwendoline into the little room, and one of the girls considerately closed the door. For a few moments neither spoke, but each held the other as if at any moment someone might come to separate them. By-and-by Gwendoline said, in a voice quite unlike her usual clear tones—

“Why don’t you hate me instead of treating me like this? You told me you hated and despised me, and I deserve that you should.”

“That was before I knew you loved me at all, dear. What do I care how it was begun, so that you love me now! That is enough for me. Do you know,” she continued, after a pause, “I said I hated you, and I thought so; but now I am not sure that I did all the time. I hated myself, hated the other girls, hated even the teachers; but I am almost convinced I have never hated you!”

Two months passed after that—two happy months for Linnæa and Gwendoline, happy in their mutual friendship—and the summer vacation drew near.

About this time the dream Linnæa had dreamt the first night she saw Gwendoline came true. Her parents wrote to her that if she wished she might come home next autumn, but if she preferred to remain at school another year she might do so. Then Linnæa—she who had looked forward all her life to the time when she would be allowed to go home—wrote and told them she would stay another year.

And the Linnæa that went to India at the end of that time was very different from the one that would have gone had the hidden love in her nature not been called forth by Gwendoline. Sometimes her schoolfellows and teachers had hard work to believe she could be the same person. She would never be what the world calls beautiful, but there was a sweet, refined expression about the face which now attracted, where formerly it had repelled.

Linnæa, as I say, was improved beyond recognition; but Gwendoline also was altered, and entirely for the better. Her will—strong as ever—was exerted in a quieter and less arbitrary manner than formerly. Her influence was still as great over those with whom she came in contact; but she had had a lesson she would not easily forget, and the girl who had been in danger of growing up a heartless and cruel flirt, ambitious to draw men to her feet and wreck their happiness, developed into a pure and noble woman whose powers of fascination were only used to influence others for good, and to induce those of weaker will to follow in her footsteps.

The rare friendship, begun in such an extraordinary way, did not end with school life, but continued, beautifying and enriching the lives of both throughout well-nigh fifty years.

Frances Leamington.

[A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.]

By C. A. MACIRONE.

CHAPTER II.

DOMESTIC SERVICE.

he dream curtains were closed in darkness, but I saw the white wings of the angels shining above me, and I heard a soft thrilling voice speaking, and saying, “Will you see more?”

“If I may,” I said as I knelt. “I deserve nothing, but grant to me the honour of recording such deeds as these, that the memory of them may touch nobler hearts and stronger pens to carry on the stimulus of such examples and arouse others to like actions.”

The curtains slowly rose, and I saw a poor cottage in France, in a wide open country, long rows of poplars along straight roads going off into the distance—it was a disturbed country—time of the Revolution. I saw a poor man like his and our Master also a carpenter—like Him. He had been fostered and educated by the care and at the cost of a kind lord. One day in those troubled years, he saw standing at the door of his cottage his lord, with three little motherless children, fugitives and outcasts. The little fair Angélique of five years, Josephine of only four, and the little Count Louis, scarcely a year old. The Count was forced to fly from the country (it was for his life), and there was no living soul but Alexandre Martin to whom he could trust his children. So much of the family distress was known to Martin that he did not wonder there was no mention of any possible repayment, and he had three children of his own, and only one, was old enough to help. But in that poor home the lord’s children must find a home of love and reverence, and all who could work worked doubly hard, day and often night, that the children might be served and treated as their faithful loyalty inspired.

I saw the table of the Chief’s children served according to their rank; they were seated at table where white bread was given them, and Alexandre waited on them as respectfully as if they had been in their own castle—alas! destroyed—while his children had the scanty brown bread of the country and they wore their poor coarse clothes to rags, whereas the young d’Aubespinés were dressed neatly. And the carpenter’s family slept on the floor that the lord’s children might enjoy the only beds the poor home could furnish.

“And all for love and nothing for reward.”

Like other great and noble actions, it was all carried out perfectly simply from the grateful loyalty of the family towards their master’s grandchildren. As time went on two noble ladies of Chartres took charge of the young girls as they grew up, and the young Count was, as he grew older, educated at a foundation endowed by his great ancestor Sully at Nogent-le-Rotrou.[1]

Years passed by, and I saw a great meeting of the Academy in Paris where the young Count and Alexandre Martin were present, and heard a voice which said—

“Martin, your task is over, you have deserved well from all good men. You have shown our age a sight only too rare—gratitude, fidelity, respect. And you, Louis d’Aubespiné, since you are present at this solemnity, may it make a deep and lasting impression on your young heart. You are entering life, as persons are now and then forced to appear on a later age, with all eyes upon you. Learn that the first of earthly blessings is to be honoured by one’s country, and pray the God who has watched over your infancy to enable you to win that blessing that depends on ourselves and that no event can rob us of. One day you will be told that illustrious blood flows in your veins, but never forget that you must trace your line as far back as Sully before you find a name worthy to stand beside that of Martin. Grow up, then, to show yourself worthy of the memory of your ancestor, the devotion of your benefactor, and the patronage of the King!”

And then the vision faded, the crowded audience disappeared and the only figure left radiant, as the curtains of my dream closed, was that of the French peasant—the Carpenter—the redresser of one of the mighty wrongs of the French Revolution.

(To be continued.)

[“OUR HERO.”]

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

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

CHAPTER XXI.

IN VIEW OF CAPTAIN PEIRCE.

s prodigious an admirer as ever of Sir John Moore, Jack?”

“’Tis not my mode, Molly, to admire a man one week, and to cast him overboard the next!”

“And if ever so be that Sir John hies him to the Indies, sure you would be set on going too?”

Jack was not so quick in response as Molly expected. Would he, or would he not? He could not feel quite sure either way. Wherever Sir John might be, there no doubt Jack would wish to be also; yet it lay within the limits of possibility that he might still more strongly desire to be somewhere else. India in those days lay very far distant. Miles are miles in these days as in those, but actual distance is greatly diminished. A man writing from India to his friends in England may now look for a reply in six or seven weeks; but then he could not look for a reply in less than as many months.

Jack felt that such a separation from people at home—from Molly in particular—would be serious. He had not thus far gauged his state of mind critically. He was not in love with anybody; he had no particular wish to marry anybody—so he would have said. Jack still counted himself exclusively in love with his profession. He looked upon Molly as his particular friend—as the being beyond all others upon whose interest and sympathy he might most surely rely. She was not his sister—he quite scouted that notion—neither was he her lover. They were simply friends—bons camarades in the more modern phraseology. Where Molly happened to be, there Jack gravitated as naturally as a stone gravitates earthward; and whatever Jack had in his mind, that he told to Molly as naturally as water pours out of a tilted jug. He cared a good deal for Molly’s opinion. If Molly disapproved of aught that he did, he was discomfited; and if Molly put anyone before himself, he was conscious of jealous sensations. That was about all.

It seemed to him this evening that Molly was looking particularly nice and ladylike—or, in the language of the day, “pleasing and genteel.” She was not pretty; Jack would have said that he did not wish her to be pretty. He liked her better as she was. But she was not without her own measure of attractiveness.

“Of course you would wish it,” Molly added decisively. “In your place I would do so. And if—if I could be a soldier, Jack, I would feel as you do. I would wish to go where Sir John goes. ’Tis a thousand pities I am a girl and cannot be a soldier.”

“You would wish to go to the Indies, if I were to stay at home?”

Molly smiled at the conceit, as it seemed to her.

“’Tis vastly more likely that you may be the one to go and I to be the stay-at-home.” She did not speak as if it were in any sense a distressing question, though as a secondary consideration she remarked placidly, “And I should miss you, Jack.”

“As much as ever you profess to miss Roy?”

Molly laughed outright this time.

“Jack—why, Jack, what a question to ask! Roy is my twin. He is more to me than all the whole world beside. He always will be more. If I did not see Roy for fifteen years—for fifty years!—it would make no difference! Oh, none whatever! Never in my life shall I care for another as I care for Roy!”

Jack laughed in his turn derisively.

“Never, never, never!” repeated Molly. “I love my father and my mother dearly, and I love Polly, and I like you too, Jack. But Roy—Roy is more to me than all. If I could see Roy——”

“That is vastly well, Molly! But wait—wait till your time shall come—till somebody will be more to you than even Roy.”

“Never!” reiterated Molly. “You mean that one day I shall have a particular preference for—for some gallant gentleman, Jack. Nay, but I shall never marry, for I could not care for any beyond my caring for Roy. And so that matter is for ever settled!”

Jack was silent—perhaps a degree nettled by Molly’s assured indifference. He did not count himself in love with Molly; but he wanted her to love him.

“’Tis no more my mode than yours to change and change about. Some people sometimes would seem to forget.” That slight pucker came again to her smooth brow.

For one instant Jack imagined the words to be a possible reflection on himself, despite what went before, and his lips opened in ready protest. Then he saw where Molly was gazing; and as his glance followed her lead, his forehead drew into, not a mere pucker, but a frown.

Polly did look uncommonly lovely; there was no denying that fact. Jack and Molly both gazed hard at her, and then their eyes met.

“She is wondrous pretty!” Molly said softly.

“But Peirce? What business has Peirce?” Jack paused, frowning still. “He knows, sure, as to Ivor?”

“Why, Jack, all the world knows! Captain Peirce has known it pretty near from the beginning.”

“And Polly permits——”

“Does Polly permit? Can Polly help it?” asked Molly. “I in her place would help it; but I am not fair like Polly, and that makes so great a difference. For her, with all the world looking and loving, ’tis not easy. If she holds aloof and seeks to check them, why, they do but come after her the more—and Polly cannot be sharp with folks. She is so sweet, and ’tis not her way. And Mrs. Bryce, too, ever talking”—Molly breathed this very low—“ever seeking to persuade Polly that Denham will forget and will care no more for her.”

Jack muttered something to himself.

“Then, ’tis her wish?”

“Mrs. Bryce’s?” Molly’s face took an arch set. “Ay, since Captain Peirce came in for a great sum of money on the death of his grandfather. He will be a richer man than Denham—by a matter of ten pounds to one pound.”

“Phew!” muttered Jack, in disgust. “Ivor will have enough. But as to Polly—I cannot verily believe that her affections are engaged in any other direction.”

“Nor do I believe it, Jack. Yet—I am not always sure.”

“If she casts him off, she will deserve to suffer for it, all her life long. She will lose one of the best men living.”

“Second only to Sir John Moore!”

“’Tis easy to jeer! If you knew Sir John as I do——”

“Nay, but Jack—nay, you need not be vexed with me,” protested Molly. “I did not jeer truly. And ’tis a fact that when last I saw and spoke with Sir John, he brought to my mind the thought of Denham. Not that the two have the same face or the same way, but that both are soldierly and tall, and each holds his head as stately as a prince. And for the matter of Sir John Moore—why, I am proud of him as ever you can be.”

Jack nodded slightly, mollified at once by her apologetic tone. His gaze returned to Polly.

“And for the matter of Denham,” Molly continued, dropping her voice once more, “he has been always as a brother to me; and it would go hard with me to believe any ill of him. Yet—I wonder often that no letter comes from him to Polly. And Polly watches and grieves, I know, though she says little, and will not talk of him. Sure, if he had writ to her often, one letter now and again would find its way hither.”

“Who can say? But I would distrust the post and Boney a thousand times, before ever I would doubt Ivor,” Jack answered firmly. “And Polly, if indeed she knows him, sure would feel the same. He is no man to change.”

“Nor, I think, is Polly the girl to change—either!”

“In this brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion, though lightened by the fire of genius and radiant with feminine charms, there is for me but one star of greatest magnitude, before which all lesser orbs fade into insignificance.”

So spoke Captain Albert Peirce in the ears of Polly Keene; and he felt that he had expressed himself with the utmost elegance. Gentlemen in those days were prone to more flowing speech than they are in these; and such speeches did not necessarily mean much.

Ninety years later the grandson or great-grandson of Captain Peirce would merely drag his moustache, and mutter, “Awfully pretty girl!” But the two modes of expression, though rather unlike, probably implied and imply much the same in the end.

Captain Peirce did not pull his moustache—partly because it was not the fashion to do so, but yet more for the sufficient reason that he had none to pull. He bent a little nearer to Polly; and that was the moment when Jack’s glance followed Molly’s in their direction.

Polly did not appear to repulse him. She did not even exert herself to turn her head away. She had so much of this sort of thing! One flowery speech more or less made very little difference. Had it not been for the persistent pressure put upon her by Mrs. Bryce, Polly would not have imagined that Captain Peirce meant or could mean anything seriously. She stood in one of her most graceful attitudes, toying with a large fan; and the light from innumerable wax candles fell upon her round fair arms.

“Can you by any chance divine who that star of greatest magnitude may be, sweet Polly?”

This was audacious, and Captain Peirce fully expected a rebuff in consequence.

It did not come so soon as he expected. A thrill ran through Polly, almost amounting to a shiver. She too was instantaneously carried back, as a few minutes earlier Molly had been, bridging at a leap four long slow years.

“Sweet Polly, may I speak?” Captain Ivor had said.

The voices were different. Ivor’s was deep and quiet, with clear enunciation; while that of Captain Peirce was some semitones higher in key, with a rapid and rather indistinct intonation.

The other face too came up before Polly’s mind—a face generally of still outlines, grave and handsome, with eyes which looked other men straight in the face, and level brows, not quick to frown, though when they did frown there was no mistake about the matter, and a smile as quiet as his voice. Captain Peirce was of smaller and slighter make, and his features, as well as his tones, underwent much more rapid changes. An impulsive man altogether; not bad-looking; and he had a certain fascination of manner too, when he chose to exert it. Polly was not oblivious to the fascination while it lasted. Perhaps she liked his unequivocal admiration, and did not dislike to feel her power over him. But that flash of vivid recollection—did it arise from some subtle connection between her mind and Molly’s?—brought with it a totally different look from any that Captain Peirce had seen upon her face. Perhaps he might be excused for imagining that the change of expression was due to his own words.

“Sweet Polly, you will not be one of the cruel fair, who——”

This was going too far. Polly woke from her dream. She withdrew one step, and dropped a suggestion of a curtsey.

“Your pardon, sir. My name is Miss Keene, as you are aware.”

“Ah! adored one! so hard-hearted to your humble slave!”

“My word, Albert!” And the heavy hand of his uncle, the Admiral, fell with a smart slap upon the Captain’s shoulder. “So you do not fail to make hay while the sun shines! But there’s such a thing as poaching in another’s preserves, man. Ha, ha, Miss Polly! Well, and what news from abroad of the unfortunate prisoners, eh?”

Captain Peirce wore the look of a thunder-cloud under this interruption, which he dared not openly resent, not only because young men in those times were far more submissive to older men than now, but because, also, had he aroused the Admiral’s ire, he would have drawn upon themselves the attention of the whole room. Admiral Peirce was known to be hasty and prompt in speech, and not slow to speak out his mind. So he glowered silently, and Polly looked with a smile into the battered face of the old sailor, now on shore for a brief spell.

“Nay, sir, I have not heard for this very long while from any of them; and ’tis but seldom we may hope to hear. Letters go astray by hundreds. Doubtless they write, as do we—to no purpose.”

“Ay, ay, trust Boney for that! He’ll not help forward the post. Well, well, every lane in time has its turning; and Boney will come to his turning sooner or later. Nay, indeed, has he not already, at the glorious Battle of Trafalgar, of immortal memory?”

“And on land too, sir; in time our brave soldiers will have the best of it, and will gain the reward that is due to their valour,” suggested Polly.

Captain Peirce’s opportunity was gone; and though Polly did not appear to avoid him, yet he found no second chance. Jack and Molly, looking on, saw this little episode, and they wondered—had the old Admiral acted accidentally or on purpose? And was Polly glad or sorry? Neither question received an answer.

In the small hours of the morning, when dancing was ended, Mrs. Bryce drove home, with the two girls, in the fine yellow coach, which was considered to be a suitable “equipage” for one in her position. Mr. Bryce, having a cold, had not gone with them. The girls retired to their room, and Molly would have liked to question her companion, had she dared. But Polly, with all her sweetness, could hold folks aloof if she chose; and this night she did choose. She was very pale and tired—sad too, Molly thought, now that the excitement was over. Few words passed between them, before they crept into bed.

Was that a sound of smothered weeping? Molly was all but asleep, when it aroused her. She listened carefully.

“Polly!” No answer. “Polly—are you awake?”

A pause, and then—

“You must go to sleep, Molly!”

“You are not crying, Polly?”

Polly’s hand gently pressed hers, but Polly’s face was turned away, and another short break took place before she replied in a tone of strained cheerfulness—

“’Tis far too late. We may not lie and talk now. Go to sleep and dream. No, not one little word more.”

Molly had to obey. Yet she felt sure that soon again she heard the tiny smothered sound which had suggested tears. She lay long, listening. Was Polly thinking of Denham Ivor? Or could it be a question of Captain Peirce?

This side of life went on, and had to go on, even in such a period of stormy unrest, of perpetual warfare between nations. Men and maidens love and mate, work has to be done, hopes rise and sink, even the lesser amusements and gaieties and the small daily occupations of existence do not cease, though the whole world should be at loggerheads.

The deadly duel between Napoleon and Britain continued; and while Great Britain was supreme upon the ocean, Napoleon was all but irresistible upon land. Of all the nations, England still alone withstood him; and at this date she fearlessly faced a Europe in arms. For the Continent as a whole had crouched beneath the heel of the tyrant and was tamely ranged on his side.

In the year 1807 Britain had not one ally. Sweden, the last remaining, had been compelled by Russia to break away. One brother of Napoleon’s was king of Holland; another brother was king of Westphalia; a third brother was king of Naples; while lesser European kingdoms and the congeries of little German states had well-nigh disappeared into the vortex, and French soldiers swaggered about the streets of Berlin.

Great Britain was neither crushed nor intimidated. She had flung off the fear of invasion; and her ships triumphantly ranged the seas, attacking sea-board forts, fighting vessels double their own size and tonnage, capturing prizes, making prisoners, in all directions. At this date there were some thirty thousand French prisoners in England; and before the close of the Peninsular War their number had risen to ninety thousand.

In 1807 Britain had as yet been less successful on land than at sea. Many a battle indeed had been gained, many a deed of splendid valour had been done; but while one expedition after another had been despatched hither and thither, with intent to undermine and weaken the enormous power of Napoleon, most of these had failed to administer any serious check to his advances. At that date England seems to have had an army inadequate to her needs, if not in numbers, at least in military equipment; and the expeditions sent were usually far too small for the work they were intended to do.

All this while the inner life of the nation flowed on. Taxes were heavy, food was dear, much suffering existed, yet the spirit of the people neither failed nor faltered. They were cheery and full of courage, looking forward with high hope to a better state of things. In a little while, surely, justice would be meted out, and the cause of liberty would prevail.

Even in England Napoleon was not without his enthusiastic admirers. There are always some whose party feeling is stronger than their patriotism; and there are commonly a few also who will sentimentally put a man upon a pedestal, with regard to his intellect only, apart from questions of character. This they did with Napoleon, adoring his genius, worshipping his success, ignoring his selfishness and the darker shades which belong to his history. But though such people made a good deal of noise with their opinions, after the fashion of excitable minorities, they were in numbers small. The mass of the people was in deadly earnest. The nation as a whole was ready to fight Buonaparte to the last coin in its purse, the last warm drop of blood in its body.

One more tragic story had yet to be told! One more apparent failure, which contained in itself the heroic germ of coming victory, had yet to be lived through. One more great Englishman was to die, in the very moment of a success, which at the moment could only be read as a defeat. Then the ebb of the tide would have begun.

(To be continued.)

“‘YOUR PARDON, SIR. MY NAME IS MISS KEENE, AS YOU ARE AWARE.’”

[EXERCISE: IN MODERATION.]

By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

here is a temptation to all to eat too much and take too little exercise. Many of us have from childhood learned to suppress this temptation; but we fear that there are many more who are constantly fighting the battle against laziness and over-eating, and not a few who give up the struggle altogether.

Of all earthly gifts we look upon good health as the greatest. We should doubt if anyone would choose gold in preference to health. And yet why is it that most persons strive so much harder for the former than for the latter. Perhaps it is that a healthy person has an idea that her health can take care of itself; whereas she knows full well that wealth cannot be acquired without working for it. Or perhaps it is that people do not know how to take care of their health.

It is all very well to talk about Nature being able to look after herself (or rather ourselves), that she is an infallible guide for us to follow, and that she tells us what to eat, when to sleep and how to be generally happy and healthy. But does Nature do this for man? Perhaps she would be so obliging if man were a natural animal.

But a civilised man is not a servant of Nature, and though he is unable to rebel against her, still he has the power to question her promptings and the will whereby to alter or nullify them. And if we think ever so shallowly we cannot escape from the knowledge that Nature very often prompts us to do what our higher understanding tells us is wrong, and if we do our duty we set aside the dictates of Nature in favour of our own consciousness. Even in cases dealing with the lowest vital points, such as eating, dressing, or sleeping, Nature by no means always directs us aright. When you have been running on a warm day and have got very hot, what does Nature tell you to do? To sit in a draught and get cold. And yet if you value your health, this would be the very last thing that you would dare to attempt.

Since we have no natural instinct to tell us how to keep healthy, we have founded upon our experience a code of laws to regulate our bodily functions. These laws of health, which we should all observe have been gradually evolved from the observations of generation after generation of physicians and others, and though they may have differed in detail at different times and in different countries, in the main they may be considered as absolute.

Everybody must have heard of these laws of health, but there is a very large number of persons who do not know what they are or how to carry them out.

There are six chief laws of health. The first deals with the sanitation of our homes and dwellings; the disposal of sewage; the draining of the soil; the laws of ventilation; the supply of sufficient quantities of pure water, and the general hygiene of the community. We support governors and committees to look after this part of the business, so we need not worry ourselves about it.

The second law of health concerns itself with personal hygiene. It tells us how we should wash and clothe ourselves; how we should ventilate our rooms; how to cool ourselves in hot weather, and the means by which the animal heat is maintained in winter.

The third law tells us about our food; how we should eat; what is the best food for man in health and sickness; what we should drink; and other matters connected with the supply of fuel to our bodies.

The fourth law deals with sleep. It tells us its nature; why we sleep. It insists on the necessity of sufficient sleep, and sleep at the right time.

The sixth law deals with the proper education of the mind. How to educate our children. The absolute necessity of mental study for the physical health of our bodies as well as its more important functions.

We have omitted the fifth law, but will now refer to it, and we will devote the rest of this article to its consideration. This law deals with the question of physical exercise.

Physical exercise is as essential to health as is food or sleep; but, because the need of it is not brought home to us so forcibly as these two other necessities, it rarely receives that attention which it deserves. Everyone knows full well that we may eat too little or too much, that we may eat at improper times, that everything that we can put into our interiors is not equally wholesome, that much that we can eat is positively injurious, and that we must eat every day, be the weather fine or rainy. But how few there are who know that the laws of exercise are in every way comparable with these! Most people are aware that we can take too little exercise; some moderate persons likewise know that we can overdo exercise, and that exercise is not equally good at all times. We have met people who know that all forms of exercise are not equally good, and a few who are aware that some forms of exercise are positively injurious; but we have seldom spoken to anyone who would admit that exercise is essential every day in all weathers.

The first question that we will discuss is, how much exercise is needed every day, how much will give the greatest benefit, and how much is positively injurious?

And on the threshold we are met with the greatest difficulty of the whole subject; for persons vary extremely in their endurance of exercise, and a walk which would be insufficient for one person may be infinitely beyond the powers of a second to endure. We cannot lay down a rule in this particular. Every person must find out for herself what amount of exercise she must indulge in daily. For a perfectly healthy girl of sixteen to twenty, three to five miles’ walk daily, or an hour’s bicycling, or, if outdoor exercise is not permissible, half an hour’s gymnastic exercise is the minimum amount of exercise which she should take daily.

Ever so many people have an idea that you can lay in a stock of exercise, as you can fill a coal-cellar, and draw on the reserve when you are too lazy to renew the supply. These persons will tell you, “I do all my walking on one day, so that there is no necessity for me to go out any other day in the week. I walk twenty-one miles on that day, that is three miles for each day in the week, so I am all right on this score.” Now just consider one moment what you are doing, and you will agree with us that your method is not only fallacious, but exceedingly harmful.

Suppose that you eat on an average two pounds’ weight of food a day. Do you think that it would be equally beneficial to take the fourteen pounds of food on one day and then have six days’ starvation? Some animals can do this, but man is not fitted for living in this way. With the usual logic evinced by most people when they are contradicted, we are at once answered, “Oh, if what I do is no good, as I cannot take exercise when I like, I shall not go out at all!” Evidently concluding that she takes care of her own health out of consideration for our feelings!

You must be a physician to hear this form of argument without smiling. Perhaps you would feel inclined to answer this lady, “Well, it does not matter to me what you do. It is your health, not ours, that is at stake.” So, indeed, would we like to answer; but if we did, what would be the good of us? No, we will not offend this lady; we will wait till to-morrow, when she will have come to the same way of thinking as ourselves.

You must never walk so as to over-tire yourself. We are not going to say that an occasional long walk is injurious. It is not, but it is not the proper way to take exercise.

All forms of exercise are not equally good. Some are very beneficial, others are doubtfully healthy, others again are downright noxious.

Walking is so infinitely the best form of exercise, that to compare any other with it is ridiculous. Walking is essential to health, and no other form of exercise can be substituted for it.

Boating, riding, and bicycling are fairly good forms of exercise, but none of these possesses the value of walking. Driving in a carriage is simply not exercise at all. You get a little fresh air and change of scene in driving; but as there is no exertion required in the process, there is no exercise.

Many of our outdoor games are good exercise, many are a little hard and excessive perhaps, but on the whole they are very healthy, unless carried to excess. These games are good because walking or running is an essential part of them. Golf is by far the most healthy of all games. As far as outsiders can tell, it seems to us to be walking with a little skill and excitement added to render the walking pleasant to those who will not walk for walking’s sake alone.

Of the forms of exercise that can be carried on indoors, we will say but little. A little dumb-bell or Indian-club exercise in the morning after the bath is very beneficial to healthy people. The dumb-bells should be made of wood, should not weigh more than two pounds, and should be used for a few minutes only. The heavy iron dumb-bells so often used to “improve the figure” are exceedingly injurious and should never be used.

Of gymnastics we would rather be silent altogether; but, since this form of exercise is very popular and largely on the increase, we must say a word or two about it. In our opinion gymnastics of any kind are poor forms of exercise, and the severer kinds and “strong man exercises” are exceedingly injurious to everyone.

We have been accustomed, when we look at a man whose muscles are enormously developed to consider him a strong man. But if you were to question him on his health or powers of endurance, you would probably discover that he was a very sickly specimen. We have seen a “strong man,” a rather famous one too, sit down in a corner and cry for half an hour because a boy threw a cherry stone into his eye—an injury at which a healthy person would laugh. Does this denote strength? Another strong man whom we knew was always shivering with the cold both in summer and winter. And once, when he happened to catch a cough, he was completely prostrate for weeks.

Another strong man told us that he was careful never to read or use his brain in any way because it interfered with the development of his muscles! Yet another who prided himself on the enormous expansion of his chest—we forget how many inches’ difference there was in the diameter of his chest in inspiration and expiration, but it was something sensational—caught cold, contracted consumption, and died six weeks later! Yet the exercises for expanding the chest are said to prevent phthisis!

The man with great muscles is not the strong man, but a sickly monster. What good can it do to anyone to lift a horse and cart, or break iron bars? Develop his muscles as far as he can, no man will ever excel a steam-hammer or an engine in force or weight.

Give us the thin wiry person who has cultivated his mind and body to do that work for which he was made. He is the man who can brave disease, and who, if he by any misfortune happens to be injured, can bear the suffering like a man, and whose body is well capable of recovery from the many vicissitudes to which it is liable.

Exercise is essential in all weathers. Because to-day is wet, are you going to forego your walk? In England about one day in three is rainy. Are you going to suppress one-third of your necessary exercise from this cause? Oh, you are afraid of catching cold! Now English people talk a lot about catching cold, for they of all nations suffer most from this cause. But very few persons indeed really understand what catching cold means or how it is produced. We hope to give an article on this subject shortly. At present we will merely state that, unless the day is very cold or windy, walking in the rain, if you are sufficiently protected, will not cause you to take cold. We would not, however, advise any invalid to go out on rainy days; but still they must not abandon exercise altogether. Half an hour’s dumb-bell exercise or mild gymnastics may be substituted for the day’s walk.

Exercise is best if taken in the morning. For very strong people it is preferable to take a walk before breakfast; but people who are not feeling up to the mark should not attempt to walk before having had some food.

You should never take exercise immediately after a meal, and conversely you should never eat till half an hour after a long walk, and you should never go to bed immediately you come home from a walk, but sit down quietly for at least half an hour before retiring.

[THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.]

FEBRUARY.

By LA MÉNAGÈRE.

It might seem a superfluity to be at the trouble of compiling and writing a menu for the small home dinner-table. If anyone thinks this, let them first give the experiment a trial before pronouncing upon it; they will, I venture to think, be gratified by the result.

In every household the dinner, be it early or late, is the important meal of the day, and it merits whatever dignity can be given to it by such accessories as service, care in laying the table, decoration, etc., and not the least of these will be found the menu written for every day. Especially if there be a guest at table is this little mark of attention appreciated.

We must remember that imagination plays a very important part in the human organisation; a good name goes a long way towards bringing a dish into favour, and I have found that the very fact of a name being given to a dish has its influence with the cook, who feels in a way bound to see that its character is “lived up to.” Then again it is a help to the caterer if the menus are kept, and those which have been particularly liked marked for future repetition. Much racking of brains is spared, and precious minutes are saved that else would have been spent in answering the puzzling question, “What shall we have for dinner to-day?”

Our market list in February varies little if at all from the previous month in the main things, but as the game season is practically drawing to an end, we find our resources fewer than they were. Guinea-fowl however are excellent, so are woodcock and snipe, also ptarmigan. Turkeys are still to be had, but they are very dear, as all poultry is. Hares and rabbits are very good.

Our supply of vegetables will be apt to run short if the weather is at all severe; savoys will not have suffered so much, and about this time we usually receive large consignments of cauliflowers from Italy. The South sends us also fresh lettuce, chicory, forced beans, and other “primeurs,” but their price is often beyond what a slender purse can afford. Anyone with a garden may at this time have corn-salad growing therein, which will be getting tender and eatable. Celery should still be good, and we ought to have an abundance of Jerusalem artichokes, Swede turnips, parsnips, carrots, onions and suchlike root vegetables.

In fruits we have imported apples and pears, oranges—getting to their best—lemons, citrons, and all dried fruits.

This month, by the way, is the time for making our yearly supply of orange marmalade; if we delay any longer the true Seville oranges will be gone, although bitter oranges are procurable up to April. After we have studied our menu we will consider the subject of marmalade making, for that toothsome sweet has now become one of our necessities of life.

MENU FOR FEBRUARY.

• Purée of Haricot Beans.
• Fried Smelts.
• Boiled Beef, with a “Plat de Carottes.”
• Roast Ptarmigan. Bread Sauce.
• Apple Fritters.
• Cheese. Biscuits. Coffee.

Purée of Haricot Beans.—A pint of beans will make a large quantity, say two quarts, of soup, therefore half-a-pint would suffice for one dish of soup for an ordinary family. These beans should always be soaked overnight in cold water; they will dissolve so much more readily. Place them in a stewpan with rather more than sufficient water to cover them, let them simmer for three hours, then rub through a tamis. While the rubbing goes on, cook a finely-minced onion in a little butter, add the bean purée to this, some salt and pepper, and then sufficient hot milk and water to make up the requisite quantity. This might simmer a while longer, and then just before serving a spoonful of cornflour wet with a little milk should be stirred in, and all brought up to the boiling point once more.

Smelts should be wiped with a clean cloth, coated with beaten egg, rolled in bread raspings, and fried in butter. Serve fresh lemon cut in slices and thin brown bread and butter with them.

A dish of carrots for eating with boiled beef is nice done in the Flemish mode:

Pare the carrots and cut them in strips lengthwise, and then cut them up precisely as you would kidney beans; put them in a stewpan with well-fitting lid, add to them a good spoonful of beef dripping and a little pepper and salt. Cover closely and let them cook in their own steam for an hour or more, seeing that they do not catch on the bottom. Pour the fat off and add a few drops of vinegar just before dishing up.

Ptarmigan are rather dry birds and they require a thin piece of bacon wrapping round them before roasting, also to be frequently basted. Let them do rather quickly, so as to be nicely browned, but they will take rather less than an hour. Serve good gravy and bread sauce with them.

Apple Fritters.—For frying these a good depth of boiling lard is necessary if they are to be done successfully. Take the cores out of large apples, and pare them thinly. Cut across in slices not too thin. Dip each slice in batter made from the whisked whites of two eggs, a spoonful of flour, a pinch of salt, and enough salad oil to make it like thick cream. When fried drain each ring on kitchen paper and sprinkle with castor sugar. Pile high on a paper doyley.

And now as to the directions for the making of orange marmalade. The following plan is one I have pursued for several years and it has always produced excellent marmalade:

To every twelve Seville oranges allow two lemons; slice them across, rind and pulp, as thinly as ever it is possible to do with the sharpest of knives. Pick out the pips as you go along, but put these in a basin instead of throwing them away, for it is surprising what amount of gluten clings to the pips, which is lost if they are not saved. When all the fruit has been cut up into lined earthenware pans, cover it with water until the vessels have as much as they will hold. Set these aside out of the way of dust, and let them stand so for twenty-four hours. After this boil fruit and water together for perhaps two hours, but gently so that it does not burn; then turn it back again into the vessels and let it stand for another twenty-four hours. After this it should be stirred up and weighed, and to every pound of fruit and liquor allow a pound of lump sugar; when the pulp has boiled for about an hour the second time, the sugar may be put in, and then constant stirring will be necessary and faster boiling. From the time the sugar is added half-an-hour’s boiling ought to suffice. Put it into hot jars, but do not tie down until it is cold.

[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]

By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”

Now that the sales are proceeding, there is always a lull in the production of novelties; and the shopkeepers set themselves to the work of disposing of their heaped-up stock, which, however, does not appear to me to be as plentiful as usual. This fact tends to prove that the past season, with its sunshine and brightness, was a good one, so far as they were concerned. While wending my way through several of the crowded shops, I gathered together, however, a few notes for my dress article, which show how ideas may trend in the coming days of early spring.

TWO WARM GOWNS.

I am inclined to think that the reign of the shaped flounce is perhaps nearly over. Never have its inconveniences been more shown than during the present winter, when those who wore them cut long enough to be in the fashion have been really encumbered by them, and wretched from the impossibility of holding them up. Certainly there were many who never even attempted to raise them and just simply let them drag in the dust or mud, and one shudders to think of what their feet and undergarments must have looked like, apart from the dress itself. Frenchwomen held their dresses up in the style of long ago, taking a good grip one hand on each side, the effect being most odd and funny.

Just as many blouses have been worn as ever this winter underneath the ever-fashionable coat and skirt; and at the sales there has been quite as great a rush for the remnants of silk, which are always prepared for those occasions. Nothing can be more ornate than some of the blouses and fancy tea-jackets; and there seems to be a very generally united opinion that, having a proper skirt to wear with them, they are not an extravagant purchase, as they perform so many parts and are suitable for a variety of occasions.

There are two new basques which, however, remind one more of the coat-tails of the ordinary dress-coat than of anything else. They go by the name of the “swallow tail” basque, and lie extremely flat; by no means could one wear any such thing as gathers beneath them on this particular account. They may be very long, or they may only measure about half a yard in length. The basques nearly meet in front, and are cut in one with the swallow tails; but when it is so cut, it is called by many people the “spoon-shaped basque.” However, I find in many of the French papers, as well as the English ones, that both are called by the all-covering name of Directoire—an epoch of time which describes many articles of dress of late years. I should not be surprised if these basques were much worn when the spring appears.

The fancy for wearing tan shoes has been very remarkable this winter. Rather a dark wood-shade is worn—not too dark, but darker than was in vogue last season. Both glacé kid and calf are used; and, in any case, they should be of an extra good quality, as, otherwise, they will not stand the winter’s hard wear.

I have not seen anyone “wearing the green” in walking shoes, and do not think they would be popular. The shoes and boots most liked seem to be of American make, which are said to be excellent in cut and fit, and, what is better still, to wear well; at any rate, it is the smart thing to wear them. I think the toes are smaller and sharper than ever; and the more pointed, the more stylish. One never hardly sees a small foot, for no one can wear anything but shoes far too long for them; as they really cannot become like Chinese ladies and obliterate their full-grown toes immediately!

So far as millinery is concerned, the favourite hat or toque seems to be that turned up immediately in front over the forehead, and ornamented with a rosette, and generally a paste or steel buckle, or brooch. All the very smartest toques are trimmed with some kind of fur—sable, of course, for those who can manage it, then mink, and—perhaps the most fashionable of all—chinchilla, which, however, is rather a perishable fur. All of them are trimmed in the same way, with a big bunch of violets on one side, and some feathers. But I have just seen a sable-trimmed toque with a huge spray of moss-roses or buds, having their leaves mounted in front. This admixture of flowers and fur is one of the things our grandmothers would have shivered at.

The fashionable flower of the season seems to be the violet as usual; and, next to that, quantities of roses are worn, both most unwintry flowers. The flame-coloured roses are very fine in their colouring, but do not seem to me to be becoming; the colour, though so fine, is a little hard. Very beautiful ostrich feathers are worn in the larger hats, but are laid on in such a light and airy manner as to make one feel they will be blown off in the first gale of wind.

I notice numbers of Eton and other similar jackets, which the fine mild weather, so far, enables people to wear, and which look rather chilly. White veils and white lace ties are all worn, and also give the idea of summer rather than winter. However, it is as well to get out of our rather gloomy ideas of clothing, for, as it is, we wear far too much black; and the use of so much red this winter has been quite refreshing.

The first illustration consists of a group of two seated figures. That on the left side has a grey cloth gown, with an orange-velvet yoke, much pointed in front and braided all over with ivory braid. Pointed epaulettes on the shoulders to match, and orange-coloured tabs, turned over at the collar. The dress is braided with grey braid of a darker shade in long and narrow points. The figure on the right side wears a gown of a very bright rose-crimson, with narrow astrachan edging on the bodice and the skirt. The sleeves are much tucked, the pointed space in front is filled in with white satin and ivory lace over it, points of white satin at the collar, and a band of black satin ribbon at the neck.

A CRIMSON COAT.

The group of two figures standing up in out-of-door apparel shows one of the pretty bright-crimson jackets that have been so much worn this winter. It is braided with black scrolls, and has revers of black astrachan, and a collar of the same. The hat is crimson and black, and the skirt is black, with a band of crimson heading the flounce. On the right side the figure wears a straight-cut jacket, with the ever-popular horizontal tucks, which compose the whole bodice of the jacket, and appear again on the top of the sleeve, in rather narrower form. The colour of this gown is the fashionable blue cloth, and the collar and edging of the revers are of Caracul, while the centres are of black velvet, braided with black. Several rows of tucks edge the skirt, and the hat is of grey velvet, trimmed with grey feathers, and turned up with blue velvet.

One of the new arrivals in the trimming line is fringes of different widths and in colours to match the dresses for which they are required. I have also seen some new ribbons which are fringed at both edges. Although I say “fringes of different widths,” I must remark that I have not seen any wide ones—they are mostly narrow.

Perhaps, before I conclude, I may say a few words about the dressing of the hair, which never was more prettily done. It is waved in large waves, and is dressed fairly high for the evening; but I have seen a tendency to wear it lower in the day. At any rate, we have much more liberty accorded to us just now, and we take the liberty of dressing our hair very much as it is becoming to ourselves individually; and this has led to its being much lowered.

For young people, I notice that the hair is no longer permitted to stray wildly about, but it is tied at the back, at the nape of the neck; and for the evening it is tied in a Catogan loop, the hair at the top of the head being waved in large flutings. A very slight amount of what the Americans call “bangs” are allowed for young girls.

Our third drawing presents one figure only, and it is dressed in a tailor-made bodice and skirt, which make of dresses is rising in favour day by day. The material of which it is made is a dark green cloth, which is cut at the edges of the short coat and sleeves into rounded scallops and machine-stitched, a green gimp being placed below; a white lace ruff is round the neck, and the hat—or, rather, toque—is of dark green velvet, with green feathers, and large posies of violets. The machine stitching applied to gowns this year is singularly perfect, and cannot be done at home. I am told that it is all accomplished by a single expert hand at the large and fashionable ladies’ tailors, as no inexpert person could be trusted with it.

The latest fashionable fancy about the long gold chain is to wear it hanging down to its fullest length in front, and depending from it are a pencil, pen, or any such useful articles that the wearer may like to have at hand. The watered silk ribbons, with steel buckles or slides, have been more used than metal chains this winter for the muff, and they look far better and more ladylike.

DARK GREEN CLOTH GOWN.

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]

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

CHAPTER XX.

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Peggy went up to her own room to pack for her visit to the Larches. The long dress box, which had been stored away ever since its arrival, was brought out and its contents displayed to an admiring audience, consisting of Mrs. Asplin, Esther, Mellicent, and Mary the housemaid.

Everything was there that the heart of girl could desire, and a mother’s forethought provide for her darling’s use when she was far away. A dress of cobweb Indian muslin embroidered in silk, a fan of curling feathers, a dear little satin pocket in which to keep the lace handkerchief, rolls of ribbons, dainty white shoes, with straggly silk stockings rolled into the toes.

Peggy displayed one article after another, while Mellicent groaned and gurgled with delight, Mary exclaimed, “My, Miss Peggy, but you will be smart!” and Mrs. Asplin stifled a sigh at the thought of her own inferior preparations.

Punctually at ten o’clock the carriage drove up to the door, and off Peggy drove, not altogether unwillingly, now that it had come to the pinch, for after all it is pleasant to be appreciated, and when a great excitement is taking place in the neighbourhood, it is only human to wish to be in the thick of the fray.

Lady Darcy welcomed her guest with gracious kindness, and as soon as she had taken off her hat and jacket in the dressing-room which was allotted to her use, she was taken straight away to the chief room, where the work of decoration was being carried briskly forward. The village joiner was fitting mirrors into the corners and hammering with deafening persistence, a couple of gardeners were arranging banks of flowers and palms, and Rosalind stood in the midst of a bower of greenery, covered from head to foot in a smock of blue linen and with a pair of gardening gloves drawn over her hands.

She gave a little cry of relief and satisfaction as Peggy entered.

“Oh, Mawiquita, so glad you have come! Mother is so busy that she can’t be with me at all, and these wretched bwanches pwick my fingers! Do look wound, and say how it looks! This is really the servants’ hall, you know, as we have not a pwoper ballroom, and it is so square and high that it is perfectly dweadful to decowate! A long, narrow woom is so much better!”

Peggy thought the arrangements tasteful and pretty; but she could not gush over the effect, which, in truth, was in no way original or striking. There seemed little to be done in the room itself, so she suggested an adjournment into the outer hall, which seemed to offer unique opportunities.

“That space underneath the staircase!” she cried eagerly. “Oh, Rosalind, we could make it look perfectly sweet with all the beautiful Eastern things that you have brought home from your travels! Let us make a little harem, with cushions to sit on, and hanging lamps, and Oriental curtains for drapery. We could do it while the men are finishing this room, and be ready to come back to it after lunch.”

“Oh, what a sweet idea! Mawiquita, you are quite too clever!” cried Rosalind, aglow with pleasure. “Let us begin at once. It will be ever so much more intewesting than hanging about here.”

She thrust her hand through Peggy’s arm as she spoke, and the two girls went off on a tour through the house to select the most suitable articles for their decoration of the “harem.” There was no lack of choice, for the long suite of reception rooms was full of treasures, and Peggy stopped every few minutes to point with a small forefinger and say, “That screen, please! That table! That stool!” to the servants who had been summoned in attendance. The smaller things, such as ornaments, table-cloths, and lamps she carried herself, while Rosalind murmured sweetly, “Oh, don’t twouble! You mustn’t, weally! Let me help you!” and stood with her arms hanging by her side, without showing the faintest sign of giving the offered help.

As the morning passed away, Peggy found indeed that the Honourable Miss Darcy was a broken reed to lean upon in the way of assistance. She sat on a stool and looked on while the other workers hammered, and pinned, and stitched—so that Peggy’s prophecy as to her own subordinate position was exactly reversed, and the work of supervision was given entirely into her hands.

It took nearly two hours to complete the decorations of the “harem,” but, when all was finished, the big, ugly space beneath the staircase was transformed into as charming a nook as it is possible to imagine. Pieces of brilliant flag embroidery from Cairo draped the further wall, a screen of carved work shut out the end of the passage, gauzy curtains of gold and blue depended in festoons from the ascending staircase and stopped just in time to leave a safe place for a hanging lamp of wrought iron and richly-coloured glass. On the floor were spread valuable rugs and piles of bright silken cushions, while on an inlaid table stood a real Turkish hookah and a brass tray with the little egg-shaped cups out of which travellers in the East are accustomed to sip the strong black coffee of the natives.

Peggy lifted the ends of her apron in her hands and executed a dance of triumph on her own account when all was finished, and Rosalind said, “Weally, we have been clever! I think we may be proud of ourselves!” in amiable effusion.

The two girls went off to luncheon in a state of halcyon amiability which was new indeed in the history of their acquaintance, and Lady Darcy listened with an amused smile to their rhapsodies on the subject of the morning’s work, promising faithfully not to look at anything until the right moment should arrive and she should be summoned to gaze and admire.

By the time that the workers were ready to return to the room, the men had finished the arrangements at which they had been at work before lunch, and were beginning to tack festoons of evergreens along the walls, the dull paper of which had been covered with fluting of soft pink muslin. The effect was heavy and clumsy in the extreme, and Rosalind stamped her foot with an outburst of fretful anger.

“Stop putting up those wreaths! Stop at once! They are simply hideous! It weminds me of a penny weading in the village school-woom! You might as well put up ‘God save the Queen’ and ‘A Mewwy Chwistmas’ at once! Take them down this minute, Jackson! I won’t have them!”

The man touched his forehead, and began pulling out the nails in half-hearted fashion.

“Very well, miss, as you wish. Seems a pity, though, not to use ’em, for it took me all yesterday to put ’em together. It’s a sin to throw ’em away.”

“I won’t have them in the house if they took you a week!” Rosalind replied sharply, and she turned on her heel and looked appealingly in Peggy’s face. “It’s a howwid failure! The woom looks so stiff and stwaight—like a pink box with nothing in it! Mother won’t like it a bit. What can we do to make it better?”

Peggy scowled, pursed up her lips, pressed her hand to her forehead, and strode up and down the room, rolling her eyes from side to side, and going through all the grimaces of one in search of inspiration. Rosalind was right; unless some device were found by which the shape of the room could be disfigured, the decorations must be pronounced more or less a failure. She craned her head to the ceiling, and suddenly beamed in triumph.

“I have it! The very thing! We will fasten the garlands to that middle beam, and loop up the ends at intervals all round the walls. That will break the squareness and make the room look like a tent, with a ceiling of flowers.”

“Ah-h!” cried Rosalind; and clasped her hands with a gesture of relief. “Of course! The vewy thing! We ought to have thought of it at the beginning. Get the ladder at once, Jackson, and put in a hook or wing, or something to hold the ends, and be sure that it is strong enough. What a good thing that the weaths are weady. You see, your work will not be wasted after all.”

She was quite gracious in her satisfaction, and for the next two hours she and Peggy were busily occupied superintending the hanging of the evergreen wreaths and in arranging bunches of flowers to be placed at each point where the wreaths were fastened to the wall. At the end of this time, Rosalind was summoned to welcome the distinguished visitors who had arrived by the afternoon train. She invited Peggy to accompany her to the drawing-room, but in a hesitating fashion, and with a glance round the disordered room, which said, as plainly as words could do, that she would be disappointed if the invitation were accepted, and Peggy, transformed in a moment into a poker of pride and dignity, declared that she would prefer to remain where she was until all was finished.

“Well, it weally would be better, wouldn’t it? I will have a tway sent in to you here, and do, Mawiquita, see that evewything is swept up and made tidy at once, for I shall bring them in to look wound diwectly after tea, and we must have the wooms tidy!”

Rosalind tripped away, and Peggy was left to herself for a lonely and troublesome hour. The tea-tray was brought in and she was just seating herself before an impromptu table, when up came a gardener to say that one of “these ’ere wreaths seemed to hang uncommon near the gas bracket. It didn’t seem safe like.” And off she went in a panic of consternation to see what could be done. There was nothing for it but to move the wreath some inches further away, which involved moving the next also, and the next, and the next, so as to equalise the distances as much as possible, and by the time that they were settled to Peggy’s satisfaction, lo, table and tray had been whisked out of sight by some busy pair of hands, and only a bare space met her eyes. This was blow number one, for after working hard all afternoon, tea and cake come as a refreshment which one would not readily miss. She cheered herself, however, by putting dainty finishing touches here and there, seeing that the lamp was lighted in the “harem” outside, and was busy placing fairy lamps among the shrubs which were to screen the band, when a babel of voices from outside warned her that the visitors were approaching. Footsteps came nearer and nearer, and a chorus of exclamations greeted the sight of the “harem.” The door stood open, Peggy waited for Rosalind’s voice to call and bid her share the honours, but no summons came. She heard Lady Darcy’s exclamation, and the quick, strong tones of the strange Countess.

“Charming, charming; quite a stroke of genius! I never saw a more artistic little nook. What made you think of it, my dear?”

“Ha!” said Peggy to herself, and took a step forward, only to draw back in dismay, as a light laugh reached her ear, followed by Rosalind’s careless—

“Oh, I don’t know; I wanted to make it pwetty, don’t you know; it was so dweadfully bare, and there seemed no other way.”

Then there was a rustle of silk skirts, and the two ladies entered the room, followed by their respective daughters, Rosalind beautiful and radiant, and the Ladies Berkhampton with their chins poked forward, and their elbows thrust out in ungainly fashion. They paused on the threshold and every eye travelled up to the wreath-decked ceiling. A flush of pleasure came into Lady Darcy’s pale cheeks, and she listened to the Countess’s compliments with sparkling eyes.

“It is all the work of this clever child,” she said, laying her hand fondly on Rosalind’s shoulder. “I have had practically nothing to do with the decorations. This is the first time I have been in the room to-day, and I had no idea that the garlands were to be used in this way. I thought they were for the walls.”

“I congratulate you, Rosalind! You are certainly very happy in your arrangements,” said the Countess cordially. Then she put up her eyeglass and stared inquiringly at Peggy, who stood by with her hair fastened back in its usual pig-tail, and a big white apron pinned over her dress.

“She thinks I am the kitchen-maid!” said Peggy savagely to herself; but there was little fear of such a mistake, and the moment that Lady Darcy noticed the girl’s presence, she introduced her kindly enough, if with somewhat of a condescending air.

“This is a little friend of Rosalind’s who has come up to help. She is fond of this sort of work,” she said; then, before any of the strangers had time to acknowledge the introduction, she added hastily, “And now I am sure you must all be tired after your journey, and will be glad to go to your rooms and rest. It is quite wicked of me to keep you standing. Let me take you upstairs at once!”

They sailed away with the same rustle of garments, the same babel of high-toned voices, and Peggy stood alone in the middle of the deserted room. No one had asked her to rest, or suggested that she might be tired; she had been overlooked and forgotten in the presence of the distinguished visitor. She was only a little girl who was “fond” of this sort of work, and, it might be supposed, was only too thankful to be allowed to help. The house sank into silence. She waited for half an hour longer in the hope that someone would remember her presence, and then, tired, hungry, and burning with repressed anger, crept upstairs to her own little room and fell asleep upon the couch.

(To be continued.)

[OUR LILY GARDEN.]

PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.

By CHARLES PETERS.

The first group of lilies, “Cardiocrinum,” contains but two lilies. These two plants strongly resemble each other but are both totally different from any other species.

Many years ago, long before we ever dreamed of growing lilies ourselves, we first made acquaintance with the magnificent Lilium Giganteum.

We had been walking all day in the south of Hertfordshire, and as evening was approaching we turned to retrace our steps. But the district was new to us, and we found that we had wandered many miles from our path. We looked about us for someone of whom to ask our way, but the road was deserted save for ourselves. We trudged onwards for about a mile, and seeing a cottage a short way ahead, we determined to ask our way of one of its inhabitants.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of a broiling hot day in the beginning of July. We opened the gate, approached the house, and knocked at the door. But the house was apparently empty, for our knock was unheeded and there was no sign nor sound of any person in the house. We knocked again, but this summons also being futile, we walked round the house and entered the back garden. It was a beautiful garden, one of those old gardens in which flowers have been cultivated for centuries, and in which the most beautiful of garden-plants seem as much at home as do the weeds in our country lanes.

But it was not the flowers, nor the well-kept lawn, which arrested our attention. On turning round the house we had become aware of an intense fragrance not unlike that of the lily of the valley, but many times more powerful. We glanced around to discover what plant it was which exhaled this perfume, and for a few minutes we were unable to discover it. But on turning our gaze towards the opposite corner of the garden, we saw a magnificent clump of the giant lily under the shade of three tall lime-trees. There were five spikes, the shortest of which was over five feet high, each surmounted with from ten to twelve blossoms like bells of shining wax.

We approached the spot and stood admiring this glorious plant for many minutes. But the remembrance that we had lost our way was gradually forced upon us, and we left the lilies, filled with an admiration for them which will never tarnish. We found no one in the garden, but eventually we discovered the right way home.

The next year we tried to find this cottage and revisit the lilies, but we have never to this day been able to find it.

We did not again behold this wonderful lily till July, 1898, when we flowered a single one in our own garden. This specimen did not exceed four feet in height, but it matured nine perfect blossoms.

The Lilium Giganteum, the giant lily of the Himalayas may well stand at the head of the genus. Its blossoms are perhaps not so fine as those of some other species, but in foliage, in growth and in fragrance it is second to none.

The bulb of this species is about the size of a very large cocoa-nut, but varies considerably in size according to whether it is going to flower the next season or not. The bulb consists of few scales, which are large, fibrous, and of a dark russet hue. The tops of the scales have a rotten-looking appearance. The bulb is very compact, hard and heavy.

About the middle of March the plant begins to show above ground. Its appearance after this varies considerably. If it is not going to flower it puts up a large mass of fine, deep, glossy green leaves, which somewhat resemble those of the White Arum. These leaves are heart-shaped, very glossy, many-nerved and distinctly stalked. The lily will probably repeat this process next year, and perhaps the next too; but if it has been well attended to, in the third or fourth year it will put up a flower-spike. When the stem first shows it has an appearance very similar to a small lettuce. It grows very rapidly and attains its full height about the beginning of July.

When full grown this lily has a very noble appearance. Its stem is from four to fourteen feet high, perfectly straight and gradually tapering from its base, where it is one to three inches in diameter, to its top, which narrows almost to a point.

Three distinct forms of leaves are borne on this stem. The lower ones resemble the leaves sent up in the non-flowering years. The upper leaves are smaller, less heart-shaped and with stalks. The third set of leaves, the bracts, enclose the flower buds. These are simple sessile leaves which fall off when the flowers open.

The flowers vary in number from four to twenty. They are borne directly on the stem, without separate stalks. They are from six to nine inches long, of a pure white externally, slightly tinged with green near their attachments. Inside they are creamy white, with a broad streak of a rich claret colour down the centre of each petal. The pollen is yellow. The scent of this lily is intensely fragrant and almost overpowering. The seeds are flat and triangular with broad membranous wings.

The tips of the perianth are very slightly reflexed. In most drawings of this lily the flowers are made to look like those of L. Longiflorum, but they are quite different, being long and narrow, with very slightly reflexed petals and sepals.

It is often said in books that the bulb of this lily dies after once flowering, but this is not correct. The central part of the bulb does rot, but two or three small bulblets are left at its margin, which will in favourable circumstances grow and eventually flower.

This lily is a native of the Himalayas growing at a height of five to ten thousand feet above the sea-level.

The cultivation of this lily presents some difficulties, but surely it is worth while to give a little trouble to grow such a superb plant? We very rarely see it in cultivation, but in our garden it shall always find a home.

A plant growing in such a robust manner as this lily is not suitable for a flower-bed. It should be grown by itself in a shady nook. A clump of two or three looks very lovely, and it is possible to arrange matters so as to have at least one flowering spike every year.

It is not quite hardy, except in our southern counties, but it rarely needs more protection than a heap of bracken or other litter thrown over it in the winter.

If you wish to grow this lily, choose a suitable spot and dig out the earth to the depth of four feet. Fill in with a mixture of strong loam, decayed leaf mould and the remains of a hot-bed. To this add a little peat and plenty of sharp sand. The plant is a gross feeder and literally revels in “muck.” An occasional drenching with liquid manure is often very helpful. It requires large quantities of water during the growing period.

Resembling L. Giganteum so closely that formerly it was considered as a variety of that plant, but vastly inferior in every way, L. Cordifolium is the only other lily possessing heart-shaped leaves.

The bulb of L. Cordifolium is like that of L. Giganteum, but is scarcely a fourth the size.