# THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

THE GLEANER.

From the Painting in the Salon by Jules Breton

{625}

Vol. XX.—No. 1018.]

[Price One Penny.

JULY 1, 1899.

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

THE SECRET OF THE SEA.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.
FRUIT PUDDINGS.
LAST YEAR’S ROSES.
AN ALBUM OF BIBLE PLANTS.
NOCTURNE.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
DAINTY SCENT SACHET IN SATIN.

## THE SECRET OF THE SEA.

By EDWARD OXENFORD.

All rights reserved.]

They stand at twilight by the rippling ocean,
A youth and maiden, as they plight their troth,
And perfect faith and infinite devotion
Have made their dwelling in the hearts of both.
They will be wedded when his cruise is ended,
“And that will not be long, love!” murmurs he;
But whether lives shall be hereafter blended
As yet remains a secret of the sea!
Across the waters now his ship is sailing
Erect and stately, for the wind is fair,
And she who watches knows that love unfailing
Is ever present with her dear one there!
When from her sight his form at last is hidden,
“It will not be for long, love!” murmurs she;
But whether meeting hence shall be forbidden
As yet remains a secret of the sea!
The years pass onward, but no tidings reach her
Of him who still is to her brave heart dear;
But, hoping still, she prays that Hope may teach her
To bear the burthen of her growing fear.
She trusts to his last words, despairing never,
“Your promise, love, you yet will keep to me!”
But whether now his lips are hushed for ever
Remains, untold, a secret of the sea!

{626}

## THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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

### CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER DOOR OPENS.

hy did Lucy Challoner start when she entered her own kitchen, well knowing that a visitor was there, for whose presence she had given full permission?

She started, because when one expects to see a moon-faced, shy youth, with a shock of red hair, it does give one rather a shock to be suddenly confronted by a tall jovial man of thirty, wearing a full black beard!

What ought Lucy to have done? Perhaps she ought to have walked forward, saying that this was not the person to whom she had made her kitchen free, inquiring who he was, and bidding him go about his business.

But poor Lucy was not a business-like and self-confident mistress, and she was so thoroughly disconcerted and taken aback that, with a single exclamation of surprise, she beat a hasty retreat.

Upstairs in the dining-room she considered the position. She could hear the voices in the kitchen. It seemed to her that there was smothered laughter on the part of the man. She could hear Jane speak with a defiant angry tone. Some kitchen utensils were moved sharply and noisily, as by the hand of an offended person.

It was very clear that the carpenter sweetheart had been discarded, and that this stranger had filled his place so promptly that Jane had not thought it worth her while to go through any ceremony of transferring his privileges. Of course she had known well enough that her mistress would be no party to such a rapidly moving panorama of courtship. Or was there any genuine courtship in the matter at all, or was the form of a professed “engagement” the mask under which mere promiscuous acquaintances were encouraged? Who was this man? Lucy could not but remember his free laughter and loud talk on what had evidently been the evening of his first appearance. Now when she had unwittingly surprised him in her kitchen, he neither blenched nor offered the slightest explanation or apology. As Lucy sat, reflective, she heard him laugh again.

However, this evening he did not stay till the usual hour of nine, but went off as soon as the spring twilight darkened into dusk—went off with slamming of doors, and stamping of feet, and whistling, as he mounted the area stairs.

Lucy lit her lamp. She resolved not to summon Jane to her presence, but to wait till she brought the supper tray. Perhaps she wished to give Jane an opportunity to come and offer some voluntary explanation and apology. Perhaps she wished to calm her own nerves. Perhaps—and this is the most probable—she deferred simply out of dread of a scene. Lucy had always felt that Jane was an unknown quantity in the house, so she had no prevision as to how the servant would act in any crisis.

The maid moved about the kitchen noisily. It was evident that supper was to be served in very good time. If Lucy was afraid of Jane, Jane was clearly not going to be afraid of her.

She came upstairs with a very firm step, and looked straight at her mistress as she put down the tray. Lucy’s heart was beating very fast, but she controlled her nerves enough to say with a perfectly even voice—

“Jane, I must ask you for some explanation about the change of your weekly visitor, for——”

Jane interrupted her.

“Please, m’m,” she said, “there’s no need to ask me anything. I’ve come to give you notice—to bid you suit yourself before this day month. Ever since I’ve been here I’ve been thinking I’d like service in the country—with some lady as is a lady, and doesn’t come a-poking her nose into my kitchen when she knows I’ve got a friend there. I like a lady as looks after her work at the proper time, not having to go out of a morning to earn her bread. It’s not your fault, m’m, I dessay, but it ain’t pleasant for a girl.”

In face of this impertinence, Lucy rallied her spirits and dignity. Cost what such effort may afterwards, it is not at such moments that any spirited woman fails or shrinks.

“Very well, Jane,” she said. “Under these circumstances, I need ask you no questions. This spares me a painful task. But as your senior, even but by a few years and a little experience, I trust that you will deeply consider your ways. You have not treated me well. That may not matter much now. But I fear that you are not acting in a way to secure your own womanly respectability and happiness. If you seek a reference from me, I shall have to tell any inquirer what has happened.”

“Very well, m’m. Please, m’m, you’ll remember it was me that gave you notice.”

“I shall remember,” said Lucy. Not another word was exchanged.

The event gave Lucy a sleepless night, partly because it had excited her beyond her ebbing strength, and partly because she could not help forecasting ways and means with which to meet this fresh domestic difficulty.

To live in the same house with somebody so flatly antagonistic as she felt Jane intended to be, was a hard trial for a lonely and over-strained woman. Lucy realised that Jane was capable of insolence—that her outburst had not been a mere fit of temper, but a revelation of the coarse, cruel nature seething beneath the dull exterior. It might not have been wise, but if Lucy had been a free woman, she would have paid Jane her wages and let her go at once, so as to clear the atmosphere. But Lucy was not a free woman; she had her engagements to fulfil, her work to do.

She had hoped to take advantage of the fine weather to take Hugh a little out of town on Saturday afternoons, thus giving him fresh air and enjoyment, and also snatching an opportunity to make a study or a sketch. But now the four Saturday afternoons which would pass over before Jane’s departure were all the leisure in which to seek a new supply of domestic help. This “month” of Jane’s would bring Lucy to the edge of the summer holidays at the Institute. Had all gone on right with Jane, Lucy had meant to get her decent old charwoman to spend her nights in the house and give the girl company and security, while she and Hugh went down to Deal for two or three weeks. She had a secret consciousness that she was “running down” in a way which needed both the fresh sea breezes and the strong, calm presence of Jarvis May’s brave widow. She had hoped to persuade Miss Latimer to make one of the party. That lady herself would have respite from her one or two little engagements, and she had not had a seaside holiday for two or three years. Lucy meant to give the invitation as a favour to herself, since Miss Latimer’s presence would ensure her the more leisure and freedom for sketching. For in that seaside holiday she had hoped to lay in a store of sketches—as many as she could possibly work up before the darkening days of next winter would be brightened by Charlie’s return.

Now all these plans of hers must be knocked on the head! She tried to be thankful that if she failed to secure satisfactory help during the coming month, then the holidays would at least give her leisure to do her own housework for awhile. She had accustomed herself to remember that, as Jeremy Taylor tells us, every trial has two handles, or at least that we have two hands, and that, when anything happens to our displeasure, it is the part of a wise and submissive spirit to handle it on that side in which we can find some comfort or use. But it seemed to poor Lucy as if this “handle” was so slight that it was ready to break in her trembling{627} grasp. She knew that trials which loom large in the mists of our own minds are sometimes wonderfully reduced in magnitude if we can get them outside ourselves, and state them in plain terms. So she tried to rally her courage and spirits by asking what was this trouble, after all? She was simply parting from a servant whom she had never liked, and who had proved herself to be a girl of low type.

That was how Lucy resolutely put it, and then it seemed little enough. She would not let herself add that she was already worn out under the awful anxiety of her husband’s illness, the strain of the separation, the practical solitude, the unremitting duties which would allow of no rest nor recreation. She left these in her sub-consciousness. When we know that no hand but ours is on the helm, we can face anything except the full realisation that we ourselves are stunned and reeling in the storm.

It seemed to Lucy that as she and Miss Latimer were not to have their holiday together at the seaside, the next best thing would be to invite Miss Latimer to spend her holiday in the little house with the verandah, so that they might at least enjoy each other’s society. Miss Latimer accepted the invitation eagerly, adding the information that she had got to leave the house in which she had been living, as the family were quitting town.

“Come and stay with me, then, till you are comfortably suited elsewhere,” Lucy wrote back in reply. “I wish I could ask you to stay till Charlie returns. But it would give you too long a journey to your pupils.”

Miss Latimer’s answer soon came.

“I gladly accept your invitation in its new extended form,” she said. “I wish we could be together in this London which can make separation so easy. I should not mind the length of the daily journey to my pupil, but my income is too small to bear deduction of a railway fare.”

Lucy pondered over that letter. Sometimes when Hugh had gone to bed, she sat in her parlour, too tired to work and sick with loneliness. Why should not Miss Latimer stay with her, paying what she had paid hitherto, less the railway fare? She wrote to Miss Latimer, making this proposal, and saying, “Why not? Are we not sensible women?” Miss Latimer came and talked it over, and decided to accept the plan; then she and Lucy agreed that, as in this instance there was a breathing spell before they were deprived of household help, they would try what “advertisement” would do.

So Lucy put a very explicit advertisement into three daily papers, which had columns both of “Situations Wanted,” and “Vacant.” Applicants were to call “on Saturday afternoons only.” When the first Saturday came, she gave Hugh his painting book with which to amuse himself, took her needlework and sat expectant.

All that came to the house was repeated postman’s knocks. Every post brought circulars—printed, typewritten or lithographed—from different registry offices. But not one servant, suitable or the reverse, put in appearance!

Lucy thought this experience must be special and peculiar. So she resolved to repeat the process next week. At the same time, she thought she had better take more active measures. Therefore she began to con the columns of “Situations Wanted,” determined to write to every advertiser whose statement of her capacities and requirements held out any hope.

Lucy had often carelessly glanced over these columns in days gone by. Then it had seemed only as if there were plenty of people “waiting to be hired” for every purpose. She had felt quite sorry to think how much hope deferred and disappointment must be involved. But when one came to scan this newspaper page for an express purpose, it was wonderful into what a small number the hopeful cases shrank! “General Servants” in themselves were few enough, but even those who were so described all added “where another is kept,” or “where boy cleans knives and boots.” Lucy knew by experience that it was useless to approach these. There were “lady-helps” by the score. Some of these were only prepared to work “where there is a servant.” The others specially stated that they would do “nothing menial.”

There were, however, two advertisers who described themselves as “useful helps,” “well educated and highly recommended,” and who laid down no conditions save concerning “a comfortable home” and a “salary” not higher than the wages Mrs. Challoner was prepared to give. The one, “Miss L.,” called herself thirty-two, and gave an address in a suburb on the northern edge of London. The other described herself as twenty-six, and gave her name as Miss F., Parsonage Cottage, in a little town not very far away.

To both these addresses Lucy wrote. She detailed her own position, and added that she would be anxious to make every concession to give comfort and leisure to any well-educated woman whose household co-operation she could secure. She particularly requested a prompt reply in any case, and enclosed stamped and directed envelopes.

Day after day of the second week passed. No reply came from either “Miss L.” or “Miss F.” Presently Lucy noticed that she received a circular from a registry office, established in the country town from which Miss F. had issued her advertisement. She also discovered that both “Miss L.” and “Miss F.,” while apparently ignoring answers to their advertisements, were still repeating those advertisements. Also she found another advertisement word for word like “Miss L.’s,” but this time requesting that answers should be directed to “Miss N.” somewhere in the S.W. district.

“Surely things are not what they seem!” thought Lucy. She wrote again, but much less sanguinely this time, to the one or two advertisers, whose case seemed in the least likely to meet her requirements, and began to wonder whether her own advertisements would bring any applicants on the second Saturday.

But lo! on the Friday afternoon a prospect of relief opened up from a wholly unexpected quarter.

Miss Latimer had gone out to tea.

As Lucy and Hugh, on their return from the Institute and the Kindergarten turned hand in hand into Pelham Street, they saw a neat brougham standing in front of the little house with the verandah.

Lucy knew at once what guest this was. The Challoners had only one “carriage visitor,” and even she was not a “carriage person” in the strictest sense. For a month every year, generally the month of blossoming trees, picture galleries and distinguished strangers in London, Mrs. Bray hired a brougham. As for the rest of the year, for six months of it she never left her own house, for two months more she and Mr. Bray went to Bath or Buxton or Harrogate, and for the remaining three she limited herself to hobbling promenades in the Gardens near her home, where she could lean on the arm of her faithful Rachel, or indulge herself in the dissipation of a chair and a chairman.

In her “carriage month” the old lady put herself in step with the latest ideas in fashion, art, and science, picked up one or two new acquaintances to fill the gaps left by death among old friends, and punctiliously returned every call which she had received during the season of her seclusion or limitation.

“Here is Mrs. Bray come to see us, Hugh,” said Lucy. Whereupon the boy joyously echoed “Mrs. Bray!” and set off at a canter. Lucy hastened her steps after him. But as the child reached the little house with the verandah, he did not rush at the door, or even pull the bell, but turned aside to the brougham. It was evident that the object of interest was still in its interior. Yes, there she was, Mrs. Bray herself, throwing up her hands in delight on catching sight of Lucy.

“Oh, how fortunate that we should appear just as you arrived!” cried Lucy.

“I’ve been waiting ten minutes, my dear,” said the old lady. “Your servant would not let me in; she said ‘the missis was awful partic’ler, and she’d never had no words with her, except about lettin’ folks into the house too easy.’” (Jane’s accent and grammar did not lose in Mrs. Bray’s imitation.) “What harm she thought a poor limping, half-blind old dame is likely to do, I don’t know. But it is clear that you’re an awful dragon, my dear. I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”

Lucy had given Hugh the latch-key wherewith to open the door, and while Mrs. Bray spoke, she was making her way into the hall, aided by Lucy’s arm.

“This is very annoying,” said Lucy. “I leave you to imagine under what circumstances I have been ‘partic’ler’ about ‘folks’ coming into the house. I fear Jane has done this out of pure malice.”

{628}

“My dear, I thought so at once,” returned Mrs. Bray, “and I was a perfect match for her; for I showed no annoyance, and I highly commended you, saying that if all ladies were as prudent we should not hear of half the robberies which take place.” Mrs. Bray gave a quick little nod of triumphant self-satisfaction.

“And, my dear,” she went on, “that’s not the sort of girl for you to have about your house. A creature who will turn her own misdemeanours into nettles to sting you with, is capable of anything. She should be at once sent off about her business.”

“She is going off about it,” answered Lucy. “The moment she knew she had done something which I could not pass over in silence, she gave me ‘notice.’”

“Hoity-toity,” cried Mrs. Bray; “and I hope you’ve got somebody else, and will be able to release her before her date?”

Lucy shook her head with a sad little smile. “But don’t let me talk kitchen,” she said, “I want to hear your impressions of the Royal Academy.”

“It’s been open for just a fortnight,” said Mrs. Bray, looking keenly at her. “Of course, you’ve been? I know all about your bothering Institute classes, but there was Saturday.”

“Last Saturday I had to stay indoors in hopes of interviewing servants,” Lucy answered cheerfully, “and I shall have to do the same to-morrow.”

“There now, my dear, you see that kitchen will come into our talk,” returned Mrs. Bray, shaking a playful finger at her hostess. “You can’t shut it out. It underlies all our living, and we ought to speak about what really concerns and interests us. It is called underbred to shrink from ‘talking shop,’ but after all it is the only talk worth engaging in. You verify my words, my dear, for you wanted to turn from the kitchen to pictures, that being ‘the shop’ you prefer. But the kitchen comes first, my dear. At bottom, the pictures depend on the kitchen. The greatest artists would tell you so, though they’ve left off glorifying copper pots and carrots as the good old Dutch school used to do.”

By this time Lucy had set out her little afternoon tea-tray, and had summoned Jane to bring the kettle with boiling water. Everything else she did herself, yet she was not too pre-occupied to be amused by her visitor’s expression while the handmaid was in the room. It was the expression of a person unwillingly in the presence of a noxious animal. What pained and puzzled Lucy was, that this and Mrs. Bray’s earlier diatribe seemed to have had a good effect upon Jane so far as making her move more softly and speak more respectfully. It acted as all her own justice, patience, and consideration had failed to do.

“A horrid girl,” was the lady’s comment as Jane departed.

“You see her at her very best,” remarked Lucy, with a constrained little laugh. “You seem to have had a good effect on her. I must have made some mistake in dealing with her.”

“She sees that I know her at her exact worth, or rather worthlessness,” retorted the old lady, “and worthless people respect one for that at least as much as the worthy do for one’s just appreciation. But don’t distress yourself about your ‘mistakes,’ my dear. I’m only a visitor, and you are that hateful thing, a mistress; that gives her a different point of view. Above all, I come in a carriage, which, doubtless, she thinks is my own. My dear, make up your mind to the fact that to the common people ‘the real lady, whom it is a pleasure to serve,’ is the woman with money—the woman who does nothing, but expects everybody to wait upon her and to put her first. In their eyes, nobody who works for her living is ‘a real lady.’”

“I don’t think we need attribute these things to the ‘common people,’” said Lucy quietly. “I notice the same feeling among the mass of women of my own class.”

Whatever the old lady had originally meant, she was too keen and alert to deny the truth of Lucy’s proposition. She adroitly parried it.

“My dear, the common people form the mass of every class. There are more of them in the lower classes simply because the lower classes are the larger. Sometimes, too, the others are too cowardly to put their creed into words, though they are faithful enough to it in deeds. But of course I don’t know much about the young women of our class nowadays. I thought you had changed all that, and that all of you were running after ‘careers.’”

Lucy laughed. “I don’t think that makes any difference,” she said. “A very plain distinction is generally drawn between the young woman who selects a career for her pleasure and her ‘interest in life,’ and the other who does the same thing for her livelihood.”

“And I daresay nobody emphasises that distinction more strongly than some of your most advanced women,” said Mrs. Bray, whose searching observation, despite her professed ignorance, had probably taught her all that Lucy could tell her and a good deal more too. “So that’s the present-day way of it, is it? Well, my way would be that every girl should have her own father to give her a dowry suitable to her position, and her own husband who would do all the rest. I suppose that’s Utopia. We all have Utopias, and that’s mine. What does a woman want with a career, except for a living? Her grandmother and her great-grandmother (if she had any, poor dear!) found enough career in making the most of what the gods—I mean the men—provided.”

“But even girls who don’t need a livelihood may find it hard to occupy themselves,” Lucy mildly suggested. “It seems cruel to deny work to any human being.”

“Perhaps so, my love, but it’s very mean of them to want to be provided for as women and working women at one and the same time. Let them be one or the other, whichever they choose; they’ve a right to freedom of choice, but they ought not to be both. Why, to be so is to be the very worst form of—what is it Mr. Bray calls the men whom labourers don’t like?—black caps? No, blacklegs—yes, the very worst form of blackleg. It’s not ladylike. But here am I, rattling away about all sorts of women’s social questions (which are but branches from the kitchen after all), and forgetting the kitchen itself. Do you know, my dear, the minute you said that this hussy is leaving, it occurred to me that I know somebody who can come in her place, who will probably suit you to a T, and who will regard me as a special providence if I get her the situation.”

“Oh, Mrs. Bray,” cried Lucy, “you make my heart leap with delight. This is so unexpected. Surely it is too good to be true!”

(To be continued.)

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

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

### CHAPTER VII.

VISITORS FOR MARION.

The weather was now getting much warmer, the days were long and sunny, and the evenings light until late; so the girls began to make certain changes in their housekeeping arrangements. To begin with, the choral society which they had been attending on Wednesday evenings all the winter ceased in April, so they had late dinner every evening except Saturday and Sunday. There was some talk of their joining a tennis club; but both Jane and Ada were generally too tired to play after their day’s work, and, as the prudent Marion pointed out, if they joined a club it would mean that they would rush off to play directly they came home for as long as it was light, and get no solid food until past eight o’clock, when it would be too late to see about dinner. Jane thought that this would not matter in the very least, as it would soon be getting too hot for anyone to think of eating; but she was over-ruled by her two elders, who insisted that, as none of them got a solid meal in the middle of the day, it would be a fatal thing if the one big meal were postponed altogether. So she was obliged to give in and be content with what tennis she could get at friends’ houses on Saturday afternoons. This was not very much, and she had a good long walk to get it; but she thought it was better than nothing.

{629}

Early in May came a short note from Mrs. Holden to Marion.

“May 6th.

“My dear Marion,—Are you ever at liberty to receive visitors, or are you perpetually busy? Do let me know if I may come over and see you next Saturday afternoon. I want to have a talk with you, and I have to come up to West Hampstead to look over some houses in your neighbourhood. I have written to a house agent for some addresses. Our neighbourhood here is getting so terribly built over, and it is too low down to suit Arthur, who suffers occasionally from bronchitis, so we are thinking of making a move in your direction, as Hampstead stands high. I shall be so glad to be near you, and I hope you will return the compliment.

“Do not think I intend to worry you to go house-hunting with me, for I should not dream of allowing such a thing. Arthur is too busy to come over with me; but my brother Tom is home on leave just now. I forget if you ever saw him—I think he was at school when you used to stay with us. It will do him good to have some sensible domestic occupation such as house-hunting. So I shall come and have a delightful cosy chat with you on Saturday if you will have me, and he shall look over the houses whilst we are discussing the affairs of the State. (By the way, why did some scones I made last week come out of the oven freckled? Don’t forget to tell me.) Whilst we are discussing the affairs of the State, Master Tom can look over the houses and select the most suitable for me to inspect when you are tired of hearing me chatter.

“In haste,
“Yours ever,
“Madge Holden.”

Marion laughed heartily over this letter, and read it out to the other two.

“What does she mean?” asked Ada in a perplexed tone. “How can the scones be freckled?”

“I have a vague recollection of something of the sort happening to some of mine once,” said Jane; “but I have known so many accidents and failures that I can’t possibly recollect them all. Oh, I know! How stupid of me! Of course, the carbonate of soda and cream of tartar were not properly mixed into the flour, and so wherever there was soda a brown patch was the result, as it always makes things darker when used alone.”

“Bravo, Jennie!” said Marion. “I shall tell Mrs. Holden that you will write yourself and reveal the mystery of the scones. I am sorry you and Ada will not see her and her brother as you are going to the concert.”

“Have you ever seen her brother Tom?” asked Ada.

“No, I don’t remember having done so. But I heard of a schoolboy escapade of his years ago. His mother was entertaining visitors on a dark winter afternoon just at dusk; they had rung for the gas to be lighted, but the servant was a long time in coming. In the meantime they were considerably startled by a light that kept flashing in at the window and then disappearing. When everybody was well startled the cause was discovered. Master Tom and some boon companions were at the schoolroom window above amusing themselves by drawing a dark lantern up and down. Hence the phenomenon.”

“How like a boy!” said Jane sedately.

On Saturday afternoon Mrs. Holden appeared, resplendent in a bonnet made of primroses, and with her a tall, sunburnt young fellow, whom she introduced as her brother, Tom Scott.

“But you must not stay, you know, Tom,” said the lively lady. “You really must go and see about those houses, and we shall only bore you with our domestic talk.”

Mr. Scott smiled languidly. He was ensconced in Jane’s own particular rocking-chair and showed no disposition to move, but looked appreciatively round the sunny little sitting-room and at his bright-eyed little hostess, who sat by the work-table at the window with a bunch of sweet-smelling spring flowers in a vase beside her.

“I find this climate so trying after India,” he remarked.

“Nonsense, Tom! Marion, he is too lazy for anything! How far is it to Thornicroft Gardens?”

Marion said that it was only two streets away.

“We must have tennis,” said Mrs. Holden; “so, if the houses are nice, one of those might do, as I understand the gardens at the back have several courts. I am thankful Tom is an engineer: so if there is anything radically wrong with the house he will detect it, so I have not that responsibility! Now, Tom, do start off; and, if you are good, Marion will give you some tea when you get back! Be quick!”

So off he went, and for the next half-hour Mrs. Holden poured her domestic experiences into the ear of the sympathetic Marion.

“Tell me about calves’ heads,” she began eagerly.

“Whatever do you mean?” cried Marion, laughing. “You are like a child asking for a story. ‘Tell me about fairies.’”

“Well, you know what I mean!” she said impatiently. “I want to know all about them, how much they cost, and if it would be feasible to have one, and if they are nice. But I won’t have one if the cook is likely to make a hash of it!” she said energetically.

“Well, your cook might make a hash, and a very good hash too; but that is no reason why you should not have one. You need only have half a head, which will cost you about 3s. or 3s. 6d. Have it boiled the first day and served with white sauce over and bacon round alternately with slices of tongue, and hashed the second day.”

“But don’t you have to skin it, or do something like that first? I read something about skinning it in my cookery-book, and it puzzled me dreadfully.”

“All that is done at the butcher’s. It is as well to blanch the head by putting it in boiling water, bringing the water to the boil, and throwing it away. Then put it in a pan, with enough water to cover and vegetables to flavour, and cook gently about two and a half hours.”

“That was just what I wanted to know. I understand about skinning the tongue and cutting it in pieces to put round the dish; but what are you to do with the brains?”

“Tie them in muslin and cook them for half an hour separately in water or stock, divide in small pieces and put round the dish. Before you go I will give you a nice recipe for hashing the remains. By the way, was the dinner list of any use?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Here is this week’s then,” said Marion, as she went to her desk and, opening it, gave the list to Mrs. Holden. “You see we have just been having calf’s head ourselves.”

DINNER LIST.

Sunday.

- Veal and Ham Pie.
- Salad.
- Citron Cream.
- (Supper.) Anchovy Eggs.

Monday.

- Spring Stew.
- Gooseberry Fool.

Tuesday.

- Lettuce Soup.
- Roast Leg of Lamb.
- Mint Sauce.
- New Potatoes.

Wednesday.

- Cold Leg of Lamb.
- Salad.
- Swiss Roll.

Thursday.

- Calf’s Head with White Sauce.
- Lemon Jelly.

Friday.

- Hashed Calf’s Head.
- Cheesecakes.

Saturday.

- Cod and Mayonnaise.
- Cucumber.
- Cold Sponge Cake Pudding.

“You see, we have cold dishes rather often now the weather is getting warmer,” said Marion as Mrs. Holden put down the paper. “Here is the food bill:—”

| £ | s. | d.
1 lb. fillet of veal | 0 | 1 | 0
Half a ham, 3½ lbs. | 0 | 2 | 4
Leg of lamb (Australian) | 0 | 3 | 1
Half a calf’s head | 0 | 2 | 9
1¼ lb. neck of veal | 0 | 1 | 0
Cucumber | 0 | 0 | 4
2½ lb. new potatoes | 0 | 0 | 5
3 lb. potatoes | 0 | 0 | 3
2 lb. cod | 0 | 1 | 0
Sponge cakes | 0 | 0 | 6
Milk | 0 | 1 | 9
Pint of gooseberries | 0 | 0 | 3
1-pint packet lemon jelly | 0 | 0 | 4
Small bottle olive oil | 0 | 0 | 5½
½ lb. tea | 0 | 0 | 10
1½ lb. butter at 1s. 4d | 0 | 2 | 0
½ lb. loaf sugar | 0 | 0 | 1¼
2 lb. Demerara | 0 | 0 | 3½
1 lb. fat, for rendering | 0 | 0 | 2
Fourteen eggs | 0 | 1 | 0
Four lettuces | 0 | 0 | 8
Eight loaves | 0 | 2 | 4
| £1 | 2 | 10¼

“By the way, I have made a discovery. Oh, I know it will be no news to you; but I was proud of it, I assure you! It is, that there are several quite cheap pieces of veal that one can buy—breast of veal, for instance, and neck—for 8d. a pound. I always had looked upon veal as quite dear. But I don’t know how to cook these joints. You can’t make veal cutlet of them, can you?”

“No; they would not do for that. But the ‘Spring Stew’ that you see there is a dish made of neck of veal, new potatoes, spring onions and lettuce.”

“Many thanks. It is of no use trying to get my people to eat cold meat; they simply won’t. Tom is so accustomed to the good cooking of his native servants that he is a dreadful handful. I am so glad you taught me how to make a good curry; that at least is always appreciated.”

“Is he graciously pleased to commend it?” asked Marion, laughing.

“Yes, indeed. He has a most extraordinary opinion of your talents, as he said he did not know such a thing as a good curry was to be had in England. Was that not rude? Now, I will not talk ‘cooking’ any more. Do play me something. I see the piano is invitingly open. It is ever so long since I heard you. Or will it tire you?”

“I am not tired at all,” said Marion, and went to the piano. “What shall it be? Something calm and soothing, I suppose, and not at all suggestive of domestic worries.”

So Marion played a delicious “Lullaby” of Rubinstein’s, and Mrs. Holden lay back in the rocking-chair to listen—a graceful figure in blue.

“Thank you so much!” said a voice behind her as she finished.

Marion started slightly, and looked round to find that Mr. Scott had come back again, and had been let in by Abigail without her noticing the fact.

Mrs. Holden laughed mischievously.

“I have not had such a treat since I went to India,” said her brother. “Pray do not{630} stop. You don’t know how much I enjoy it,” and he sat down prepared to listen to more.

So Marion played on. This time it was the “Spinn lied” from the “Lieder ohne Worte.”

“Tom, you are positively improving,” said his sister critically, as she finished and Abigail came in with the tea-things. “Just before you went away, I remember taking you to a Saturday concert at St. James’s Hall, and you annoyed me by coming out in the middle. Marion’s playing seems to have worked a sort of charm.”

“Oh, nonsense, Madge, you must not give me such a bad character! I am very fond of music really, Miss Thomas,” he said, turning to Marion; “but I always prefer it at home. Somehow, a concert always makes me feel very sleepy towards the end. I don’t know if it is the heat, or what.”

“You ought not to mind the heat, surely,” she suggested, smiling.

He laughed.

“Well, at all events, it is not nearly so enjoyable.”

“Well, what about the house, Tom?” asked his sister, as she drank her tea and ate Marion’s crisp little home-made cakes appreciatively.

“Green Lawn, in the next street but one, has just the number of rooms you want. Everything about it seems all right, and there is an excellent tennis lawn. Could you move by Lady Day?”

“Yes, I must. Did you see no others?”

“What was the good of looking at others until you had signified that this would not do,” he remarked sagely.

“Marion, can you come and look at it with us?”

“Yes, certainly,” and she went to put on her hat.

“You need not stay longer if you want to be off,” said Mrs. Holden to her brother when Marion had left the room. “We shall manage quite well by ourselves. I know men don’t care for fussing about over houses, and you said you wanted to go down to the club.”

He seemed to think the club could wait, for he made no haste to be off; and soon Marion came in again, looking very charming in her pretty hat with pink primulas.

So the three walked through the sunny streets to Green Lawn. It did not take very long to look over the house, and Mrs. Holden was delighted with it, and quite decided to take it if her husband liked it as well as she did.

“So we shall soon be having you for neighbours, and how delightful that will be, my dear! I only hope I shall not worry you by incessantly running in to ask advice. I really must be self-denying, and not run into the Rowans too often. Come and have dinner with me next week and talk it all over. Which day can you come? Come next Thursday if you can. You don’t mind coming so far now the evenings are so light, do you? Tom can see you home.”

Marion protested that she was quite equal to seeing herself home; but Mrs. Holden insisted, and so it was arranged. By this time they had arrived at the station from which Marion’s friends were going back to Camberwell, so they said good-bye.

When she got home, she remembered that Mrs. Holden had not got the recipe that had been promised; so she wrote it out at once and posted it to her lest she should want to use it before they met next Thursday.

Hashed Calf’s Head.—Cut the remains of a cooked calf’s head into neat pieces. Chop a large onion and cook it in three tablespoonfuls of vinegar for ten minutes; add a dessertspoonful of Chutney and two tablespoonfuls of flour mixed with a gill of cold stock. Stir until it boils, stir in a pint of the stock in which the head was cooked; season well and colour with browning. Put in the slices of head, and simmer very gently for half an hour.

(To be continued.)

## FRUIT PUDDINGS.

By the Author of “Summer Puddings,” “Savouries,” etc.

o many people get tired of the ordinary way of serving fruit simply stewed or as a tart, that I hope the following collection of recipes of different and dainty ways of utilising fruit may be used to vary somewhat the monotony of a wholesome article of diet.

Apple Pudding.—Six apples peeled and cut up in pieces, one quince, half a teacupful of water, two tablespoonfuls of sugar, the rind of half a lemon, one teaspoonful of lemon juice and a piece of butter the size of an egg. Put all into an enamelled pan and stew to a soft pulp and rub through a sieve. If the apples have been cooked very soft and are free from lumps, then it is not necessary to put them through a sieve.

Into the pulp stir three eggs, well beaten, a quarter of a pound of stale bread or cake crumbs grated, a dash of nutmeg, and two tablespoonfuls of milk. Pour into a tin mould previously well buttered inside and dusted with crumbs and bake in a good oven for quite an hour, turn out and serve with fine sugar over the top.

Apple Soufflé.—Butter the outside of a pie-dish and cover with pastry made as follows—

Six ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, two teaspoonfuls of sugar, and the yolk of an egg. Rub butter, sugar, and flour together, then mix to a paste with the beaten yolk and a little water. Roll out in the usual way, cut to the size of your dish, cover, and put into a good oven to bake, and slip off, and then you have a dish of paste. Meanwhile peel and core one and a half pounds of apples, and stew them with a quarter of a pound of sugar and juice and grated rind of half a lemon till quite soft; then stir in half-a-dozen ratafia biscuits and a penny sponge cake crumbled down, the yolks of two eggs and a drop of water. Cook on the fire again for a minute or two, then pour into the pastry-dish and spread over the top the whites of the three eggs beaten to a stiff froth with a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, dust sugar on the top and ornament with ratafia biscuits and preserved cherries to taste, then place in a nearly cold oven to slightly brown.

Apple Fritters.—Make a batter of a pint of milk, two well-beaten eggs, and flour enough to make a thick batter. Pare, core, and chop up into small pieces six apples, mix into the batter and fry in spoonfuls in boiling lard deep enough to cover the fritters. Fritters can also be made by slicing pared and cored apples, dipping them into thick pancake batter and frying them in butter.

Apple Dumplings.—Six apples pared and cored, six ounces of dripping, one pound of flour, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one quarter of a teaspoonful of salt, two ounces of sugar.

Put flour, powder, and salt in a basin, rub in the dripping lightly, then make into a stiff paste with water. Divide into six pieces, roll out and place an apple on each, fill up cores with sugar and work paste round each apple till covered, brush over with milk, place on a greased tin and bake from half an hour to three-quarters.

Apple Meringue.—Stew six apples pared and cored till soft, then stir in a small piece of butter. When cold add a cup of grated bread-crumbs, the yolks of two eggs, a tip of salt, sugar to taste, and a small cup of milk.

Butter a dinner plate, cover it with short crust or puff paste, make a fancy border, and bake till done. In the middle pour the apple batter, and heat up. Take the whites of the eggs, beat stiff with half a teacup of fine sugar and a few drops of essence of lemon, pile on the top of apples to cover them, place in oven to set but not to brown. Sprinkle pink sugar over the top and serve hot or cold.

Apple Pudding (American).—One quart of milk, four eggs, three cupfuls of chopped apples, the juice of a lemon and half the grated rind, nutmeg to taste and a pinch of cinnamon, one quarter of a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda dissolved in a little vinegar, flour enough to make a stiff batter. Beat the yolks of the eggs very light, add the milk and seasoning, then the flour; stir hard for five minutes, then beat in the apples, then the whites of the eggs beaten to a stiff froth, and lastly mix the soda well in. Bake in two square shallow tins, buttered, for one hour. Cover with a buttered paper when half done to prevent it hardening. Eaten hot with a sweet sauce.

Apple Meringue Pudding.—One pint of stewed apples, three eggs (yolks and whites beaten separately), a half cupful of fine sugar and one dessertspoonful of butter, one teaspoonful of nutmeg and cinnamon mixed, one teaspoonful of lemon juice. Add sugar, spices, butter and yolks to the apples while hot, pour into a buttered dish and bake for ten minutes. Cover while still in the oven with a meringue made of the stiffly-beaten whites, two tablespoonfuls of castor sugar and a little almond essence. Spread it smoothly and quickly, close the oven again and brown slightly. Eat cold with cream and sugar.

Apple Omelette.—Six apples, one tablespoonful of butter, nutmeg to taste, and a teaspoonful of rose-water.

Stew the apples as for sauce, beat them smooth while hot, adding the butter, sugar and nutmeg. When perfectly cold put in the yolks beaten well, then the rose-water, and lastly the whites whipped stiff; pour into a warmed and buttered pie-dish. Bake in a moderate oven till delicately browned.

Brown Betty.—One cupful of bread-crumbs, two cups of sour chopped apples, half a cupful of sugar, a teaspoonful of cinnamon, and two{631} tablespoonfuls of butter chopped into small bits.

Butter a deep pie-dish, put a layer of apples at the bottom, sprinkle with sugar, cinnamon and pieces of butter, then crumbs, then another layer of apples, sugar, and so on till the dish is full, having crumbs on the top. Cover closely and bake in a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour, then uncover, sprinkle with a little sugar and brown quickly.

Apple Batter Pudding.—One pint of rich milk, two cups of flour, four eggs, a teaspoonful of salt, a quarter of a teaspoonful of soda dissolved in hot water.

Peel and core eight apples, and arrange them closely together in a pie-dish. Beat the above batter till light and pour it over the apples and bake for one hour in a good oven. Unless the apples are very sweet, the cores should be filled up with sugar.

Apples and Tapioca.—One teacupful of tapioca, six juicy sweet apples, a quart of water and some salt.

Soak the tapioca in three cups of lukewarm water in a pan, put the pan back on the range and let it just keep warm for several hours till the tapioca becomes a clear jelly. Peel, core, and pack the apples together in a dish, fill the centres with sugar, cover and steam in the oven, then put the tip of salt into the tapioca, and pour it over the apples, return to the oven and leave till quite cooked—about an hour. Serve with cream. If there is any objection to the appearance of the pudding, then a beaten white of egg can be spread over it just before removing from the oven.

German Apple Tart.—One and three-quarter pounds of apples, quarter of a pound of dates.

Peel, core, and cut the apples into small pieces, stone and quarter the dates, and put them in a pan with a very little water and stew till soft. Then stir in two tablespoonfuls of sugar, one ounce of butter, one teaspoonful of ground cinnamon, half a teaspoonful of ginger. Beat smooth, then turn out to cool.

Make a short crust of half a pound of flour, two ounces of castor sugar, one teaspoonful of cinnamon, a small teaspoonful of baking powder, and a quarter of a pound of butter. Rub all together and work into a dough with the yolk of one egg and half a teacup of milk. Divide the dough into three pieces, roll out for bottom and sides a little thicker than the piece for the top. Line tin, fill up with the apple mixture, smooth on top, then lay third piece of crust over it, pinching the edge to the side crust, then bake in a moderate oven for half an hour. Beat the white of the egg to a stiff froth, sift in two ounces of castor sugar, a drop or two of lemon juice, and then spread evenly on top of the tart when nearly cool, and leave to set.

Apple Mould.—One and a half pounds of apples, pare, core, and cut in quarters, put in a pan with half a pound of sugar and four ounces of butter. Stew till soft, but keep the pieces whole, lift them on to a sieve and let the syrup run into a dish. Butter a pudding-dish, line it with thin fingers of bread, lay in the pieces of apple, cover with slices of bread, brush over with egg, pour over some syrup, and bake in a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour. Turn out and serve with sauce.

Apple Charlotte.—One and a half pounds of apples, peel, core, and cut up, and put on to stew with very little water and three ounces of sugar. When soft rub through a sieve, then put back into the pan, add four ounces more sugar and simmer till thick, taking care not to let the pulp burn.

Cut some stale bread into fingers, dip into melted butter, and arrange them round a well-buttered pudding mould, lapping one edge over the other and pressing firmly down, cover the bottom with rounds of bread in the same way, shake in some bread-crumbs, fill up with the apples, place more rounds of bread on the top, put into the oven and bake for an hour. Turn on to a dish, let it stand a few minutes, then draw off the mould and dust sugar over. By allowing the mould to remain a little, there is less danger of it sticking.

Before leaving the recipes for apples, I would like to give an excellent way of stewing. Pare the apples, quarter them, take out the cores, and cut the quarters into thin slices, then put them into a pan, put sugar over them to taste, shake it down through the fruit, then put a piece of white paper over, tucking it well round the edges to keep in the steam, then put on the lid, and set the pan at the side of the fire and shake occasionally till it heats.

The steam generated by the moisture of the apples is quite enough to prevent burning, and if care is taken in shaking the pan well there is no fear of burning. Stew slowly till soft. By using no water, the flavour of the fruit is much finer and the apples become a clear jelly and are most delicious to taste.

Gooseberry Fool.—Take a quart of green gooseberries, put them, after topping and tailing them, into a pan with four ounces of loaf sugar and stew them as directed for the apples—without water. When soft, rub them through a sieve, and then stir into the purée half a pint of thick cream, stir all together, add more sugar if required, then when cold pour into a crystal dish. Garnish with whipped cream on the top.

Gooseberry Pudding.—One pint of nearly ripe gooseberries, six slices of stale bread toasted, one cupful of milk, half a cupful of sugar, and one tablespoonful of melted butter. Stew the gooseberries very slowly so as not to break them. Cut your bread to fit your pudding-dish, toast the pieces, then dip while hot into the milk, then spread with butter, and cover the bottom of the dish with some of the pieces; put next a layer of the cooked gooseberries, sprinkle with sugar, then put more toast, more fruit and sugar, and so on till the dish is full. Cover closely and steam in a moderate oven for half an hour. Turn out and pour a sauce over it or eat with cream.

Gooseberry Flummery.—Take six ounces of rice and wash it, then put it into a pan with two pints of milk, and let it cook slowly till it gets soft and thick, then add two ounces of sugar and stir well. Let it get cold, then butter or oil a mould and cover the inside with a layer of the rice about an inch thick, leaving the inside empty till the rice sets. Then fill up with gooseberries stewed thick and soft with sugar and no water, and let it stand till quite stiff and cold. Turn upside down carefully—just before serving a little time—and draw off the mould carefully so as not to break the rice. This can also be steamed after putting in the fruit and served hot with custard sauce.

Flummery of Currants.—Take two pints of red currants, squeeze them and take the juice, add a little raspberry juice, and add three-quarters of a pound of loaf sugar and six ounces of rice flour to it; cook all over the fire and stir continually. Boil for five minutes, then pour into a mould which has been dipped in cold water. Let it stand till cold and set, then turn out.

Raspberry Mould.—Have a mould—a plain one—or a small bowl lined with strips of stale bread, packing them closely together. Then have some raspberries stewed with enough sugar to sweeten them, pour into the mould, cover the top over with fingers of bread, seeing that the mould is quite full, put a plate or saucer on the top with a weight on it and set away till cold. Then turn out. This is all the better for being made the day before it is required so as to give it time to soak up all the juice into the bread; then it is a pretty pink shape. Any kind of fruit—juicy—can be used in this way, but raspberries or red currants are the nicest.

Lemon Pudding.—Take two tablespoonfuls of cornflour and wet it with a little cold water, then add boiling water to make a thick starch, add five spoonfuls of sugar, the juice and grated rind of two lemons and the yolks of two eggs well beaten. Pour into a dish and bake for ten minutes, then heap the stiffly-beaten whites on the top, dust with sugar and brown very lightly in the oven for a few minutes.

Compôte of Oranges.—Pare the rind of three large oranges, cut the fruit across into halves, removing the pips and white skin and pile the fruit in a glass dish. Boil the thin rind with half a pint of water and six ounces of loaf sugar, till the syrup is clear and thick, then strain it over the fruit. Garnish with little spoonfuls of whipped cream.

Pear Meringue.—Take a dozen and a half pears, peel them and put into a pan with sugar and a very little water and stew till tender, but avoid breaking them. Lift them carefully and arrange them neatly in a glass dish. Boil up the syrup with more sugar till thickish, add a drop or two of cochineal—pear syrup is always rather a dull colour without it—and pour over the fruit. Take the whites of three eggs and whip them very stiff, add six spoonfuls of castor sugar, spread roughly over the pears and brown slightly in the oven or with a salamander.

Rhubarb Cheesecake.—Stew a bunch of green rhubarb till soft, then beat it smooth with a fork, draining nearly all the syrup away. Add to the pulp the juice of two lemons, grated rind of one, a scrape of nutmeg—if liked—and sugar to taste, then add three well-beaten eggs. Have a pie-dish lined with pastry—or a deep plate will do—pour in the mixture and bake in a moderate oven for three-quarters of an hour. Serve cold.

Prune Pudding.—Half a pound of prunes. Stew till soft, then remove the stones and add sugar to taste, then the whites of four eggs beaten stiff, put into a dish and bake to a pale brown.

Orange Fool.—Juice of four sweet oranges, three eggs well beaten, one pint of cream, sugar to taste, and a very little cinnamon and nutmeg.

Put all into a pan and set it on the fire till the mixture is as thick as melted butter, keep stirring, but do not let it boil, then when a little cool pour into a glass dish. Serve cold.

Queen’s Mould.—Skin and cut into small pieces enough young rhubarb to fill a quart measure, put into an enamelled pan with one and a quarter pounds of sugar, the grated rind and juice of half a lemon, and twelve almonds blanched and chopped; boil fast and skin and stir till all is a rich marmalade, then add half an ounce of gelatine dissolved in two tablespoonfuls of boiling water. Rub a mould with oil, pour in the rhubarb, and set aside to cool and set. Turn out and serve with cream.

Rhubarb Scone Pudding.—Make a plain paste of half a pound of flour, two ounces of butter, a dessertspoonful of castor sugar, a pinch of salt, one teaspoonful of cream of tartar, half a teaspoonful of baking soda. Rub all together, then add enough sweet milk to make a nice firm paste, roll out the size of a dinner plate, butter the plate, lay the paste on and ornament the edge, and bake in a moderate oven till done. Fill the middle with stewed rhubarb—any stewed fruit is good—cover with the whites of two eggs beaten stiff, dust the top thickly with castor sugar and return to the oven to let it get a pale brown.

Constance.

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[From photo: Photographic Union, Munich.

ROSES.

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## LAST YEAR’S ROSES.

By HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.

They are only last year’s roses
In my mother’s china jar,
But their faint and subtle fragrance
Wafts me back to days afar;
And I shut my eyes a moment,
And I see my mother pace
Up and down the garden borders
With her stately old-world grace,
While she plucks the perfumed petals
Beds of glowing bloom among—
Oh, the roses, those sweet roses,
That I knew when I was young!
They are only last year’s roses
In the old blue china jar,
But I hear my mother singing
Songs I loved in days afar:
Yes, you sing amongst your roses,
And I grant them fresh and fair,
But they are not quite so fragrant
As those old-world roses were;
And your songs are not as sweet, dear,
As the songs my mother sung,
And you cannot make pot-pourri
As they used—when I was young!

## AN ALBUM OF BIBLE PLANTS.

It occurred to me some years ago that, out of the five or six hundred trees and plants mentioned in the Bible, the leaves of a large proportion of them might easily be obtained, dried and arranged in an album, and that such a collection might be made of great use in teaching Scripture, illustrating the meaning of various texts and throwing a light on obscure passages.

My album of Bible trees and plants is often in request. I have found great pleasure in collecting the various specimens, and am still hoping to secure other trees to complete the book.

At first one is apt to think that only eastern travellers can obtain the requisite leaves, but a little reading and Bible study will convince us that very many Scripture trees and plants are quite common and easily obtainable by anyone living in the country. I subjoin a list with which we may begin our book.

Almond (Eccles. xii. 5); apple (Cant. ii. 3); ash (Is. xliv. 14); barley (Ruth i. 22); bay-tree (Ps. xxxvii. 35); box-tree (Is. xli. 19); bramble (Jud. ix. 14); briar (Mic. vii. 4); chestnut (Gen. xxx. 37); corn (Num. xviii. 27); elm (Hos. iv. 13); fig-tree (Hab. iii. 17); flax (Ex. ix. 31); hazel (Gen. xxx. 37); heath (Jer. xvii. 6); mint (St. Luke xi. 42); mulberry (2 Sam. v. 24); mustard (St. Luke xvii. 6); myrtle (Is. lv. 13); nettle (Is. xxxiv. 13); oak (Gen. xxxv. 8); poplar (Gen. xxx. 37); rose (Is. xxxv. 1); rue (St. Luke xi. 42); thistle (Hos. x. 8); vine (Ps. lxxx. 8); wheat (Ex. ix. 32); willow (Lev. xxiii. 40).

A perfect leaf or spray of each tree should be laid between sheets of blotting-paper under a heavy weight, the paper being dried daily till the specimen is fit for insertion in the book.

The album may be of any shape we please, but about twelve inches by ten is a convenient size and shape for the purpose.

When the leaf is fixed upon the page the Latin and English name should be written beneath it and the Bible texts in which the tree is mentioned.

I find strips of gummed paper hold the leaves most securely, and instead of using stamp paper, which is too thin for the purpose, I cover a sheet of notepaper with thick gum and allow it to become quite dry; it is then ready for use and affords a large supply of tiny strips.

Besides the texts I like to add all I can learn as to the history and uses of the various trees and plants.

Here, for instance, is what I have said about the myrtle.

“A plant originally brought from Western Asia but found wild as far as Afghanistan.

“Among the ancients the myrtle was sacred to Venus; wreaths of it were worn by the victors in the Olympic Games and by Athenian magistrates. It was used in medicine, in cookery, and by the Tuscans in the preparation of myrtle wine, called Myrtidanum, for which purpose it is still employed. It is, however, chiefly used in perfumery, and a highly-scented astringent water called Eau d’Ange is distilled from its flowers. The berries have a sweetish, powerfully aromatic taste, and are eaten in a fresh state or dried as a condiment.

“The wood is very hard and beautifully veined.”

This account I compiled and wrote in my album about twenty-six years ago; perhaps at the present time many interesting facts about the myrtle might be added.

I have as yet only spoken of the trees and plants of easy attainment for our Scripture album.

The more interesting specimens such as carob-tree, olive, pomegranate, palm, oleander and others we may have to wait for, but with a little thought and patience we may probably obtain even these.

If we happen to know any friends who are going to the South of France for the winter, they could easily dry some sprays of the plants I have mentioned, and bring them to us in due time. If we have not this possibility, then in some florist’s greenhouse we may probably meet with oleander and palm, and we may grow our own carob-trees by sowing the seeds in pots, and, sheltered indoors from frosts, they will germinate and in time produce leaves large enough for the album. The carob is not mentioned by name in the Bible, but it is a Palestine tree, and yields the long, brown pods which were the “husks that the swine did eat” in the parable of the Prodigal Son; they are also believed to have been the “locusts” which, combined with “wild honey,” sustained John the Baptist in the wilderness, hence they are often called St. John’s bread. If we desire to buy the pods, they may be obtained at most corn-dealers under the name of “locusts.”

Another interesting fact about the carob is this, that the brown hard seeds used to be the weights jewellers employed for weighing gold, silver, and precious stones; hence the term “carat” with which we are familiar.

The long curved pods are eaten, when fresh, by the poorer inhabitants of Palestine; they are sweet and nourishing.

The oleander is not mentioned in the Bible, but it grows so abundantly on the shores of the Lake of Galilee that it has some claim to be admitted into our collection.

We may grow our own date plants if we will; the seeds germinate very freely at any season if kept warm and in moist soil. The leaf does not divide into leaflets and become a true palm leaf until the plant is five or six years old. If we desire a small palm leaf that will at once fit into our book, any florist will be able to supply a spray of Cocos veitchii, a small and delicate species just fitted for the purpose.

These hints will enable anyone to form a Bible plant album, and many a pleasant and profitable hour may be spent in reading about each tree, and the passages in Scripture where they are mentioned are invested with a deeper interest from our knowledge of many facts which otherwise would have passed unnoticed.

E. B.

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## NOCTURNE.

For Pianoforte.

Matthew Hale.

Audio content is not currently supported on your device.

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## SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

### CHAPTER XIII.

MATERNAL DISPLEASURE.

here is Sheila, Effie?”

“Gone for a ride along the New Road with Lady Dumaresq and her brother,” answered Effie with a slight toss of the head.

Mrs. Cossart looked annoyed.

“She had no business to go without my permission.”

“Much Sheila cares for that!” snorted Effie; but then with perhaps a better impulse she added, “Well, you were out, you know. And Lady Dumaresq sent up to ask her, and they had ordered a horse for her. I suppose she couldn’t very well have refused. She seems to belong more to them than to us.”

Mrs. Cossart’s ordinarily placid face darkened; that was exactly her own feeling, and she did not like it. The Dumaresqs were undeniably the “best” people at the hotel. The mother had arranged to spend this winter in Madeira partly that Effie might have the opportunity of making friends on equal terms with persons of a higher social standing than were attainable at home. It had even passed through her mind that Ronald Dumaresq would be a good match for her daughter. Hitherto she had never thought of Effie’s leaving her, but something the last doctor had said had put the notion into her head.

“Take her away and throw her with a lot of strangers. Let her mix with other people and get fresh interests. She has been too much shut up and thrown upon herself. Her nerves want bracing, and there is nothing like change of scene and companionship for that. You say she has never had a ‘disappointment,’ so much the better. She may find the right man for a husband one of these days, and in some respects that would be the best thing possible.”

So Mrs. Cossart, for the first time in her life, was rather disposed to make schemes for her daughter’s matrimonial settlement.

“Didn’t they ask you too?” she asked. “It would only have been polite.”

Effie made her little defiant gesture with head and shoulders.

“I don’t think grand people who are thought so much of are very polite. I suppose they think themselves too grand. Besides, they know I don’t like the horses here. But don’t you trouble about me, mother. I am all right. I don’t want a lot of strangers to run after. I don’t care to make myself cheap, like Sheila. I am quite happy with my books and work up here, and the garden to walk in. I never was one for always gadding. I think it’s charming to sit here in the sunshine and watch the sea. I get tired of all the silly babble that amuses Sheila. It’s more interesting to think one’s own thoughts. I have lots of thoughts. Perhaps I shall write them down some day when I’m stronger. I shouldn’t like to be always hanging on to other people. I’m not made like that.”

“Yes, I am afraid Sheila is very forward; I shall have to put a stop to her goings on, I think. People are beginning to talk about her. She was brought to be a companion for you, and she is always off with other people.”

“Oh, don’t think I want her,” cried Effie, laughing. “I get quite enough of her as it is, I assure you! We are good enough friends, but Sheila has such a shallow mind. I get tired of her. I like to go deeper into things; but when I talk she always either laughs or goes rattling off about some tennis match or cricket, or picnic. I can’t make things like that the aim and object of my existence.”

“But we want you to get out and see people, dear.”

“Oh, yes, and so I do; and perhaps there will be some more people by-and-by whom I shall like better. But I was rather glad to be rid of Sheila this afternoon, as it happens; for the two Miss Murchisons are coming to tea. I always enjoy them most alone. We like the same things, and Sheila doesn’t. She spoils it by making nonsense of everything.”

Mrs. Cossart did not reply; she had never opposed her daughter in any of her plans, and did not like to begin now; but as a matter of fact the two Miss Murchisons were by no means the companions she would have selected for her. They were pleasant girls enough, but their father was a tradesman in Leeds in a good way of business; and though everybody in the hotel was kind and civil to them, they were not in the swim in any sense of the word. One of the pair was delicate, and perhaps that had formed a bond. She could not play tennis, or go down in the evening to play in the billiard-room, or scramble up the steep roads either on foot or on horseback. Anyhow, Effie had taken a fancy to these girls, and would have them to her rooms, or go to theirs and spend hours in talking. Mrs. Cossart got an impression that they mutually told each other every detail of their respective illnesses, and all they had gone through; and she was beginning to understand that that sort of talk was bad for Effie; yet having herself encouraged it for so many years, she found it very difficult either to break herself of the habit or to break it in Effie.

The guests, in fact, appeared almost before there was time for more words, and Effie visibly brightened. Mrs. Cossart lingered awhile listening to the talk; but presently she betook herself to the garden to find her husband, who was greatly enjoying the easy life in the exquisite climate, where it was never cold and seldom too hot, and where he could sit out in sunshine or shade with his paper and pipe from morning to night, enjoying interludes of talk and friendly gossip with other elderly gentlemen of like tastes and habits.

They wandered about a little and finally betook themselves to the level garden outside the front door, and before long there was a clatter of horse-hoofs, and the riding party returned. Sheila, as usual, was bubbling over with fun, and her gay laugh rang out again and again as she dismounted and came along with Ronald in attendance.

“Thank you so much, Lady Dumaresq, it has been a delightful ride!” she cried, turning back towards their companion who was bringing up the rear more slowly. “What dear, little, plucky horses they are, though they do pull! They do like to get off the cobbles on to a proper road. And what a funny little village that is at the end of the road! Didn’t the people look wild and queer?”

“I believe they are rather a wild lot,” answered Lady Dumaresq, smiling; “but you must be thirsty, little girl. Come with us and have some tea. Guy and Aunt Mary are sure to have it all ready for us.” Then seeing Mrs. Cossart she added, with one of her gracious smiles, “You will let us give the baby her tea, will you not, since we have ridden her so hard?”

“Thank you, you are very kind,” answered Mrs. Cossart, rather stiffly, for she never could get used to what she called “grand people,” though she longed to be friendly with them, and was secretly pleased when Lady Dumaresq spoke to her in presence of other guests. But why was it Sheila{638} whom these people had taken up, making a pet and baby of her, and encouraging her in all her little spoilt-child ways? If it had only been Effie now, the mother would have been brimming over with delight; but Sheila was quite spoiled enough as it was; it was a thousand pities she should be made so much of here.

Effie was able now to appear at luncheon and dinner, and her mother took care that she was always well dressed and looked her best. Sir Guy Dumaresq had the seat at the end of the table farthest from the door; his own party sat at his right hand, and the Cossarts opposite at his left. Thus they seemed in a fashion to make one party, and conversation was usually more or less general.

“Now, Miss Cossart,” said Ronald to Effie that day, “you’ve not done a single thing since you came. We must really rout you up. Let’s make up a party and take the funicular railway to the Mount Church to-morrow, and come down in running carros. It’s the most screaming fun, and perfectly safe. I know Miss Sheila is just aching to go in one; and you must come too!”

“There, Effie,” cried Mrs. Cossart, beaming, “isn’t that a charming plan?”

Effie pursed up her lips and gave her head a little toss.

“I don’t know till I’ve tried. I thought it always rained up at the Mount. I see the clouds come down every day about noon. But I’ll come if you want me; if I do get wet, I do. I don’t care so very much. If I do get a bad night afterwards it won’t kill me, I daresay!”

“Oh, we’ll take care of you!” cried Ronald, laughing. “Guy is going; and he isn’t to get wet either; so we’ll make love to the clerk of the weather. But the mornings are almost always fine even up there. It’s in the afternoon the clouds come down.”

Sheila was delighted to think of going on this excursion. So far, although they had now been several weeks in the island, she had seen very little. The Cossarts liked to take things quietly, and there was plenty of time, they kept saying, to see everything.

The few rides with Effie had not been particularly exhilarating, as she had been nervous and dissatisfied with the horses, and though Ronald had gone prospecting about, the Dumaresqs and Miss Adene had been content for the most part with the pleasures of the garden; and so Sheila’s opportunities for sight-seeing had been but few.

However, nothing could have been more favourable than the weather the next day. Fine as it almost always was down in Funchal, there were days when the hills and mountain peaks were wrapped in cloud, and those who ventured up their sides were speedily wet through. But to-day all was clear and bright and sunny; and as the little railway train climbed puffing up the steep track, the air seemed to grow more and more clear and buoyant, and Sheila laughed aloud from pure gladness of heart.

All the Dumaresqs were of the party, including little Guy, who clung close to Sheila, and who was her especial care. Miss Adene went with them, “to keep them in bounds,” as she said, and Ronald and Effie completed the party. Perhaps Ronald felt he had rather neglected the delicate girl, whose pleasures seemed few and far between; for he constituted himself her cavalier that day; gave her his hand over any rough ground; pointed out the various objects of interests, and promised to be her companion in the running carro for the descent.

The air felt fresh and almost cold when they left the train. Sheila drank in long breaths with keen delight.

“It is almost like being in England again! I do love the lazy heat down below; but it is delightful to get up here where one feels like running and jumping!” and forthwith she and little Guy began chasing each other in and out amongst the trees and zigzag paths, till Miss Adene called to them that they were going up to the church, and told them to follow.

After they had seen the big bare church with its curious images, they got some very curious thick strong coffee at the little hotel, and then Ronald went in search of carros sufficient for all the party.

“Miss Adene, you’ll go with me and little Guy, won’t you?” said Sheila. “I’ll hold him on my knee and take care of him. You’ll trust him to me, won’t you, Lady Dumaresq, and you can take care of Sir Guy!”

“Mayn’t I be allowed to take care of my own wife?” asked Sir Guy, laughing; and Sheila laughed and blushed and answered quaintly—

“I think you always do take care of one another, Sir Guy.”

From the Mount Church a cobble-paved road ran sheer down the steep hillside into the town lying beneath. The running carros were baskets on runners, holding two persons, and managed by two men, who held them back and steered them by ropes, running alongside or behind, and calling out to all other passengers to get out of the way. For the road was a public highway, and bullocks dragging up loads on sledges, or men, women, and children with their market produce or purchases on their heads, would be constantly met or passed coming up or going down.

The sensation of the running carro is very strange at first. It glides off with a gentle motion, gathering velocity as it gets its momentum, till at last it seems flying downwards in a perfectly irresponsible way; and only the clever steering and checking of the runners saves the traveller from the feeling that he must of necessity be flying to inevitable destruction.

Sheila’s nerves were strong, and she and little Guy laughed aloud as they flew downwards; whilst Miss Adene had had experience of these methods, and took the descent quite calmly.

“I wonder how Effie likes it!” cried Sheila in one of the pauses, where the runners have to be greased, or the basket-work might be in danger of charring, so tremendous is the heat generated by the friction.

Effie, however, seemed to have got on well as they joined company at the bottom of the slide, and found bullock carros waiting to take them home. She was more animated than usual, and declared that she had not been frightened at all after just the first; and Ronald said she had stood it like a brick.

When they got home Mrs. Cossart was eager to hear Effie’s story, and very pleased at her pleasure in the day’s outing.

“It is quite right and proper that you should go with Sheila when they ask her. You got on very well with them, did you not?”

“Oh, yes, very well indeed. Mr. Dumaresq never noticed Sheila at all when I was there. He is really very intelligent. I enjoyed talking to him. He has plenty of sense, though he has such good spirits. I like him very much.”

Mrs. Cossart was well pleased. The thought which had lately come into her head seemed now to take firmer root. Certainly a marriage into some really good family would be an excellent thing for Effie; and her handsome dowry ought to be an inducement which no young man would altogether overlook.

So the mother’s eyes were very jealously on the watch the next days and weeks; and often her heart swelled within her with anger and jealous displeasure. For it was impossible to ignore the fact that Sheila was the favourite. However well Effie was dressed, however she was put forward and “trotted out” by her mother, it was Sheila’s merry laugh, Sheila’s saucy or appealing speeches, Sheila’s big soft eyes that seemed to win her way everywhere.

“I wish I had never brought that girl!” cried Mrs. Cossart one evening in exasperation to her husband.

“What girl, my dear?” asked Mr. Cossart mildly. “I thought it was doing Effie so much good. She is another creature.”

“Yes, Effie, if it were only her; but there is Sheila! I am out of all patience with her! I declare if there is a good opportunity I will ship her back to England. It is too bad the way she is going on!”

(To be continued.)

{639}

## ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

### MEDICAL.

Florence.—The glands under your arm have inflamed and broken down, and you ask us to tell you what has caused this. There are many possible causes, but we will confine our remarks to the commonest, and therefore most likely causes. The use of these glands is to filter off from the lymph any impurities it may contain. Let us briefly glance at physiological considerations to enable us to understand why these glands are so extremely commonly inflamed. Your right arm is affected. Very well. The blood reaches your right arm and hand by the arteries. Part of the blood returns to the heart by the veins, part of it exudes through the walls of the smallest arteries. This part is not red but colourless, and is called lymph. This lymph bathes and nourishes the tissues, giving them food, and taking away with it their impurities. This lymph flows back through colourless vessels called lymph-channels, which end in the veins of the neck; but we said that the lymph takes up impurities in its passage. These impurities are partly physiological and partly unhealthy; the latter consist of germs. If these germs were sent into the blood-stream there would be disastrous consequences, and to prevent this the lymph-glands are placed in the course of the lymph-channels just before these enter the blood-stream. All the lymph is forced through these glands as through a filter, and any germs it may contain remain in the glands, and are quickly destroyed by the elements of the glands, which are there for this purpose. But suppose you have an abscess on your hand; that abscess is swarming with germs, and the lymph in its passage will carry away a vast number of these injurious microbes, and will take them to the glands of the armpit. The germs remain in the glands and give the glands extra work to do. The glands will enlarge and become inflamed. If the infection of the glands is very virulent, the glands may, as it were, die at their post and become abscesses. Now we can proceed. The commonest cause of inflamed glands in the axilla is inflammation and suppuration about the hand or arm. An abscess, a small dirty wound, or anything of a septic character on the arm or hand will produce inflammation of the glands under the arm. In these cases, as soon as the primary condition is remedied the glands regain their normal condition. But suppose that the primary wound was a stab in the hand from a hat-pin, which in some way had become infected with the germs of tubercle; then the glands will also become infected with tubercle, and this brings us to the second commonest form of inflammation of lymphatic glands, the so-called strumous or scrofulous glands. This is an exceedingly common affection, especially in children. Good diet and cod-liver oil will help to enable the body to withstand this disease. Sea air, and especially the air of Margate, Folkestone, or Cromer will do more than anything else to cure this affection in its early stages. Sometimes, in the later stages, or in cases where the malady has been neglected, operation is necessary to prevent excessive scarring or exhaustion from continued discharge. It is imperative when glands have broken down, and are discharging, that they should be kept extremely clean and free from external infections by the use of local antiseptic washes and applications. The arm must also be kept at rest.

A Girton Girl.—Should persons with organic disease of the heart marry? is a question which is very much easier to ask than it is to answer. In this case we have not to consider the dangers of heredity, for though heart-disease, and still more so, the commonest cause of heart-disease, rheumatism, is undoubtedly sometimes hereditary, it is not sufficiently so to forbid marriage on this score. Our personal experience is that heart-disease is not hereditary. Nor is heart-disease an infectious disease like consumption, which you could communicate to your children or husband. Valvular disease is so varied in its nature and degree that it is impossible to lay down laws which are applicable to every case.

Glasbury.—Influenza is a terrible disease, and it often leaves much suffering in its train. Indeed, we know of no disease which leaves so much ill-health behind it. You, it has left with dyspepsia and nervous weakness—perhaps its commonest legacy. You must be exceedingly careful of your diet. The wind in your stomach you can relieve by bicarbonate of soda or by two or three drops of essence of ginger in a wineglassful of water. At the present time you should feed as well as your dyspepsia will admit; and, really, to treat indigestion properly does not entail many privations. Meat and malt wine, or cod-liver oil and maltine would do you good if you can digest it; or you might derive great benefit from a course of iron with quinine or other bitter tonic. But you cannot take the last until your indigestion is relieved.

Evelyn.—If you go to a dental hospital, they will tell you where you can get artificial teeth cheaply. It is against our rules to give the name or address of any person.

Molly.—Before attempting to cure any ailment, it is necessary to discuss two questions. The first is—What is the nature of the trouble? The second is—What has caused it? It is only in certain cases that one can answer both these questions definitely; but the more clearly he answers these, the more rational and efficacious will be the treatment of the malady. And in the treatment itself, the first thing to do is to remove the cause, if possible. Now what causes your hands to get “hot and clammy?” There is a possibility that it may be a purely natural condition, for the palms of the hands perspire more freely than any other part of the body, and persons vary extremely in the quantity of fluid which exudes through their skin. Or your trouble may be due to some unhealthy cause. Persons who are suffering from many forms of illness perspire profusely. One of the commonest causes is indigestion, which acts in this way. The stomach lies just below the heart, and when the stomach is in difficulty it worries the heart, and so interferes with the circulation. This is the cause of the flutterings, palpitations, flushes and excessive perspirations, so common in indigestion. You must therefore see to your digestion; also wash your hands frequently in warm water with a good soap, and occasionally rinse your hands in diluted toilet vinegar. Do not wear kid gloves, but if you require any gloves at all wear thin silk ones. Healthy exercise is necessary in this as in every other condition.

Elsa.—This correspondent asks us the following question. “My father and mother died of consumption, and one of my sisters is in the last stages of the same disease; am I going to get consumption?” We are going to answer this question at length because it gives us an opportunity for demonstrating what is meant by hereditary influence in disease; and also because here is a poor girl worrying herself over a calamity which may never occur. We say that consumption is an hereditary disease, but this is not accurate. The disease is not hereditary, but the tendency to it is. Consumption is a chronic infectious disease caused by the presence of the tubercle organism in the body. It may and does strike down anybody; but those who are sprung from a family with a tubercular history are more liable to be attacked than others. We have a great deal of evidence to show that nearly one-tenth of the human race becomes infected with tuberculosis, but only a very small proportion of those infected succumb, or indeed ever show symptoms of the disease. Now it is presumable that those who do show symptoms have some extra factor which prevents their throwing off the disease. For instance, persons who suffer from chronic bronchitis, or who are barrel-chested, or who are run down in health, etc., are less likely to successfully combat the disease than are others. It is therefore one of these extra factors which is hereditary; it may be a peculiarly-shaped chest, for instance. Nobody is born with the tubercle germ inside her. So if every relative of yours died of consumption, you can prevent yourself from contracting the disease by running away from the tubercle germ and living in a spot where this worst of all human pests does not exist. Unfortunately this germ is almost ubiquitous. It swarms in every city and town, and lurks by rivers and in sandy wastes. It does not inhabit the ocean or the high latitudes or the tops of mountains. The sea-coast is much less impregnated with this germ than are the inland parts. The germ apparently dislikes the north wind, and is therefore comparatively uncommon on our East coasts. Therefore, if you have a special dread of consumption, live in a land where the tubercle bacillus does not thrive.

Athena.—Occasionally it is possible to restore the original form to a nose which has been broken. Where there is great lateral deformity, the question of correcting the displacement is well worth considering. In the minor grades of distortion of the nose, due to old injuries, it is scarcely worth while to have an operation done. In recent injury the nose should always be “set” at once, for in this case deformity can be almost always prevented. But remember that, if you have had your nose “set” after a recent injury, and still deformity does occur, you must not lay the blame on the surgeon. All operations on the nose or any other part of the face should be done by a specialist, if possible.

Olga Bertha.—The probable cause of your trouble is anæmia and nervous exhaustion. We cannot enter at length into the treatment of this condition as we have done so many times already. You had better give up bicycling for a time till you feel stronger again. Drinking large quantities of water does dilute the blood, but only for a second or two, for if more water than is necessary is drunk, though it is absorbed into the blood it is thrown out again immediately by the skin, the kidneys and the lungs. Drinking large quantities of fluid with meals is a potent cause of dyspepsia, for the gastric juice cannot digest anything when it is too much diluted. Perhaps you would derive benefit from meat and malt wine, or maltine.

Natator.—There have been many explanations of the cause of cramp while bathing, and it is not yet definitely settled which, if any, of these is correct. The most probable theory is that cramp is due to over-distention and paralysis of the heart. According to this hypothesis, the contact of the skin with the cold water causes all the blood-vessels of the skin to contract and so force the blood which was contained in them into the internal vessels. As more blood than usual will be thus thrown into those vessels which are deeply situated, the blood pressure will rise greatly. The heart has to overcome this pressure before it can drive the blood through the body. But if the pressure is exceedingly high, the heart may be unable to overcome it—a condition which means instantaneous death. But there are two conditions in which cramp occurs whilst bathing. In the first way, the instant the bather enters the water she is struck down by cramp, and if help is not instantly forthcoming she dies in a few seconds. In the second case, the bather is all right till she has been in the water perhaps half an hour; she is then gradually seized with cramp. Let us see if we can reconcile both these conditions to our heart theory? The first is obvious from the above. In the second case we must presume that although the blood pressure is raised, still the heart, being healthy and strong, can overcome it. But after half an hour’s violent exercise the heart begins to tire, and is now no longer capable of working against the great resistance. This form of cramp is therefore more gradual than the first; but both forms are necessarily fatal unless timely help is at hand. Most of the other theories of cramp refer the condition to temporary derangements of the nervous system, but Broadbent, the greatest authority on the heart, is much in favour of the theory we have just enunciated.

Terror.—A bunion is an inflammation of the joint of the great toe. It is almost always due to the pressure of an ill-fitting boot. In the normal foot the great toe stands away from the other toes, and so, if boots were made to resemble the foot, the inner border would be either perfectly straight or slightly curved towards the middle line of the body. But cobblers have improved on Nature, and they make boots in which the inner border meets the outer border in a point. In consequence of this absurdity, the great toe is forced towards the other toes; its chief joint is partially dislocated and the ball of the toe forms a projection on the inner side. This ball is part of the joint, and so the side of the boot actually presses upon the joint itself. This the joint is unable to stand. A “bursa”—that is, a sort of water-cushion—is developed above the ball of the toe, and so protects the joint from pressure. This is Nature’s method of preserving the human foot from the ignorance and stupidity of its owner. But although Nature is very cute in her way, she is unable to cope with the owner of the foot, whose stupidity gets the better of the struggle, though her foot comes off very badly indeed. Nature has provided the above-mentioned water-cushion, but the boots are still tight and misshapen. The “water-cushion” now becomes inflamed, its edges get thickened, the joint underneath the water-cushion shares in the inflammation and becomes destroyed. This is a bunion. So, after all, Nature does get the better of it. She says she will not have joints distorted and pressed upon, and she has got her way, only she has had to destroy the joint altogether. The treatment of a bunion depends upon the stage of the disease. In the early stages merely wearing properly-shaped boots will undo the mischief. At a later date, a special boot with a special compartment for the great toe must be worn. In the last stages, nothing but a surgical operation—no less than cutting away the joint—will give relief. We cannot too strongly impress upon you the necessity of wearing rightly-shaped boots which do not distort the great toe. For a bunion is really a serious disease, and, moreover, if its cause is not removed, it is a progressive disease, and will leave you in the end either a cripple for life or with the necessity of having to submit to a surgical operation of moderate severity.

Curious.—Pepsin is obtained by scraping the stomach of a pig or calf. It is the chief digestive agent secreted by the gastric juice. Papain is a vegetable production, having much the same action as pepsin, but is not so likely to do harm when taken for indigestion. Peptone is the name given to the product of albumin (proteid) when completely digested. You will find an account of the digestion in any book on physiology.

“One of the Old Girls.”—We fear that we cannot answer your questions, for we never have given and never will give the address of any chemist, physician or herbalist, or of any professional or tradesmen whatsoever, in this column. As we know of no depilatory which is useful without being injurious, we could not answer your question under any circumstances. As a well-known physician once tersely put it, “There is no depilator which is not a delapidator.”

{640}

### STUDY AND STUDIO.

Grace Darling.—1. If the friend whose verses you enclose is “only sixteen and has had a poor education,” her attempt does her credit. There are many defects in composition; for instance, in verse 5 the second person singular (thy) is interchanged with the plural (you). The emphasis on the second syllable of “cannot” (verse 1, line 2), is quite inadmissible, and we think a word must be omitted after “usual,” as that is not a substantive.—2. Your writing strikes us as very good; clear and legible, and likely, as you are only fifteen, to become more “formed” with practice.

Green-belle.—We cannot say that you should encourage your “little friend.” The verses you enclose are sentimental, and do not show poetic ability in any way. If she is, as your letter suggests, quite young, she should choose a different sort of theme when she wishes to attempt metrical composition.

S. M.—Life is long, and we cannot decree that you would never write well enough for publication; yet it would be unkind on our part to encourage you in any hope that we should be likely to publish your efforts. The little story in rhyme you enclose is pathetic, but many of the lines are halting. “And who” (line 23) is an ungrammatical expression where it stands. The composition of poetry that will find acceptance is no easy task, so you must not feel hurt by our criticism.

Faith (Western Australia).—1. Dr. Brewer informs us that the “Siamese Twins” were two youths, Eng and Chang, born of Chinese parents at Bang Mecklong. Their bodies were united by a band of flesh stretching from breast-bone to breast-bone.—2. Your quotation—

“The undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns.”

is from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, act i., scene 3. We appreciate your letter and request.

Phyllis.—1. An easy Latin grammar for beginners is Arnold’s Henry’s First Latin Book, price 2s. 3d. net. Smith’s Principïa Latina, part i., is a little more difficult, but excellent. We do not see why, if you are of a persevering turn, you should not teach yourself Latin, and it is an undoubted help towards acquiring any other language.—2. On the other hand we fear you cannot hope to learn the violin entirely unaided. You would certainly contract some bad habit, even if you could contrive to produce the notes.

Marguerite.—We believe that New Zealand would be a good place for a working-class family or a young man or woman to emigrate to, provided they were capable and thrifty. There are a great many emigration societies from which you can obtain information. Apply to the Self-Help Emigration Society, address Secretary, Memorial Hall Buildings, Farringdon Street, E.C.; and to the Agent-General for New Zealand, 13, Victoria Street, London, S.W. Thanks for your information.

## DAINTY SCENT SACHET IN SATIN.

The pretty article here illustrated is no sooner seen than coveted by most of the fair sex, either for their own use or as a tiny present for a friend. White satin of good quality is used for the front of the bag, which is further adorned with a delicate spray of ribbon embroidery arranged in the form of a slightly oblong wreath lightly outlined, around which diminutive flowers and leaves are placed. Pale blue, yellow, or green pongee silk is suitable for the back of bag, which is added when the embroidery has been completed, previous to being filled with wadding containing scent powder, and being closed with strings of the delicate ribbon used for the embroidery.

Materials required.—White satin, pongee silk, each four inches wide and six inches long, three layers of wadding same size, pot pourri or other scent powder, half a yard each of cornflour blue, yellow and leaf-green ribbon, such as is used for ribbon embroidery. A thread of green filoselle is used for the tiny stems and to outline the wreath, which should be worked first.

The design consists of this wreath and two groups of flowers interspersed with green leaves and coloured buds. A pleasing variety may be produced by using green chenille instead of ribbon for some of the leaves. If any reader should find difficulty in copying this particular design, she may substitute any small spray and work it in any kind of embroidery which she finds easier and thinks suitable. The effect of the whole chiefly depends upon delicacy of colour, design and workmanship of whatever kind introduced, and the idea affords scope for endless individual taste and variety.

The ornamentation should not extend more than two inches from the lower edge of the satin, so as to escape the gatherings by which the bag is closed at the top. The simplest way to carry out our design is to copy the wreath’s outline upon the satin with a lead pencil and to work in the flowers and leaves afterwards from the illustration. It is really quite easy to do so in the case of such a tiny spray, and first attempts may be made by drawing it on paper until satisfied that the arrangement has been satisfactorily copied. After that the attempt should be made upon the satin with or without pencil tracing, according the worker’s ability.

To work rosette flower.—Take four inches of yellow ribbon, a single thread of fine sewing silk or cotton, a common fine sewing needle, and a large-eyed ribbon or crewel needle. Draw or imagine a circle the size of a small glove button. With the large-eyed needle draw one end of ribbon through the edge of circle. Take second needle and thread, sew the end in place with one tiny stitch and gather along one edge of ribbon, which should be on right side of satin. Then draw second end of ribbon through to wrong side and draw in the gathering thread very tightly to form a rosette as small as possible. Stitch the centre in place, taking the stitches through the extreme edge of gathers only. Fasten off on wrong side.

To work star, flowers and leaves but few directions are required. Work with large-eyed needle and a short length of ribbon. Draw ribbon through to right side of satin, leaving a short end at wrong side. Lay a bodkin or other flat instrument in front of ribbon; work one stitch over the bodkin and draw it away. Work three more stitches in the same way and finish centre with a large French knot worked with silk or filoselle. The foliage leaves are formed like the star flower petals. The bodkin is used to keep the ribbon flat and untwisted and from being drawn too tightly. It is advisable to fasten off the ends of ribbon on wrong side with needle and thread after each length of ribbon is worked up.

The reeds, which are most effective, consist of a nicely-worked French knot, made of coloured ribbon, on the top of a tiny green stem. These knots may be worked in the usual way, but some workers prefer to make a tied single knot with an inch of ribbon by hand, and then to draw each end through the work with the large-eyed needle.

When the embroidery is completed, lay the satin and silk together to make up the bag, having right side of embroidery inside. Turn down two inches of silk and satin together at the top of bag. Keeping them in this position, run the edges together along sides and bottom. Raise the upper layer of turned-down top and turn it over on opposite side, and you will be pleased to find a neatly-finished hem ready made, as it were, without any further trouble. Next turn the work right side out, lay some scent powder between the layers of wadding, fold them in half crosswise and slip all together into the bag. Next take twelve inches of green, blue, and yellow ribbon, and tie them round the bag about one inch from the top, having first arranged the back and front into artistic folds, if possible, without the assistance of gathering threads, which somewhat detract from the desired effect of immaculate freshness indispensable to work of the highest order.

Last of all, in the centre of embroidered front form a smart, crisply-made bow, using the three ribbons together so as to produce a soft bunch of loops and ends bristling out at each side.

Nothing then remains to be done save to admire the pleasing result of your labour, which, unless I am much mistaken, will greatly exceed your expectations.

There is one more hint I cannot resist giving you. It is this, three-sixteenths of a yard of satin is a small amount and only costs a little money, but it will make ten such scent-bags. What a happy idea for those of you who work for charity, and make their own little birthday gifts! Won’t you try it?

L. E. C. L.

[Transcriber’s Note: the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 626: Challonet to Challoner—“Lucy Challoner”.

Page 627: lettter to letter—“over that letter”.

Page 637: Muchisons to Murchisons—“two Miss Murchisons”.

Page 638: Crossart to Cossart—“Mrs. Cossart beaming”.

Missing word “on” inserted—“going on this”.]