MRS. BRIGHTWEN IN HER GARDEN.
To a true lover of nature hardly anything can be more thoroughly enjoyable than a quiet hour spent in some shady spot early on a summer’s morning, whilst the dew is still upon the flowers, and before any sounds can be heard except those made by happy birds and insects.
In my garden there is a little dell embowered by trees, where I often spend an hour or two before breakfast for the special purpose of enjoying the company of my pet wild creatures.
On one side are five arches, formed possibly some hundreds of years ago, since the great stones are grey with age and picturesquely moss-grown and ivy-clad. Young trees, too, are growing here and there out of the crevices into which the wind has wafted their seeds.
In an open space before me are groups of stately foxgloves of every tint, ranging from purple through rose-colour to pure white. Some of them have stems fully seven feet in height, each bearing not fewer than a hundred and forty or fifty flowers.
Not only amongst these foxgloves, but in the lime branches overhead innumerable bees keep up a continuous murmuring sound as
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 they busily gather their morning store of honey.
Various tall grasses are sending up their feathery plumes, and in a special bed where only wild flowers are allowed to grow, teasel, hypericum, valerian, and bog-myrtle are delighting my eyes by the free, graceful way in which they make themselves at home as if in their native habitat.
Under one of the arches the birds always find an abundance of food, which I strew for them several times in the day.
There I see young blackbirds, chaffinches, hedge-sparrows, wrens, and titmice feasting and flitting about, quite regardless of my presence. One advantage of this retreat is that no house-sparrows come here to annoy the more timid birds.
The quietness and peace of this secluded spot is in marked contrast to the scenes I witness near the house. There sparrows reign supreme. They come down in flocks to gorge themselves and their offspring upon the sopped bread, rudely driving away many other kinds of birds that I would fain encourage.
It may be observed that I have not spoken of robins feeding under the archway, because only one haunts this spot, and he is my special pet, and elects to sit on a bough close to me warbling his sweet low song, and occasionally accepting some choice morsel from my hand.
When he was a brown-coated youngster I began to feed and attract him, and in one week he gained so much confidence as to alight on my hand.
He is now my devoted adherent, flying to meet me in different parts of the garden as soon as he hears my voice.
I am much interested, and I think he is also, in the development of the little scarlet waistcoat which marks his arrival at maturity. I saw the first red feather appear, just a mere tinge of colour amongst the rest, and now daily I see the hue is deepening. If bathing and pluming will tend to make him a handsome robin, he bids fair to outshine his compeers, for he is always busy about his toilet, first fluttering in a large clam-shell, which contains water, and then becoming absorbed in his preening operations, which nothing will interrupt but the appearance of another robin, who, of course, must be flown at and driven away.
Birds, however, are not my only visitors. Some tame voles or field-mice creep stealthily in and out of the rockwork and find their way to the birds’ feeding-ground, where they also enjoy the seeds and coarse oatmeal, and amuse me much with their graceful play and occasional scrimmages. Field-mice are easily tamed and made happy in captivity.
Last year I coaxed a pair of these voles into a large glass globe, and kept them long enough to observe sundry family events, such as nest-building, the arrival of some baby-voles, and their development from small pink infants into full-grown mice, and then I set the whole family at liberty under the archway, where they now disport themselves with all the confidence of privileged rodents.
By remaining absolutely still for an hour or two, quietly reading or thinking, one has delightful opportunities of seeing rare birds quite at their ease.
A green woodpecker, all unconscious of my presence, is clinging to an old tree stem near by, and I can not only hear his tapping noise, but I am able to observe how he is supported by the stiff feathers in his tail, which press against the tree, and how his long tongue darts into crevices in the bark and draws out the insects upon which he feeds.
I follow his upward progress around the stem until he flies away with the loud laughing cry which has earned for him the local name of Yaffle.
Hawfinches are by no means common in this neighbourhood, but one morning I was much interested to be able to watch three or four of these birds, which had alighted on the top of a spruce fir in this dell. Their golden-red plumage glistened brightly as they busily flitted from branch to branch, snapping off small fir-sprays with their powerful beaks, and chattering to each other all the while like diminutive parrots.
Now the early morning sun is sending shafts of brilliant light through the thick foliage, and bringing out special objects in high relief.
Just beside me is a large mass of grey stone, moss-grown and fern-shaded. The sun has lighted up one side of this; the rest is in shadow, so that it forms a picture in itself, and my robin has alighted on it as though on purpose to give the touch of colour that was needed.
All my readers may not have so sweet a spot in which to study nature, but I do strongly commend to them the delight of a quiet time spent alone out-of-doors in the early morning.
The air is then so pure and fresh that it seems to invigorate one’s mind no less than one’s body, and in the country the sights and sounds are such as tend to helpful thoughts of the love and goodness of the Creator Who has blessed us with so much to make us happy, if only we will open our eyes and hearts to see and understand the works of His hands.
Eliza Brightwen.
LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.
PART VIII.
The Temple. 
My dear Dorothy,—Nothing seems to puzzle the ordinary public so much as the law of omnibus travelling, and in one of two cases which I saw reported the other day, the worthy County Court judge seems, if he were correctly reported, to have made a slip and nonsuited a plaintiff with a good cause of action. I am inclined to think, however, that it was the reporter who made the slip and not the judge, by omitting an important point in the case which had escaped his notice, and I think I can pretty well guess what that point was.
As both the actions arose out of incidents of everyday occurrence, which might happen to anyone, I will here relate them for your benefit.
The first case was one in which a lady claimed damages from an omnibus company—I think it was the London General, but that is a detail—on account of injuries received through the misconduct of the conductor. It appears that there had been a previous altercation between the parties, and that when the lady rose to go out, he pushed her off the step and started the bus, so that the lady fell down and injured her leg.
The judge very properly nonsuited the plaintiff, because it is not part of an omnibus conductor’s duties to violently push people off his omnibus; such behaviour on his part was something outside of his ordinary duties as a servant of the Company. The lady therefore had no cause of action against the Company; her remedy was against the conductor for the assault.
This may seem to you, my dear Dorothy, to be a very unsatisfactory state of affairs, but so it is, and it seems to me to be good sense and good law, although I admit that an action against a wealthy omnibus company and one against a poor conductor are not quite the same thing.
In the other case a lady brought an action against an omnibus company to recover the value of a dress, which she stated had been damaged owing to her falling into the mud through the negligence or carelessness of the conductor in starting the omnibus before she had taken her seat.
According to the report, as I read it, she was going upstairs, but before she got to the top, the conductor, without giving her any warning, rang his bell, and the omnibus started with a jerk, which threw her off into the mud and spoilt her dress.
Now if these had been the only facts in the case, I should have said that this lady was entitled to recover the value of her damaged costume from the omnibus company, because it is undoubtedly part of the conductor’s duties to ring his bell and stop to take up and set down passengers, and if a passenger is going outside he ought not to start the omnibus until the passenger has secured his seat, or without giving him warning or taking other reasonable means to see that he gets his seat in safety.
But in this also the plaintiff was nonsuited, and, although it did not appear so in the report, the learned judge must have thought that there was some negligence on the part of the lady. Possibly she had got on to the omnibus whilst it was in motion, as so many ladies do nowadays. This would at once put her out of court. If there had not been contributory negligence of some kind, this lady would have won her case.
If you meet with an accident through getting on or off an omnibus whilst it is in motion, you contribute to the accident in not ordering the conductor to stop, and you have only yourself to blame; if, however, you had ordered the conductor to stop and he had neglected or refused to do so, you would probably succeed in an action against the company.
Nowadays, when nearly all the omnibus companies issue tickets, you are not bound to show your tickets whenever they are demanded by a conductor or inspector, but it is wiser to do so because the absence of a ticket will generally be regarded by the magistrate as evidence of your not having paid your fare, and unless you have any friends travelling with you who are ready to come forward and swear that they saw you purchase a ticket, you will very likely be fined and have to pay costs as well. If you are travelling in a train or a tram, you are bound to produce and deliver up your ticket whenever it is demanded by a servant of the company, the railway and the tramway companies having special powers to make bye-laws to this effect.
The muzzling orders still remain in force for the Metropolis, although in the country the dogs are freed of their muzzles.
A man who was summoned the other day for allowing his dog to run about unmuzzled, tried to make a point by pleading that he did not permit the dog to run about unmuzzled. Whenever he took the dog out he always put his muzzle on, but on this occasion the dog had gone out without his permission. However, the magistrate fined him all the same, just as he did
Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

Bob Briefless.
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XIII.
STARTLED!

hen once Lucy’s work began at the Institute her days were very full. She rose early, gave her simple household orders, and prepared Hugh for the Kindergarten, where she left him while she held her classes. Hugh took his lunch with him, for he stayed at the Kindergarten rather longer than the other children, so as to wait till his mother fetched him. Lucy had explained her peculiar position to the Kindergarten governess, a Miss Foster, and that lady had readily entered into this arrangement.
It was a great relief to Lucy to find that Hugh was soon quite happy among his new surroundings, returning home with plenty of wonders to tell, and being always eager for next day’s start. Miss Foster often came to the door to see Lucy and to deliver over her pupil. She was loud in praise of the little boy, confiding to Lucy that his state of mental development was so different from that of too many of her pupils. They had generally been left so much in the care of servants and nurses.
“A little one who is generally in the company of its mother, or of somebody who really cares for it, may be said to enjoy all the advantages of kindergarten from its very cradle,” she remarked. “Its education has been going on happily and unconsciously all the while. Its little brain and hands have found occupation in imitating the work or doings it sees. It is not left to gape and stare at the things around—all wonders to it—but it is encouraged to ask questions, and it gets its questions cheerfully and patiently answered.”
“I suppose that is a very important item,” said Lucy.
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Foster. “A careless nurse may often answer a question, but she does this snappily, perhaps with a hasty shake or a cross remark that the child is ‘a silly, little worrit.’ That encourages no further inquiry, and the baby-mind often closes over ridiculously wrong impressions, which can only confuse and blur its mind and all its processes.”
Lucy smiled.
“Yes,” she answered, “I can understand that, for children generally want a second answer to explain the first. I remember Hugh once asked me as we walked past some burial ground what it was used for. I told him ‘to put people’s bodies in when they die.’ He said ‘Oh!’ and walked along quietly, but looking puzzled. I felt sure he had some afterthought, so I said, ‘You have learned what a burial ground is now, Hughie, haven’t you? To put people’s bodies in when they die.’ Hughie snuggled up to me and whispered the confidential question, ‘If they only put their bodies there, what do they do with their heads?’ What an idea he would have carried away if his second question had not been drawn out!”
Miss Foster laughed.
“Such things occur constantly,” she said. “I daresay we have all heard the story of the little girl who said she liked to go to church when they sang the hymn about the bear. No? Well, it runs that she made this remark to her mother, who was more interested in her child’s preferences than it is likely any servant would have been. So she asked, ‘Which hymn is that, my dear?’ ‘Oh, the one about the bear that squints.’ ‘The bear that squints!’ said the mother, surprised, and knowing at once that something was wrong. ‘What does this mean?’ She could not ask the child to show the hymn, for she could not yet read. But instead of saying ‘Don’t be silly!’ she pursued the inquiry. ‘What makes you think there is anything about a bear that squints?’ ‘Oh, I’ve heard you sing it often,’ replied the child. ‘You sing “the consecrated cross-eye bear!”’”
They both laughed.
“That may be apocryphal,” commented Miss Foster, “but if so it is a fable which covers a great deal of fact.”
“It need not be apocryphal,” returned Lucy. “A distinguished preacher once told me that as a child he learned the lines—
“‘Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.’
Surely a beautiful image, and one which to the adult mind it seems impossible to misunderstand. But from the standpoint of the child, accustomed himself constantly to sit on people’s knees, the idea presented itself differently. He fancied that it was the saint’s sitting on Satan’s knees which caused Satan’s agitation! It never occurred to him that there could be any other meaning, and his puzzle was not over any doubt on that head, but only concerning what, in such a circumstance, was the cause of Satan’s dismay, for he knew that if he himself sat on anybody’s knees, he was rather in that person’s power, and could be easily got rid of. He went on saying and singing that hymn for years, the wonderment always recurring. He told me that the truth did not dawn on him till he was a grown youth attending theological classes. Then he said it came with such a lightning-flash that it nearly made him cry out in chapel!”
“There is even a more serious aspect of this kind of misunderstanding,” said Miss Foster, “which may really lead to a wrong stratum of character if children are not encouraged to speak out and show how they take things. Grown-up people sometimes say hasty or playful words which no other ‘grown-up’ would take literally, but children do. It often seems to me as if, though the little folk are themselves ready to ‘make believe’ to any extent, yet they cannot credit any ‘make believe’ in others. Let me tell you a story in illustration.
“A friend has lately bought a house, on whose staircase is a beautiful stained glass window; but its value is rather spoiled for her by the fact that in its centre are the initials of the late owners of the house, not interesting people in any way, but very commonplace folk who made money by speculations. One day a little boy-visitor was admiring the window, and asked about the initials. My friend explained them to him, and then, turning to another visitor, laughingly said, ‘We must get somebody to throw a stone through that pane.’ Presently she noticed that the little boy kept very closely to her side, and by-and-by he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, I can hit very well. I’ll throw a stone at that window. I’ll do it to-day if you like.’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘that would never do at all. We must get it done properly some other time.’ He was disappointed, but said no more then. When he was taking leave, however, he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, when do you want that stone thrown? You’ll ask me, won’t you? You won’t let anybody else do it?’ Now if he had not been a child accustomed to free speech, he might have taken that lady’s jest in earnest and have thrown the stone, which would likely have missed its aim and done incalculable mischief. Mrs. Gray would have quite forgotten her remark. Overwhelmed by his failure and by censures unaccountable to him which would have fallen upon him, he would, according to all the precedents of childish criminals, have ‘reserved his defence,’ and he would have been set down as a mischievous monkey, if not a malignant little wretch, for making such return for pleasant hospitality.”
“I suppose too,” said Lucy, “that every time we let a child talk a matter out and help it to follow the explanations we give, we are really unconsciously training its mind to think out things for itself, and not to rest content at any point where it is not really satisfied.”
“Exactly so,” answered Miss Foster. “The facts which a child learns are always of little importance compared with the exercise of its mind in grasping them. That is why learning anything by rote is useless save as an exercise of memory, and that explains, too, why some people who are said to have ‘no book-learning’ are far keener observers and arrive at more judicious conclusions
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 than do pedants. The plainer folk have probably learned to use their minds upon the work of their hands. It is with minds as it is with bodies: unless the digestion is in order, food does not nourish, is not assimilated, and only results in disease. So though there is more ‘knowledge’ in the world to-day than ever before, and though it is more widely distributed, yet at every turn the public mind—with its violent prejudices, its unreasonable fluctuations, and its inability to look below any surface conclusions that are offered to it—proves that the Hebrew prophet’s complaint ‘that the people do not consider’ is as true as ever it was. Probably in face of present day opportunities and issues it is even truer. I often think that it will remain so till parents take more interest in their children’s society before they are eight years old.”
“I hear that many school children have so many home lessons that they can’t have much time for home talk,” said Lucy.
“That is so,” consented Miss Foster, “and in my opinion, during the regular school age home lessons ought to be almost unknown. All the time at home is needed for home society and home usefulness if the child is to have a good all-round development. The worst cases I have known of this kind of loss and defect have been among the children of modish women, who had ‘social duties’ which they preferred to walking out and talking with their little ones. If women can’t have patience and pleasure in their own children, why should they expect it in their nursemaids? And they don’t get it. I have often seen children dragging along, silent, listless, gaping, with an irritable or indifferent nurse, and a few minutes after I have met ‘mamma’ driving out to pay her calls.”
“I am always so sorry for widows who have to leave their children to others simply that they may discharge other duties to their children themselves,” observed Lucy. “A woman cannot at once play with her babies and earn their bread. I’m afraid we don’t think enough about the hardships which beset some lives. Perhaps they seldom press on our attention till we feel a touch of them ourselves.”
“I think a crèche is a very useful form of charity,” answered Miss Foster, “provided that rules are carefully made not to encourage married women to think of becoming wage-earners as if that was the proper thing when their husbands can and should be working for them.”
Lucy smiled a little sadly.
“I am not thinking only of the class who can be helped by a crèche,” she said. “I was thinking of another type of widowed women who uphold their homes by being authors or artists, or by managing shops or businesses. They are forced to leave their children so much under other influences, and it is so sad if, after bravely playing a father’s part for years, it ends in the disappointment of their mother-heart and the frustration of their best hopes.”
“Ay, I quite agree with you!” cried Miss Foster heartily, “and I congratulate you warmly on being one of those whose light affliction, lasting but a little while, suffices to open new and wider sympathies. I hope you are always getting the best news of Mr. Challoner?” she added. For Lucy had told the little teacher how she was placed at the present time.
“The very best of news, thank you,” Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship letter had been followed by others, posted at various ports, and all telling the same good tidings of revived health and strength. Indeed, the very last letter had hinted that the improvement was so marked and so stable that Charlie was sorely tempted to shorten his absence and return home by steamer. He wrote that he had suggested this to Grant, who “seemed very much cut up about it, but had raised no difficulty.”
In reply to that letter Lucy had written at once, urging her husband not to think of such a thing. The better he was, the better reason was there for carrying through the original plan. “Because the foundation is so good, there is the brighter prospect in building on it,” she said. And besides, Lucy confided to Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife, in writing to her, had said that the fee for Charlie’s trip would just enable her husband to pay off the last of his father’s debts, which he had honestly taken upon himself. “And when they have brought us such good luck in enabling you to take this voyage,” wrote Lucy, “we must not spoil any good luck that our share in the matter may have brought them. Let us be wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing back a sneaking hope that Charlie might even have started homeward before he could get her reply to his letter. “In that case we must pay the Grants all the same,” she reflected, “though I am afraid they would not take it.” Then she proved to herself the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie by still resolutely withholding the story of her domestic changes, which she had meant to tell him at this time when she had pulled through so far. But if she did so, it might add the last link to the yearning that was pulling him home, and she would do nothing to strengthen a temptation whose force was revealed in her own heart.
She walked home rather soberly after her little conversation with the Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it strengthened her in the resolutions she had formed and had steadily carried out. But she could not refuse to know that she was living under considerable strain. Her teaching at the Institute was strenuous and exacting. Apart from the mental exertion, she was on her feet all the time. By the time she reached home, she was thoroughly exhausted, and was really fit for nothing but a nap, or at least an afternoon’s repose on the sofa, half dreaming over some simple book. But there could be no such rest for her. For this was the only time when Hugh could have a walk, and so off they went together. She often wondered whether he noticed that she was not quite so lively as she used to be, not so ready for a run, or so good at a game of ball. But a little child takes much on trust. Then they came home to tea, which generally refreshed her considerably. After that, Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his picture books, or his “transparent slate,” while she did all the household mending. Jane Smith never put a finger to this, not because she refused to do so, but because when she attempted it on one occasion, she ruined a pair of fine grey woollen hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a slightly-worn heel together with coarse white worsted, showing that she had not the most rudimentary idea of what darning should be.
Now this is just the kind of household work for which it would be a waste of time and power to hire help, especially in such a small family. Then as the washing was no longer done at home, Lucy had to prepare the account for the laundry, and to see that the things were sent home correctly, which as they scarcely ever were, led to correspondence and general worry.
By the time all these inevitable little tasks were accomplished, it was generally time for Hugh to go to bed. After that Lucy was free. Of course, in the winter nights, painting was impossible. But through the art dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening for pen-and-ink sketches, and it was this eventide that she had hoped to give to this work. She could reckon on about two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to rest early. She soon found out, however, that leisure is of little avail for such pursuits if energies and spirits are exhausted beforehand.
Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired. Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the poor animal had thriven well under her brief régime, till that day of disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,” but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.”
That was Jane Smith all over. She
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 took her wages and did her work, but it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without any heart.
There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court slumber.
Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.
Jane’s lover, the young carpenter, came regularly once a week, and stayed about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw him once or twice, when household business took her to the kitchen, during his visits. He looked a dull, decent young man, with a shock of red hair and a smooth boyish face. He sat close beside the fire, even when the spring evenings had grown warm. Lucy addressed him with a cheerful “Good evening,” and made one or two slight remarks about the weather, to which he made little response save a movement of the lips, and a glance towards the area-window. He did not rise when Lucy entered the kitchen, but that rudeness seemed due only to shyness or slowness, for he always rose a few minutes afterwards and remained standing for the rest of her stay. Altogether, Lucy decided that he was not very bright; he was by no means one of those young working men who come to the front at evening colleges and clubs, and are the moving spirits of their trades’ union. All the more, he seemed a fit enough match for Jane, who would have been indeed a hopeless drag on the life of any rising man.
Sitting in her dining-room, Lucy could hear through its floor the sound of the voices in the kitchen, though the words, of course, were inaudible. The conversation of these courting evenings did not seem very lively. Jane said a few words, and the gruffer voice replied with a monosyllable, and then there would be a long pause, and presently the performance would be repeated.
But one evening a week or two after Easter, the conversation seemed to have grown much livelier. It was the man who had the most to say, and he spoke faster and in a higher key than before.
“Is he waking up at last?” thought unsuspicious Lucy, “or is it possible that they have had a little tiff, and that he is defending himself or scolding her? Perhaps he does not like her new bonnet.”
For Lucy had seen Jane go out on the previous Sunday evening in fresh and gorgeous spring attire, her neat brown dress and black jacket crowned by an incompatible hat, round whose crown pink, green and blue roses, feathers and rosettes “screamed” loudly at each other. Lucy had thought to herself that her mother, in the old days, would at once have “put her foot down” on such headgear, but Lucy’s own sense of fairness rebelled against any arbitrary interference with a girl’s taste in dress (when going about her own business) simply because the girl was in her wage-paid service at other times.
“I have seen Florence in hats I have liked as little, though they were different,” thought Lucy. “I know many mistresses can’t bear their servants to copy their style of dress—dear mother would have regarded it as an unpardonable impertinence—but I should be only too proud and happy if my servants would copy mine! Pollie was turning in that direction—with just a few extra bows and flowers, and silk velvet ribbon where I put modest braid!”
But next week, when the courting evening came round, the hitherto silent lover was again voluble. Even sounds of laughter arose—a thing unprecedented! Lucy was always watchful to hear the kitchen door close and the manly step mount the area steps at the precise hour she had named. She had never had any reason to complain on this score. The carpenter had taken his departure with painful punctuality. But to-night, the nearest church-clock chimed nine, and the chat in the kitchen went gaily on. Presently Lucy looked at her watch—it was half-past nine. She hated to begin fault-finding for any trifling accidental lapse. Still it was time the supper-tray was brought up.
She had her hand on the bell when there was quite a lively stampede in the kitchen, the area door closed with a hilarious bang, fleet feet mounted the area steps as if by two at a time, and the area gate clanged to the sound of a merry whistle.
Jane, with the supper-tray, seemed more alert than usual, almost officious in her endeavour to do of her own accord little things of which Mrs. Challoner generally had to remind her.
Next week, when the same evening came round, and the kitchen voices were again audible, it chanced that Lucy found she had left her housekeeping book on the kitchen dresser. She thought to herself that she would not ring for it, but would fetch it herself, and so take opportunity of keeping in touch with the domestic idyll whose new developments were beginning to interest her.
But when she opened the kitchen door she started and almost cried out.
(To be continued.)
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XIII.
STARTLED!

hen once Lucy’s work began at the Institute her days were very full. She rose early, gave her simple household orders, and prepared Hugh for the Kindergarten, where she left him while she held her classes. Hugh took his lunch with him, for he stayed at the Kindergarten rather longer than the other children, so as to wait till his mother fetched him. Lucy had explained her peculiar position to the Kindergarten governess, a Miss Foster, and that lady had readily entered into this arrangement.
It was a great relief to Lucy to find that Hugh was soon quite happy among his new surroundings, returning home with plenty of wonders to tell, and being always eager for next day’s start. Miss Foster often came to the door to see Lucy and to deliver over her pupil. She was loud in praise of the little boy, confiding to Lucy that his state of mental development was so different from that of too many of her pupils. They had generally been left so much in the care of servants and nurses.
“A little one who is generally in the company of its mother, or of somebody who really cares for it, may be said to enjoy all the advantages of kindergarten from its very cradle,” she remarked. “Its education has been going on happily and unconsciously all the while. Its little brain and hands have found occupation in imitating the work or doings it sees. It is not left to gape and stare at the things around—all wonders to it—but it is encouraged to ask questions, and it gets its questions cheerfully and patiently answered.”
“I suppose that is a very important item,” said Lucy.
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Foster. “A careless nurse may often answer a question, but she does this snappily, perhaps with a hasty shake or a cross remark that the child is ‘a silly, little worrit.’ That encourages no further inquiry, and the baby-mind often closes over ridiculously wrong impressions, which can only confuse and blur its mind and all its processes.”
Lucy smiled.
“Yes,” she answered, “I can understand that, for children generally want a second answer to explain the first. I remember Hugh once asked me as we walked past some burial ground what it was used for. I told him ‘to put people’s bodies in when they die.’ He said ‘Oh!’ and walked along quietly, but looking puzzled. I felt sure he had some afterthought, so I said, ‘You have learned what a burial ground is now, Hughie, haven’t you? To put people’s bodies in when they die.’ Hughie snuggled up to me and whispered the confidential question, ‘If they only put their bodies there, what do they do with their heads?’ What an idea he would have carried away if his second question had not been drawn out!”
Miss Foster laughed.
“Such things occur constantly,” she said. “I daresay we have all heard the story of the little girl who said she liked to go to church when they sang the hymn about the bear. No? Well, it runs that she made this remark to her mother, who was more interested in her child’s preferences than it is likely any servant would have been. So she asked, ‘Which hymn is that, my dear?’ ‘Oh, the one about the bear that squints.’ ‘The bear that squints!’ said the mother, surprised, and knowing at once that something was wrong. ‘What does this mean?’ She could not ask the child to show the hymn, for she could not yet read. But instead of saying ‘Don’t be silly!’ she pursued the inquiry. ‘What makes you think there is anything about a bear that squints?’ ‘Oh, I’ve heard you sing it often,’ replied the child. ‘You sing “the consecrated cross-eye bear!”’”
They both laughed.
“That may be apocryphal,” commented Miss Foster, “but if so it is a fable which covers a great deal of fact.”
“It need not be apocryphal,” returned Lucy. “A distinguished preacher once told me that as a child he learned the lines—
“‘Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.’
Surely a beautiful image, and one which to the adult mind it seems impossible to misunderstand. But from the standpoint of the child, accustomed himself constantly to sit on people’s knees, the idea presented itself differently. He fancied that it was the saint’s sitting on Satan’s knees which caused Satan’s agitation! It never occurred to him that there could be any other meaning, and his puzzle was not over any doubt on that head, but only concerning what, in such a circumstance, was the cause of Satan’s dismay, for he knew that if he himself sat on anybody’s knees, he was rather in that person’s power, and could be easily got rid of. He went on saying and singing that hymn for years, the wonderment always recurring. He told me that the truth did not dawn on him till he was a grown youth attending theological classes. Then he said it came with such a lightning-flash that it nearly made him cry out in chapel!”
“There is even a more serious aspect of this kind of misunderstanding,” said Miss Foster, “which may really lead to a wrong stratum of character if children are not encouraged to speak out and show how they take things. Grown-up people sometimes say hasty or playful words which no other ‘grown-up’ would take literally, but children do. It often seems to me as if, though the little folk are themselves ready to ‘make believe’ to any extent, yet they cannot credit any ‘make believe’ in others. Let me tell you a story in illustration.
“A friend has lately bought a house, on whose staircase is a beautiful stained glass window; but its value is rather spoiled for her by the fact that in its centre are the initials of the late owners of the house, not interesting people in any way, but very commonplace folk who made money by speculations. One day a little boy-visitor was admiring the window, and asked about the initials. My friend explained them to him, and then, turning to another visitor, laughingly said, ‘We must get somebody to throw a stone through that pane.’ Presently she noticed that the little boy kept very closely to her side, and by-and-by he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, I can hit very well. I’ll throw a stone at that window. I’ll do it to-day if you like.’ ‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, ‘that would never do at all. We must get it done properly some other time.’ He was disappointed, but said no more then. When he was taking leave, however, he whispered, ‘Mrs. Gray, when do you want that stone thrown? You’ll ask me, won’t you? You won’t let anybody else do it?’ Now if he had not been a child accustomed to free speech, he might have taken that lady’s jest in earnest and have thrown the stone, which would likely have missed its aim and done incalculable mischief. Mrs. Gray would have quite forgotten her remark. Overwhelmed by his failure and by censures unaccountable to him which would have fallen upon him, he would, according to all the precedents of childish criminals, have ‘reserved his defence,’ and he would have been set down as a mischievous monkey, if not a malignant little wretch, for making such return for pleasant hospitality.”
“I suppose too,” said Lucy, “that every time we let a child talk a matter out and help it to follow the explanations we give, we are really unconsciously training its mind to think out things for itself, and not to rest content at any point where it is not really satisfied.”
“Exactly so,” answered Miss Foster. “The facts which a child learns are always of little importance compared with the exercise of its mind in grasping them. That is why learning anything by rote is useless save as an exercise of memory, and that explains, too, why some people who are said to have ‘no book-learning’ are far keener observers and arrive at more judicious conclusions
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 than do pedants. The plainer folk have probably learned to use their minds upon the work of their hands. It is with minds as it is with bodies: unless the digestion is in order, food does not nourish, is not assimilated, and only results in disease. So though there is more ‘knowledge’ in the world to-day than ever before, and though it is more widely distributed, yet at every turn the public mind—with its violent prejudices, its unreasonable fluctuations, and its inability to look below any surface conclusions that are offered to it—proves that the Hebrew prophet’s complaint ‘that the people do not consider’ is as true as ever it was. Probably in face of present day opportunities and issues it is even truer. I often think that it will remain so till parents take more interest in their children’s society before they are eight years old.”
“I hear that many school children have so many home lessons that they can’t have much time for home talk,” said Lucy.
“That is so,” consented Miss Foster, “and in my opinion, during the regular school age home lessons ought to be almost unknown. All the time at home is needed for home society and home usefulness if the child is to have a good all-round development. The worst cases I have known of this kind of loss and defect have been among the children of modish women, who had ‘social duties’ which they preferred to walking out and talking with their little ones. If women can’t have patience and pleasure in their own children, why should they expect it in their nursemaids? And they don’t get it. I have often seen children dragging along, silent, listless, gaping, with an irritable or indifferent nurse, and a few minutes after I have met ‘mamma’ driving out to pay her calls.”
“I am always so sorry for widows who have to leave their children to others simply that they may discharge other duties to their children themselves,” observed Lucy. “A woman cannot at once play with her babies and earn their bread. I’m afraid we don’t think enough about the hardships which beset some lives. Perhaps they seldom press on our attention till we feel a touch of them ourselves.”
“I think a crèche is a very useful form of charity,” answered Miss Foster, “provided that rules are carefully made not to encourage married women to think of becoming wage-earners as if that was the proper thing when their husbands can and should be working for them.”
Lucy smiled a little sadly.
“I am not thinking only of the class who can be helped by a crèche,” she said. “I was thinking of another type of widowed women who uphold their homes by being authors or artists, or by managing shops or businesses. They are forced to leave their children so much under other influences, and it is so sad if, after bravely playing a father’s part for years, it ends in the disappointment of their mother-heart and the frustration of their best hopes.”
“Ay, I quite agree with you!” cried Miss Foster heartily, “and I congratulate you warmly on being one of those whose light affliction, lasting but a little while, suffices to open new and wider sympathies. I hope you are always getting the best news of Mr. Challoner?” she added. For Lucy had told the little teacher how she was placed at the present time.
“The very best of news, thank you,” Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship letter had been followed by others, posted at various ports, and all telling the same good tidings of revived health and strength. Indeed, the very last letter had hinted that the improvement was so marked and so stable that Charlie was sorely tempted to shorten his absence and return home by steamer. He wrote that he had suggested this to Grant, who “seemed very much cut up about it, but had raised no difficulty.”
In reply to that letter Lucy had written at once, urging her husband not to think of such a thing. The better he was, the better reason was there for carrying through the original plan. “Because the foundation is so good, there is the brighter prospect in building on it,” she said. And besides, Lucy confided to Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife, in writing to her, had said that the fee for Charlie’s trip would just enable her husband to pay off the last of his father’s debts, which he had honestly taken upon himself. “And when they have brought us such good luck in enabling you to take this voyage,” wrote Lucy, “we must not spoil any good luck that our share in the matter may have brought them. Let us be wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing back a sneaking hope that Charlie might even have started homeward before he could get her reply to his letter. “In that case we must pay the Grants all the same,” she reflected, “though I am afraid they would not take it.” Then she proved to herself the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie by still resolutely withholding the story of her domestic changes, which she had meant to tell him at this time when she had pulled through so far. But if she did so, it might add the last link to the yearning that was pulling him home, and she would do nothing to strengthen a temptation whose force was revealed in her own heart.
She walked home rather soberly after her little conversation with the Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it strengthened her in the resolutions she had formed and had steadily carried out. But she could not refuse to know that she was living under considerable strain. Her teaching at the Institute was strenuous and exacting. Apart from the mental exertion, she was on her feet all the time. By the time she reached home, she was thoroughly exhausted, and was really fit for nothing but a nap, or at least an afternoon’s repose on the sofa, half dreaming over some simple book. But there could be no such rest for her. For this was the only time when Hugh could have a walk, and so off they went together. She often wondered whether he noticed that she was not quite so lively as she used to be, not so ready for a run, or so good at a game of ball. But a little child takes much on trust. Then they came home to tea, which generally refreshed her considerably. After that, Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his picture books, or his “transparent slate,” while she did all the household mending. Jane Smith never put a finger to this, not because she refused to do so, but because when she attempted it on one occasion, she ruined a pair of fine grey woollen hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a slightly-worn heel together with coarse white worsted, showing that she had not the most rudimentary idea of what darning should be.
Now this is just the kind of household work for which it would be a waste of time and power to hire help, especially in such a small family. Then as the washing was no longer done at home, Lucy had to prepare the account for the laundry, and to see that the things were sent home correctly, which as they scarcely ever were, led to correspondence and general worry.
By the time all these inevitable little tasks were accomplished, it was generally time for Hugh to go to bed. After that Lucy was free. Of course, in the winter nights, painting was impossible. But through the art dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening for pen-and-ink sketches, and it was this eventide that she had hoped to give to this work. She could reckon on about two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to rest early. She soon found out, however, that leisure is of little avail for such pursuits if energies and spirits are exhausted beforehand.
Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired. Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the poor animal had thriven well under her brief régime, till that day of disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,” but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.”
That was Jane Smith all over. She
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 took her wages and did her work, but it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without any heart.
There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court slumber.
Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.
Jane’s lover, the young carpenter, came regularly once a week, and stayed about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw him once or twice, when household business took her to the kitchen, during his visits. He looked a dull, decent young man, with a shock of red hair and a smooth boyish face. He sat close beside the fire, even when the spring evenings had grown warm. Lucy addressed him with a cheerful “Good evening,” and made one or two slight remarks about the weather, to which he made little response save a movement of the lips, and a glance towards the area-window. He did not rise when Lucy entered the kitchen, but that rudeness seemed due only to shyness or slowness, for he always rose a few minutes afterwards and remained standing for the rest of her stay. Altogether, Lucy decided that he was not very bright; he was by no means one of those young working men who come to the front at evening colleges and clubs, and are the moving spirits of their trades’ union. All the more, he seemed a fit enough match for Jane, who would have been indeed a hopeless drag on the life of any rising man.
Sitting in her dining-room, Lucy could hear through its floor the sound of the voices in the kitchen, though the words, of course, were inaudible. The conversation of these courting evenings did not seem very lively. Jane said a few words, and the gruffer voice replied with a monosyllable, and then there would be a long pause, and presently the performance would be repeated.
But one evening a week or two after Easter, the conversation seemed to have grown much livelier. It was the man who had the most to say, and he spoke faster and in a higher key than before.
“Is he waking up at last?” thought unsuspicious Lucy, “or is it possible that they have had a little tiff, and that he is defending himself or scolding her? Perhaps he does not like her new bonnet.”
For Lucy had seen Jane go out on the previous Sunday evening in fresh and gorgeous spring attire, her neat brown dress and black jacket crowned by an incompatible hat, round whose crown pink, green and blue roses, feathers and rosettes “screamed” loudly at each other. Lucy had thought to herself that her mother, in the old days, would at once have “put her foot down” on such headgear, but Lucy’s own sense of fairness rebelled against any arbitrary interference with a girl’s taste in dress (when going about her own business) simply because the girl was in her wage-paid service at other times.
“I have seen Florence in hats I have liked as little, though they were different,” thought Lucy. “I know many mistresses can’t bear their servants to copy their style of dress—dear mother would have regarded it as an unpardonable impertinence—but I should be only too proud and happy if my servants would copy mine! Pollie was turning in that direction—with just a few extra bows and flowers, and silk velvet ribbon where I put modest braid!”
But next week, when the courting evening came round, the hitherto silent lover was again voluble. Even sounds of laughter arose—a thing unprecedented! Lucy was always watchful to hear the kitchen door close and the manly step mount the area steps at the precise hour she had named. She had never had any reason to complain on this score. The carpenter had taken his departure with painful punctuality. But to-night, the nearest church-clock chimed nine, and the chat in the kitchen went gaily on. Presently Lucy looked at her watch—it was half-past nine. She hated to begin fault-finding for any trifling accidental lapse. Still it was time the supper-tray was brought up.
She had her hand on the bell when there was quite a lively stampede in the kitchen, the area door closed with a hilarious bang, fleet feet mounted the area steps as if by two at a time, and the area gate clanged to the sound of a merry whistle.
Jane, with the supper-tray, seemed more alert than usual, almost officious in her endeavour to do of her own accord little things of which Mrs. Challoner generally had to remind her.
Next week, when the same evening came round, and the kitchen voices were again audible, it chanced that Lucy found she had left her housekeeping book on the kitchen dresser. She thought to herself that she would not ring for it, but would fetch it herself, and so take opportunity of keeping in touch with the domestic idyll whose new developments were beginning to interest her.
But when she opened the kitchen door she started and almost cried out.
(To be continued.)
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.
CHAPTER XII.
A FAIR ISLAND.
“Oh, how lovely!” cried Sheila.
The glow of a golden sunset was on sea and shore, as the great vessel rounded the corner and came into view of the harbour of Funchal. The lonely Desertas to their left lay bathed in the reflected light from the westering sun, whilst upon their right lay the fair island of Madeira, its wild mountain range cleft with great ravines, and dotted with innumerable quintas and little houses shining in a sort of shimmering glory, the white city with its many buildings and spires lying peacefully on the margin of the sea, the shore alive with little boats, looking like so many caterpillars upon the green water as the rowers pushed them outwards towards the great in-coming steamer.
“Oh, Miss Adene, I am quite sorry the voyage is over; but how lovely Madeira is!”
“Yes, I told you you would be pleased! And see over yonder, beyond the town, on that sort of promontory as it looks from here, that is the New Hotel, where we are all going. It looks a little bare from here, but the garden is a wilderness of flowers when we get there. It is the most homelike hotel I was ever in, and I have had a good many experiences. Yes, those boats are to take us off. We cannot get very close inshore. The harbourage is not good, and in rough weather the mails have to stand a good way out, and I have known passengers swung on board in baskets by the steam-crane. But that is quite exceptional. Generally it is like to-day, calm and quiet, and the boats take us off without any trouble. Mr. Reid will come out in one, and take all trouble off our hands. We just give him our keys and tell him the number of our boxes, and he passes it through the Customs and brings it up, and we have no sort of trouble at all.”
Mrs. Cossart was very much relieved to find how easily everything was done when once the kindly hotel proprietor came on board. She was able to give her undivided care to Effie, whilst Sheila was running about saying good-bye to captain, officers, and such passengers as were going on to the Cape or the Canaries, and in the end found herself left behind by that boat, and had to go ashore under Miss Adene’s wing, which, however, troubled her no whit.
“A bullock-cart! Oof! How perfectly delicious!” she cried, as they were shown the conveyance in which they were to be carried to the hotel. “Oh, you dear creatures! What sweet faces they have! Oh, I hope they are kind to you! Miss Adene, isn’t it lovely to go in a bullock-cart? Oh, I hope it is a long way!”
“It takes about twenty minutes. You see, the bullies do not go very fast,” laughed Miss Adene, as she took her place. “This is what we call a carro; it has runners like a sledge instead of wheels. You see, all the streets are paved with cobble-stones, so that the runners slide easily along them; and it is the same everywhere in the island right up into the hills; nothing but these paved roads for bullock carros, and running carros, and sleds for carrying goods. But the mountain carros are much lighter than these that they use in the town, or they could not get them up the steep, steep roads.”
Sheila was in an ecstasy as they went jogging along through the quaint little town. She exclaimed with delight at everything she saw, the little brown-legged, dark-eyed children, the women with shawls over their heads, the little boys running with strange calls at the heads of the bullocks, and, above all, at the gorgeous masses of the flowering creepers which draped the walls of the houses and fell in great curtains over the outside mirantes. Deep orange bignonia, bougainvillia, purple and scarlet, delicate plumbago, with roses and heliotrope in such masses that the eye was dazzled and the air heavy with perfume.
“I could not have believed it if I had not seen it!” cried Sheila again and again. “And, oh, how hot and delicious it is! Effie must get well here!”
The New Hotel was a fine building, and there was pretty little Mrs. Reid waiting smiling in the hall to give them a welcome. Miss Adene had several kindly questions to ask, and went off with Mrs. Reid to the suite of rooms which had been bespoken for the Dumaresqs, whilst Sheila was handed over to the care of a tall, slight, ladylike girl, who took her up and up to the rooms selected by Mrs. Cossart.
“It is a long way up, but they thought the air would be fresher and the rooms more quiet for the lady who is ill,” she explained; and Sheila, to whom stairs were no trouble, was delighted. After all, it was only on the second floor; only, the rooms being lofty, the journey seemed a little long.
“Oh, Effie,” cried Sheila, “what a splendid room! How high, and cool, and delicious! Oh, I do like these white walls! And what views we get! Oh, how I love those great, great wild mountains! And there is the dear sea out of this one. It is nice to have two different views, and both so lovely! Oh, how happy we shall be!”
Effie was lying on the sofa, but she was looking interested and animated. The maid passed in and out, looking about her, and keeping an eye on her young charge.
“Yes, I like being up here. I feel as though I could breathe. I was afraid it might be too hot below. Father and mother have the room next but one looking south over the sea, and Susan has the next one, though it is big, so that we are all together. She may have to move when the hotel fills up; but she is to be there now. I think I shall like this place, Sheila; and the people seem so kind.”
Kindness indeed seemed to prevail here. The Portuguese chambermaid, in her odd, broken English, was wishful to know what kind of bedding and pillows the ladies liked; and when she brought in anything asked for, she would set it down with a beaming smile, saying, “Sank you, my ladies.” The curly-haired waiter who brought up afternoon tea almost at once was wishful to know what the ladies liked; and before long, Mrs. Reid had come up to see if Effie were comfortable, and talk cheerfully and kindly to her till called off in another direction.
“I must just run down and round the garden!” cried Sheila, after they had eagerly drunk their tea. “I wonder if I might bring you back some flowers? If I see Mrs. Reid, I will ask her.”
Mrs. Reid quite laughed at the question as Sheila passed her going out.
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“As many as ever you like. And take care not to slip on the pebbled paths. People have got to get used to them.”
Ronald was outside, and hailed Sheila eagerly.
“Come along and let us explore!” he cried. “Give me your hand. These cobbles are mighty slippery. They say gravel would be washed away by the tropical showers even if they could get it. But it’s precious queer walking down these steep places. One wants to be a bullock for that.”
It was a strange, wild garden, with great palms growing in the beds, and the walls of the terraces, for it was all more or less terraced out of the face of the cliff, covered with curtains of creepers, most of them a mass of bloom. Roses in sprays as long as your arm drooped temptingly within reach, and the little heavy-scented gardenia filled the air with fragrance.
Sheila ran from place to place, exclaiming and admiring, glancing with shy interest at other visitors strolling about, and making her companion laugh again and again by her enthusiasm.
“Oof, a tennis-court!” she cried, darting suddenly through an opening. “Oh, did you ever see anything so lovely? It is like a Tadema picture!”
It was rather, for the floor was of concrete, looking white in the fading light, and there were stone seats all round it for spectators, whiter still. All round a trellis had been placed, wired in against balls, and this trellis was just one sheet of glorious colour. Curtains of bougainvillia hung over at one place, at another heliotrope of roses made a perfect screen, intermingled with scarlet geranium, poinsettia, and plumbago. Through little gaps in this floral curtain, and through vistas of palm and cactus beyond, could be caught glimpses of the blue sea, and overhead the sky rose sapphire clear, with that peculiar purity and depth of colour which characterises those latitudes.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” cried Sheila in ecstasy.
“Awfully pretty,” replied her companion, “though the floor might be better for playing. There are some big cracks. Do you like tennis, Miss Cholmondeley?”
“Oof, yes!” cried the girl eagerly; “but I have not had much practice this summer. Effie was ill, and I was not going to parties. Do you play well, Mr. Dumaresq?”
“No, not well according to the modern standard; but perhaps you will condescend to play with me. But come along; I want to see what that little building is up there. In there is the bungalow, a sort of dependence of the hotel. The Reids offered it to us as an independent home of our own, but as Guy is rather lame and weak, and we should have to come up to the hotel for meals, we declined; there are too many steps. But it is a pretty place; such a sheer drop to the sea below. It must be like living in a ship’s cabin. Now I want to see how to get to that other building. I think there’s a sort of a path round here. I’ve a fancy it may be the billiard-room from my aunt’s description of the place.”
A billiard-room it was—half of it, at least; the other half was quite empty save for a piano and some chairs round the walls.
“It looks made for a dance!” cried Sheila, pirouetting round. “Are all hotels as perfectly delightful as this?”
The sun had just dipped behind the hills, and the shadows were coming on apace.
“I suppose it gets dark pretty soon here,” said Ronald. “Let us go back to the house now. We must finish the garden to-morrow. There is plenty more to see.”
Sheila had sprays of roses and heliotrope in her hands as she ran upstairs to Effie. A lamp had been brought in, and the big, lofty room looked quite gay.
“Oh, what roses!” cried Effie in real delight. “Aren’t they splendid? I am going to like this place immensely, Sheila, and we have such a good plan. Susan isn’t to have the big room next door; it’s to be turned into a sitting-room for us. Mrs. Reid will get it done to-morrow, and Susan will sleep in a little room close by; then this great turret place will be all our own, and we can have our friends up to tea and all that sort of thing. I want to get to know the Dumaresqs better. You get on with them very well, don’t you, Sheila?”
“They are very kind to me. I think they were sorry for me on ship-board because I was alone at first. Lady Dumaresq is lovely, and the little boy is so sweet, and Miss Adene has always been like a friend.”
Effie was moving about the room a little restlessly.
“I don’t quite know how it is—I suppose it’s being ill—but I don’t seem to get on with people quite in the easy way you do, Sheila; but you know at home, before I was ill, they all used to listen and laugh as they do now to you. I don’t want to be left out in the cold.”
“Oh, no!” cried Sheila eagerly, though with a slightly heightened colour. Somehow she too had the feeling that people did not take very much to Effie. They all asked kindly after her, but a little of her conversation seemed to go a long way.
Mrs. Cossart here came in to say that she would dine upstairs with Effie, but that Sheila had better go down with her uncle. So Susan was sent for to get at a dress, the luggage having arrived all safe, and the girl was soon arrayed in a soft black net evening gown, very simple, but very becoming, with a spray of white roses fastened upon her shoulder.
“Mind you tell me about all the people when you come back!” said Effie, who was quite lively and bright in spite of the fatigues and excitements of the day; and Sheila was all curiosity herself, for she had never before stayed at a big hotel, and the novelty of the life amused and interested her immensely.
In the drawing-room there were a few old ladies and a couple of gentlemen reading the paper. They did not look very amusing, Sheila thought. Then the Dumaresqs came in, except Sir Guy, who was not well enough to appear. But Lady Dumaresq looked bright and happy, confident that the warmth and beauty about him would soon put him right.
A gong sounded, and there was a move to the adjoining dining-room, and Sheila found herself seated at a long table between her uncle and Ronald Dumaresq, who coolly took possession of the empty seat laid for Effie, whilst the other guests filed in, some to the long table, and some to the small ones at the side, and the business of dinner began.
Sheila was not hungry, but she enjoyed watching and listening. A rather handsome lady opposite was making advances to their party with an air of assurance and friendly patronage which rather amused Sheila.
“A regular old hotel stager,” whispered Ronald to her in an aside, “would know the sort anywhere. Keeps her husband in good order, one can see. Rather a fine woman, but I don’t care for her style.”
Then there were the usual habitués of a health resort—a wife with a delicate husband, a husband with a delicate wife, a mother with a little asthmatic boy (who would have been better in bed at such an hour), a few travellers bent on pleasure and relaxation rather than health. Sheila tried to piece histories on to the different faces, and Ronald made some comical remarks and shrewd guesses. But the party was not large for the size of the hotel. The season was quite early. It was not often so full as this till after Christmas. A rather wet summer and the threatened outbreak of influenza had frightened a good many people off before the usual time.
“I think I’m glad of it,” said Sheila. “It is such fun watching them. They are all rather quiet now, but I suppose they will make more noise when they get to know each other.”
“We must try and set a good example,” answered Ronald. “Now come on to the verandah outside and see the moonlight on the sea.”
The covered verandah outside the drawing-room, with its comfortable chairs and lounges, was quite an institution at the New. Although on the entrance side the drawing-room appeared a ground-floor room, from the verandah one looked right down over the terraced garden with a sheer drop on to the next level of twenty or thirty feet. The view over the harbour was lovely, the town lights and those of the ships gleaming out in the soft darkness.
“There goes the Plymouth Castle,” said Ronald, pointing out the vanishing lights of the great steamer. Sheila waved her hand in a parting salutation.
“Good-bye, dear old ship. I liked being on you very much, but I don’t want to be on you now, for you have brought us to the most charming and delightful place. Oh, how happy I am going to be here!”
(To be continued.)
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”
 
THE TUNIC SKIRT.
Our sketches of to-day’s fashions in our present issue are so absolutely true to life that there is no difficulty in guessing the nature of the frocks for to-morrow. As will be gathered from them, we are quite out of date if we be fat; therefore, if ambitious of shining in the world of dress, we must begin to reduce our size at once. Have you noticed, as I have, how much the number of fat women is decreasing? Perhaps, after a time, they will be a marvellous exception, and we shall notice them just as we notice sloping shoulders and attenuated waists; to both of which our immediate forbears were addicted. The waists of the present day seem generally in excellent proportion, and for this we have to thank our adoption of the bicycle, on which the corset cannot be worn, or, at least, very
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 short ones, and not at all tight. In one way, at least, we need improvement, and that is in our carriage, for in that so many women and girls fail. They stoop from the neck, or from the waist, and slouch along in a most ungraceful way.
I must begin with a few notes on underclothing. So far as I can see, the petticoat bodice is very little worn; most ladies seem to prefer having the bodice fitted over the corset, and wearing it in that manner, the corset itself being worn over the petticoat. The only drawback to this is that the dress-bodice would so speedily become soiled at the back of the neck. So I think one of those pretty muslin under-bodices, which are cut in Bolero style, and trimmed with lace, would be the best thing to prevent it. I have lately found some very good and well-woven cotton combinations, which ranged in price from 1s. 9d. up to 4s. and 5s. They are more economical wear than either woollen or silk ones, and entail less risk of catching cold than either. They wash well, and are very well-fitting. I find this woven underclothing, either as combinations or vests, is more used than anything else. Indeed, one could fancy as much from the enormous supply laid in at the shops, of every material, size, and colour. Many of them are so thin that they will hardly bear washing.
In the way of petticoats, we have an unlimited choice, and a vast improvement in the cut and manufacture, as well as in the material. The fashionable colour of the season for them is pink—a bright and rather violent shade, but it looks well with most things, especially black. The new moreens of the present season are of such a good description that they are almost like a watered silk, and they quite rustle like one. They have, however, rather changed their names, and they are called by some Marshallette, or watered woollen moirés.
The new collars for our dresses are, most of them, very high indeed, and pointed up to the ears at each side. The swathing of the neck with lace and the high collars make everyone look very much covered up indeed, and as the season progresses it will be very hot. There are all kinds of boas made, and they appear to be the only season’s wear. These boas are made of feathers—ostrich, of course—in black, white, grey, and black and white mixed; in silk, lace, fringe, in chiffon of all colours, silk muslin, spotted nets, and gauzes, the spotted nets being, I think, the prettiest, though, of course, the most perishable. Although they are so expensive, everyone seems to find money to purchase them, and some few girls manage to find out the way to make them for themselves.
Where skirts are concerned, we appear to have no choice but to make them quite tight-fitting about the hips, and they must flow out about them; but we need not quite adopt the eel-skin skirt, for there are several shapes from which we can make our choice. First, there is the old umbrella skirt, as it used to be called, which is cut without seams, and from material wide enough to cut it without any join, save the one. Then there is a skirt cut in the same manner, with a join up the back, and then a skirt with two widths, one of which is very wide and the other narrow. This seems to be the most popular, as it is more easy to fit. The last skirt that I have seen is one with three widths, the front one being narrow and the other two wide, meeting in the centre of the back in a bias seam. This, I am told by a first-rate dressmaker, is the best skirt-pattern for very thin people, who are gifted with big hips, however, and who are tall.
I am bound to notice the extravagances of fashion, so I must tell you that if you have not enough width of hips to make your dress look well, you can make up the deficiency by purchase; and a large drapery firm in the West End was exhibiting a few days ago the necessary framework in their windows. But it does not do always to trust to such machinery pour se faire belle, as I must tell you also that they sometimes get out of place, and then you have hips where you do not want them! I heard this funny story told the other day, but I cannot vouch for its truth, though I think the foolish people who adopt such things would deserve to be made ridiculous.
There is one great comfort in the midst of the frills and furbelows of fashion, that we may be quite as fashionable, and twice as happy, if we elected to stick to our coats and skirts and our pretty blouses of cotton and muslin. The newest ones of this year are really quite tight-fitting bodices. They are not gathered at the shoulder seams nor at the neck, and they are cut so tightly to the figure that they allow of next to no fulness at the waist, which makes them sit in a far more tidy and neat way. They are all made with yokes at the back, and they have generally a very tight bishop’s sleeve.
The tunic, or, as perhaps you may hear it called, and more usually so, the double skirt, as they are really only modifications of each other, looks as if it had come to take up its abode with us, having been threatened for a long time. We have illustrated two or three of the most popular, which are undoubtedly the ones with points which fall nearly to the hem. Besides this there is a very long all-round tunic, the edges of which are scallopped, and fall very low on the under-skirt. As all our gowns are made much too long, and must be held up, this is the most uncomfortable shape of all.
Perhaps the greatest change of the year has taken place in the sunshades, which are striped in various and wonderful ways, and some surprising colours. As to the embroideries, chiffons, laces, and ornaments lavished on them, they are so many I have no room to describe them. The latest I have seen was of chiffon, embroidered in straw; and on another I counted sixteen rows of gathered baby-ribbon in three colours, the foundation being in green satin.
 
A CLOTH GOWN.
Our first group of three figures shows, as we have already said, three varieties of the tunic. The gown on the extreme left is of heliotrope canvas, over white silk. It has a pointed tunic, trimmed with white silk, or satin, ribbon, or tucking. The same is placed in rows on the top of the sleeves, and there are rows of heliotrope satin on the collar and on the edge of the skirt. This is a very pretty and girlish gown, which could be carried out in any thicker material if desired. The figure on the right hand side wears a gown of plain grey alpaca, with an under-dress of a crimson-figured poplin, which has rows of narrow black velvet round the edge. The tunic is also trimmed with rows of black velvet, with cream lace, and the bodice has a white satin yoke, with a front of crimson and trimmings of black velvet also, with double revers, which fold back. The hat is of the new boat shape, and has three ostrich feathers in it. These are very much uncurled, as it is no longer the fashion to curl them very
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 tightly, and the stem must show down its entire length. They are often of shaded colours, and are of moderate length.
 
TWO CAPES AND HATS.
The centre figure wears a very smart gown in muslin, with flowers, the colour being blue, in shades. It is made up over blue. There are three scalloped flounces, and a tunic, which are edged with blue velvet, and a tiny lace. The bodice has revers of cream-coloured chiffon, and there are frills of the same at the side front, and the waist-band is of heliotrope velvet, and is very narrow.
The charming figure in a fawn cloth tailor-made gown wears one of the rather long and rounded jackets. The trimmings consist of rows of satin ribbon and cream lace, three rows of which go round the skirt and jacket. The front is of white satin and cream lace, and the collar has rows of satin on it to correspond. These narrow satin ribbons and tuckings, made of silk and satin, are the special trimmings of the year, and they seem quite ubiquitous, and look so pretty that we have not got tired of them yet.
There are so many muslins—organdies, and the ordinary corded ones—that it is quite a muslin year, and the lace and narrow ribbons used on them are enormous in amount. Lawn of the same colour is generally used for the linings if you do not choose to afford silk. A fine sateen will also answer.
Our third drawing shows two pretty hats and two of the most fashionable capes, which still contrive to hold their own in the dress of the present season. The figure on the left wears a short cape of heliotrope silk, tucked and trimmed with frills of white chiffon, and it has one of those stoat fronts, which are quite new this year. The cape to the right is of grey satin, with pointed fronts, and a large collar of white satin, with front revers of the same. The whole is edged with a ruche of black chiffon. The hat is of the new Cavalier shape, with feathers and a buckle.
The prettiest change of the year is in the sailor hats, which are now trimmed and made to look quite different from the plain and useful things they used to be. A white one that I saw the other day had six rows of narrow velvet ribbon at equal distances round the crown, and a rosette of the same at the right side. Another had a wide band of red velvet on it, with an upstanding spray of cherries at the side, and bows of red velvet mixed in with them. Both were to be worn with washing veils.
VARIETIES.
A Sufficient Reason.
Author: “But why do you charge me more for printing this time than usual?”
Publisher: “Because the compositors were constantly falling asleep over your novel.”
Living happily together.—A few more smiles of silent sympathy, a few more tender words, a little more restraint on temper, may make all the difference between happiness and half-happiness to those we live with.
Friendship.
Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double
And into halves divides our trouble.
Denham.
How they Closed the Day.
When Dr. Walsham How was rector of Whittington, an old woman, on the occasion of his first visit, said to him—
“The old man and me, sir, never go to bed without singing the Evening Hymn. Not that I’ve any voice left, for I haven’t, and as for him, he’s like a bee in a bottle, and then he don’t humour the tune, for he don’t rightly know one tune from another, and he can’t remember the words, neither, so when he leaves out a word I puts it in, and when I can’t sing I dances, and so we get through it somehow.”
Showing and Seeing.—Behaviour is a mirror in which everyone shows and might see her own image.—Goethe.
Mental Exertion.
A lady took her Irish maid to task for carelessness and forgetfulness. “Why is it, Mary,” said she, “that you keep on making the same mistakes over and over again? Why don’t you try to remember what I tell you?”
The day happened to be very warm, so Mary returned the quaint reply, “Sure, ma’am, I can’t be aggravatin’ me moind this hot weather.”
Consolation.—There never was a night which was not followed by a morning, nor a winter which was not succeeded by a summer. A most consoling reflection, this, to those distressed in the night and winter of spiritual trial and trouble.


COURTESY.
By ELIZABETH A. S. DAWES, M.A., D.Lit.
“Plus fait douceur que violence.”—La Fontaine, vi. 3.
“A beautiful behaviour is better than a beautiful form; it gives a higher pleasure than statues and pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts.”—Emerson.


 have chosen “courtesy” as the subject of my little address this time, as it is a virtue which is perhaps somewhat in danger of being forgotten and overlooked in these modern days of continual hurry and bustle; and yet it forms such an essential part of a beautiful character that nobody can justly claim the title of “gentleman” or “gentlewoman” if he or she neglects the practice of it, which is, too, the opinion of our Shakespeare, for he writes, “We must be gentle now we are gentlemen” (Winter’s Tale, v. 2).
The derivation of the word, which really means the manners and behaviour to be observed at a royal court, is neatly given by Spenser in his Faerie Queene, Book vi. 1.
“Of court, it seems, men courtesie do call,
For that it there most useth to abound;
And well beseemeth, that in princes hall
That vertue should be plentifully found,
Which of all goodly manners is the ground
And root of civil conversation”;
and Milton likewise says that “courtesy was first named in courts of princes.” And as an example of a prince who practised this virtue we may quote from an old memoir about Henry VIII., “We cannot omit to observe this courtly (shall I call it?) or good quality in him; that he was courteous, and did seem to study to oblige.” However, the English girls of to-day need not look far for the pattern of a perfectly gracious and courteous woman, for who fulfils this ideal better than her Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria? Who better known than she for the courteous message of thanks to her troops when they have nobly done their duty, or for the quick expression of sympathy to the suffering victims of an accident or some personal bereavement?
Then for a definition or short explanation of what courtesy is we cannot do better than turn to The Greatest Thing in the World. Here on p. 26 we learn that courtesy is an ingredient of Love, that it is “Love in Society, Love in relation to Etiquette,” and has been defined as “love in little things”; in a word it is the quality denoted by the sentence, “Love doth not behave itself unseemly.” From these words we can also gather the reason why we should all show courtesy, for, as it is one of the components of love, and Christ said that all His disciples were to be distinguished from the rest of the world by their love for another, we shall not be true followers of Christ, or have a really beautiful character, if we omit any part of love; just as a beautiful mosaic could never be otherwise than imperfect, if, though complete in all other respects, the stones of one certain colour were everywhere missing.
It must also be remembered that a courteous behaviour should be worn always and everywhere, and not only put on like a grand robe for state occasions, for courtesy is “a happy way of doing things, and should adorn even the smallest details of life, and contribute to render it as a whole agreeable and pleasant.” Hence, first and foremost, courtesy should be practised in the home by the children both towards their parents and towards each other. This is a matter which merits more attention and thought than is generally given to it, for by a courteous manner and a gentle tongue, more influence in the government of others is often attained than by qualities of greater depth and substance. Now woman, not man, is the true home-maker, therefore girls should take great pains to be courteous, and thus by their gentleness lead and direct the perhaps rude and selfish brother who will probably unconsciously sooner or later imitate and adopt his sister’s gracious ways. A sweet-tongued gentle maiden cannot fail to render the home, be it a poor or rich one, both pleasant and dear to her brothers and sisters. And then to parents how far more gentle and courteous we all should be than we are. It has been well said that a blessing is never fully realised until it is lost, and so I fear we hardly any of us realise clearly and distinctly to ourselves how much our parents, especially our dear mothers, do and suffer for us until the day comes when we know what it is to be without them.
Dr. Miller, in his book The Building of Character, which I should earnestly recommend every girl to read, says, “Wherever else we may fail in patience, it should not be in our own homes. Only the sweetest life should have place there. We have not long to stay together, and we should be patient and gentle while we may.” And to enforce this teaching, he quotes one of the tenderest little poems ever written, and of which I subjoin a couple of verses:—
“The hands are such dear hands;
They are so full; they turn at our demands
So often; they reach out
With trifles scarcely thought about;
So many times they do
So many things for me, for you,
If their fond wills mistake,
We may well bend—not break.
They are such fond frail lips,
That speak to us. Pray, if love strips
Them of discretion many times,
Or if they speak too slow or quick, such crimes
We may pass by; for we may see
Days not far off when those small words may be
Held not so slow or quick, or out of place, but dear,
Because the lips are no more here.”
Further, a courteous manner should be used towards the servants, orders given politely and unnecessary troubling of them avoided; for instance, lying late in bed, though intensely pleasant, often necessitates the disarrangement of the servants’ morning work, for which the delinquent herself will perhaps blame them later in the day.
At school, again, how many “open doors” are there for doing little courtesies to mistresses and schoolfellows, and for aiding to maintain the peace and harmony both in class-room and playground by a gentle look or word, and for the “soft answer which turneth away wrath,” and stays the rising quarrel. The girl who will be most beloved, and who will have the best influence in a school, is undoubtedly she who is ever ready with a pleasant smile to play with the little ones, to say a kind word to another when in trouble, and who shows by her whole behaviour that she wishes to make those around her happy and comfortable. Then on those days of discouragement, when, in spite of all endeavours, the lessons are not well known, and it seems useless to go on trying to do as well as the other girls, or when, perchance, unmerited blame or irritating teasing has unnerved and tired you, how you welcome the friend who, without being told, knows how “wrong everything is going,” and with gentle loving words strives to cheer you, and bids you take heart again and bravely return to the fight.
If we look at the reverse of the picture and contemplate the discourteous girl, be it at home or at school, we cannot fail to observe how many opportunities she loses of giving pleasure. She may come down to breakfast, and just mutter a “Good morning” and omit the morning kiss; during the day she may never notice how often she might fetch something for her mother or mistress, jump up or open the door for somebody with their hands full, or try to subdue her loud boisterous laughing or talking in a room where others are busy reading or writing—she will also pass in and out of a door in front of her elders, pay little attention to the wants of her neighbours at table; in short, she will not increase in any way the pleasantness of her surroundings.
A word of warning, too, must be given to those girls who, with the best of intentions to try and do right and help others, make the mistake through their very excess of zeal of directing or correcting others in a rough, brusque way, and perhaps enforce their words by a not too gentle push or shove! These must read La Fontaine’s fable of Phoebus and Boreas, or The Sun and the Northwind, and see how the north wind, for all his violent blowing, could not divest the traveller of his cloak, whereas the sun by the influence of his gentle warming rays soon accomplished that in which the rough blasts of Boreas had failed. And if they follow the teaching of this fable, they will soon see how much more the gentle word accomplishes than the rough one.
And now to close, I would like to ask you, who read these few remarks of mine, to endeavour to put more gentleness and courtesy in your dealings with other people than you have done heretofore; for in all of us there is always room for improvement, and there is not one of us surely but must admit that we often leave little courtesies undone and little gentle words unsaid. Courtesy is like the drop of oil that enables machinery to work noiselessly and smoothly, for it lessens the jars and friction of life and the consequent worry and fretfulness. Little things make or mar the peace of life, therefore exhibit courtesy which is “Love in little things,” and you will gain the gratitude and esteem of those around you, and carry away in your minds these lines of Lord Houghton, and never, if you can avoid it, lose an opportunity of putting them into practice—
“An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.”
THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.
 
Devilled Whitebait.—To fry whitebait a good depth of clear frying fat is needed, and a frying basket in which the fish can all be plunged into the fat at once. They should be carefully wiped, then lightly shaken in a well-floured cloth, just so as to coat them sufficiently. Plunge into boiling fat for about three minutes, then withdraw them from the fat, sprinkle them with black and red pepper, return to the pan for another minute, then drain and serve on a napkin with fried parsley as a garnish. Send quarters of lemon and brown bread and butter to table with them.
Grenadines of Veal, Jardinière Sauce.—A slice of the best lean fillet of veal, about two-thirds of an inch thick, should be shaped into small pieces, and then dipped into beaten egg and into a mixture of breadcrumbs, minced ham and seasoning. Fry these carefully on both sides to a light brown, then put between two plates and stand in a hot oven.
For the sauce take a pint of stock, and one onion, a large carrot, a turnip, a few French beans, a few peas, and any other available vegetable. Mince these finely and evenly, fry them in dripping, drain and add to the stock. Thicken this with a spoonful of potato flour, and season highly. Boil gently for a while, then pour in the centre of a hot dish and set the grenadines around the edge. Let boiled potatoes (small ones) accompany this dish.
The saddle of lamb should be simply roasted and served with its own gravy; the French beans boiled first, then sautéd, in butter with chopped parsley, and potatoes, if liked, treated the same way. Pass mint sauce around as well.
Cream should accompany the gooseberry tart, and strawberries with cream might appear at the same time, or in lieu of the tart as preferred.
A roast duck and green peas might take the place of the saddle of lamb, according as means and circumstances permit.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.
PART IX.
There is a kind of cottage, chiefly found in the North of England, but also not unfrequently to be seen in the western and central counties; it is constructed entirely of stone or granite. The mullions of the windows, “dressings” of the gables, doorways, and sometimes the walls themselves, are built in “ashlar.” “Ashlar,” in England, means stone brought to a smooth surface, not only on face but round the sides as well. Now this is rather important for all who are engaged in building operations, because “ashlar” means a different thing in England from what it does in other parts of the United Kingdom. In Ireland, for instance, “ashlar” means stones brought to a smooth surface in front alone, the edges being left irregular, and if you require them to be cut smooth and squared at the edges, you have to specify that they shall have “even beds and joints.”
A curious trial occupied the Irish Law Courts for many weeks some time back. An English architect and an Irish builder were engaged in erecting an important edifice in Ireland. The architect in his specification stipulated “ashlar” for the frontage of the structure. The builder carried it out in the English manner and then sent in a heavy bill of extras for “beds and joints.” This was opposed by the architect on behalf of his clients. At the trial all the Irish witnesses maintained that the builder was right, and all the English that he was wrong. The judge and jury became thoroughly puzzled, and could not understand the disputed point, as evidently both sides were perfectly sincere. At last the judge, perfectly bewildered, appealed to a very eminent counsel who was engaged, and said to him—
“Mr. ——, can you explain what all this means? We have been for some days listening to the apparently endless dispute about ‘beds and joints.’”
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“Well, my lord, I can only suggest that it must be in some way connected with a question of board and lodging,” answered the counsel.
The matter remains unsettled, I believe, to this day. Of course we use the word “ashlar” in its English signification.
In addition to all the northern counties stone cottages are found in Derbyshire, Warwickshire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, Oxfordshire, Somersetshire, Dorsetshire, Devonshire, and Sussex.
They are usually very solidly built, and, though they present sometimes a stern and severe aspect, they are well suited to a rough climate, as they are warm and comfortable, and so substantial that they can resist the floods which often inundate mountainous districts. The group of cottages which we sketched some years back at Glossop, in Derbyshire, bore up against a singularly severe catastrophe. The little mountain stream shown in the foreground was dammed by a very solid earthwork higher up the valley so as to form a reservoir. During a terrible storm of wind and rain the dam was swept away, and the vast torrent of water poured down the valley, sweeping everything before it, and completely submerging the lower part of the village. The old stone houses shown in our drawing were flooded to their upper storey. A man who described the occurrence to us said—
“It was all so sudden-like. I heard a loud roar, followed by a rushing noise, which made the house seem to rock. I jumped out of bed and found myself up to my knees in water. I got my wife and children to stand upon the table and chairs, while I tried to find out what was going on, half expecting that the old house would come down, but it stood like a rock; and when the water subsided, it was as good as ever, though some of the modern houses were reduced to ruin.”
 
LOOSE STONE AND PEAT COTTAGE, SCOTLAND AND N. ENGLAND.
These stone cottages, with their heavy mullioned windows and low-pitched gables, continued to be built down nearly to the end of the last century. Of course, they must have been expensive; but their durability seems to prove that the extra outlay was, in the end, true economy. Artistically, they appear well suited to their bleak grey surroundings. These great, wild woodlands, interspersed with shapeless and fantastic
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 rocks and strange-looking bowlders, swept by howling winds, so that no tree can lift its head save under shelter of the hillside, are not so unkindly as they seem.
 
STONE COTTAGES, GLOSSOP, DERBYSHIRE.
We once knew a beautiful and delicate girl who had to leave London and, with her parents, live in one of these wild-looking districts. After a short time she grew strong and still more beautiful. Later on she married, and went with her husband to live in a southern land under the influence of a more genial climate. But, alas, it proved less friendly to her than the rugged North, for within six months she died. Three days before this sad event she said to her husband—
“If I could only feel the wind over the great moor I think I could live.”
He would have given all he possessed to save her, but the doctors assured him that she would certainly die on the journey. Health is often to be found in these rugged stone houses of the North country, stern and sombre as they look when compared with the cheerful half-timber cottages of the South.
In some out-of-the-way districts of Northern England, Scotland, and Ireland, cottages are built of “loose stone”—i.e., stones fitted together without mortar, and are thatched with peat. Sometimes the angle-stones, window and door openings, have mortar joints, the rest being left open. In all stone counties of England walls constructed in this manner divide the fields instead of hedgerows, the top row of stones being fastened together with mortar when the wall is more than breast high. This is a very ancient method of building, and is found in almost every country of the world.
H. W. Brewer. 
(To be continued.)

OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE III.
SOLUTION.
An Accidental Cycle III.
5. Lamp Explosions.
Some use cheap lamps, whose oil, alas!
Is held in china or in glass,
Such folly no one can surpass.
6. Escape of Gas.
When you escape of gas detect,
Don’t search about with lighted match,
But for a little while reflect—
It might your head from form detach.
7. To Cyclists.
If you’re cycling down a hill
With a waggon coming towards you,
Keep your head;
And to save an awful spill
Make for hedge, though it accords you
Scratches red.

Prize Winners.
Twelve Shillings and Sixpence Each.
Jessie F. Dulley, Lindens, Wellingborough.
Ellie Hanlon, 1, Otranto Place, Sandycove, Dublin.
G. Meggy, Rimpton Rectory, Bath.
Janet M. Pugh, Bronclydur, Towyn, Merionethshire.
Ethel Tomlinson, The Woodlands, Burton-on-Trent.
Seven Shillings Each.
Mrs. Ethel Hartley, 310, Rotton Park Road, Birmingham.
John Marshall, 13, Prospect Road, Child’s Hill, N.W.
Eben. Mutten, 17, George Street, Devonport.
Katharine Mary Stanley, The Old House, Washingboro’, Lincoln.
L. Trotman, 26, Blessington Road, Lee, S.E.
Helen B. Younger, 5, Comiston Gardens, Edinburgh.
Very Highly Commended.
Mrs. Acheson, Eliza Acworth, Agnes Amis, Annie A. Arnott, Margaret E. Bourne, Nellie D. Bourne, Rebecca Clarke, Rev. Joseph Corkey, Mrs. G. H. B. Cumming, Ethel Dickson, Cecil French, Mrs. W. H. Gotch, Edith E. Grundy, Meta Kelway, Eliza Learmount, Agnes McConnell, Mrs. Nicholls, Rev. V. Odom, Annie B. Ormond, Isabel Snell, Frederick Wm. Southey, Ellen C. Tarrant, Constance Taylor, C. Thompson, Mary F. Wakelin, Edith Mary Younge.
Highly Commended.
Division I.
Edith Ashworth, S. Ballard, Rev. F. Townshend Chamberlain, Lillian Clews, Helen Margaret Coulthard, J. L. Ellson, Herbert V. French, Annie M. Goss, Ellen Hambley, Francis Hingston James, Mrs. Latter, Dora Laurence, Eva H. Laurence, Carlina Leggett, Winifred A. Lockyear, Mrs. C. A. Martin, Jennie M. M’Call, F. Miller, Helen M. Norman, Violet C. Todd, W. Fitzjames White, Henry Wilkinson, Alice Woodhead, Elizabeth Yarwood, Diana C. Yeo.
Highly Commended.
Division II.
Eva Mary Allport, Lily Belling, G. Brightwell, Jane Lindsay Campbell, R. Swan Coulthard, George Robert Davidge, Leonard Duncan, Eleanor Elsey, Mrs. F. Farrar, C. S. Gregory, Hilda Mary Harrison, Charlotte Hayward, Florence Hayward, Ethel Winifred Hodgkinson, Madge L. Kemp, A. Kilburn, Gertrude Longbottom, E. Lord, Annie Manderson, Helen A. Manning, E. Mastin, Jessie Middlemiss, E. M. Le Mottée, J. D. Musgrave, E. Pearson, N. E. Purvey, Kate Robinson, M. Winifred Shakespear, Bettie Temple, Mrs. Mabel Tench, R. Marjorie Thomas, Ellen Thurtell, M. Tolson, Frances H. Webb-Gillman, Margaret M. Wilcox.

EXAMINER’S REPORT.
Here is another award at last to excite indignant comment and criticism. So large was the number of first-rate solutions that we had to pounce upon the most trifling errors with a keenness worthy of a better cause. After we had examined and re-examined again and again, we were rewarded for our exertions by finding that faults abounded, the enormity of which might fairly be expressed in sixteenths.
For instance, a failure to indent the lines properly was reckoned one-sixteenth of a mistake. The substitution of “around” for about was counted two-sixteenths, and so on, with arithmetical precision. As only a limited number of names can be mentioned, all we have to do is to draw the line at a certain point (in this case it was at nine-sixteenths), and say: “Beyond that, no mention.” The result is an adjudication which can face criticism with a very fair amount of confidence. And here let us say that if any competitor thinks that an injustice has been done, we hope she will not harbour the thought privately, but frankly let us know as soon as the report appears. We much prefer to have the opportunity of acknowledging a mistake or of proving that none has been made.
To return to the puzzle. Many competitors failed to notice the “s” in the title, and wrote “Exploding Lamp.” This could only be regarded as a whole mistake, and was therefore fatal to any chance of success.
The rhythm of the first line, No. 6, was often marred by the insertion of “an.” In the second line, as we have already intimated, “around” could not be considered equal to about, for a reason which a reference to the puzzle will divulge. In the fourth line “face” was continually given for head, though the better sense of the latter reading is obvious, and the puzzle form of spelling “detach” was often adopted without thought.
In No. 7, “Cycling” was the title generally given, though many solvers were careful to read the two into it. This was an error we could not very severely condemn, and as a matter of fact two solutions which were perfect in every other respect, were admitted into the prize bundle. In the first line “you are” would not do instead of the contraction you’re, neither did the insertion of “a” before hedge improve the rhythm of the last line but one. In the same line we did not object to the more strictly grammatical “accord” in place of accords, although the puzzle gave the latter.
We have received several letters questioning our award on “An Accidental Cycle II.” We have turned up every solution written about, and find that absolute justice was done to each. For the benefit of a very large number of solvers who cherish similar doubts in silence, we may say that the mistake of spelling “some one” as one word was a very important factor in the adjudication. That our report should have contained no reference to this point was an unfortunate circumstance.
The award on the whole series of Accidental Cycles cannot be published for two or three weeks, the number of solutions being very large.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
M. H.—1. The thought in your poem is very good, and you describe nature well and sympathetically. You need, however, to pay more attention to your technique. Your lines are frequently halting—
“’Tis sunset on the ocean, radiant with light.”
is an instance in point.—2. Water-colours would be suitable for painting on gauze or satin. No preparation of the material is required.
“Barty.”—1. Barty Joscelin, in The Martian, is a fictitious character, though some of his early experiences in France were probably drawn from real life.—2. We are not familiar with the books you mention, but no doubt you could obtain a list from a bookseller, or the publisher if you knew the name.
Sweet Seventeen.—1. Your writing is fairly good, but you should not leave a margin at the end of your lines. Try to write as freely as possible.—2. Inquire at the chemist’s where you purchase the sulphur ointment.
Norah T.—We have never seen a really good book of such dialogues as you require, but you might apply to The United Kingdom Band of Hope union, 60, Old Bailey, E.C., saying what you need. Twenty Minutes, by Harriet L. Childe-Pemberton, is a little book containing amusing dialogues for recitation, but they are not connected with “temperance.”
Student.—1. A charming book, though not a new one, about animals is Mrs. Alfred Gatty’s Worlds not Realised; and Parables from Nature, by the same author, contains much information mingled with beautiful allegorical teaching.—2. Apply to the National Health Society—secretary, Miss Lankester, 53, Berners Street, W., or to the St. John’s Ambulance Association, St. John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, E.C., for full list of books on nursing. We may mention Hints and Helps for Home Nursing and Hygiene, by Dr. Cosgrave, price 1s. (St. John’s Ambulance Association). We do not think you at all discourteous in your criticisms on the articles in question.
Hildegarde Winter.—1. It is rather difficult for us to advise you what music to practise without knowing your powers. There are books of “Short Voluntaries” (1s. each), by Edward Redhead, published by Orsborn & Tuckwood, 64, Berners Street, London, W., which might suit you. They are intended for organ or harmonium, but sound well on the piano. Book III. contains some charming easy music. Would Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words” be too difficult? You should practise at least an hour a day and as much longer as you can, but we fear that without any tuition you will find it hard to make much progress.—2. The tails of your g’s and y’s spoil your writing; they are too long, and badly formed. You could easily improve your hand.
MEDICAL.
Gwen Lewis.—Goître or Derbyshire neck is one of those diseases which are “endemic,” that is, resident in certain localities. It is very common in some places, chiefly in the mountainous or hilly districts of Derbyshire, Devonshire and Wales. It is more common in the valleys than in the hills. It is supposed to be due to some constituent in the water, possibly excess of lime. Goître, however, is not very infrequent in persons who have never seen a mountain, and who have lived in districts which are decidedly not goîtrous. There are many forms of goître, and the treatment for each variety is different. Unfortunately, that variety which is “endemic” is most difficult to cure. If the patient can leave the district where the condition was developed, and live in a place where the disease does not occur, the mass will cease growing and often wither altogether. The rational treatment of goître is therefore to change one’s residence. Iodine, both internally and externally, is often advised for the relief of simple goître, and it does sometimes do good. Mercury is often occasionally used with good results. Surgical procedures have been adopted, but unless the growth is enormous or interferes with breathing or swallowing, and in other special cases, this treatment is not to be recommended. Friction, massage and electricity have been tried with practically no result whatever.
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Buttercup.—Careful and moderate exercise is what you require. All your troubles, including the curvature of the spine, will be improved by this means. Gymnastic exercises are extremely valuable, and if we can only impress upon you to be moderate, we have no hesitation in saying that you will derive great benefit from gymnastics. The dumb-bells, the clubs, the horizontal bar, and the other milder exercises are very helpful, but you must avoid all the violent, we might almost say furious, exercises which are far too commonly indulged in. Again, you must not give up walking for gymnastics, but let a little of one augment a little of the other. Avoid sofas and easy-chairs, for these tend to weaken the spine. Before doing this, however, we advise you to have your back examined to find out what was the cause of the curvature.
Mystic.—Beer poured over a red-hot horse-shoe will not cure dyspepsia. On the contrary, it will make it worse. What an extraordinary superstition!
Heath Phillips.—You suffer from acne undoubtedly, possibly from that form known as “acne rosacea.” If you never feel indigestion you certainly have not got it. Sulphur ointment is very good for acne, but in the later stages, especially of the rosaceous acne, ichthiol ointment (2½ per cent.) is better.
Merry Sunbeam.—The hair frequently combs out in considerable quantities, especially during spring and autumn. This is no abnormality, it is quite healthy, but it frequently alarms girls, because a very little hair makes a great show. The solution you use is useful, but you must beware of using much alcohol for the hair, as it renders it brittle. Wash your head less often, say once a fortnight, and add a teaspoonful of borax to each quart of water. The yolk of an egg makes a useful and strengthening hair-wash, but it should not be used too frequently, and the hair must be well rinsed afterwards.
Ethel.—Chlorate of potassium lozenges are very useful for a “relaxed throat.” You must be careful not to swallow too many, for the drug is very apt to produce indigestion. Never take more than five in the course of one day. We have seen truly alarming symptoms in a girl who has eaten an ounce of the lozenges in an afternoon.
Maitland.—Singeing the eyebrows would in no way permanently injure them. The hairs of the eyebrows grow very fast, and in a few weeks you will be none the worse for the accident.
Enquirer.—By an “enlarged neck” you probably mean enlarged glands in the neck, a condition extremely commonly due to decayed teeth.
Harry’s Girl.—Sugar is fattening, and very probably you are getting too fat because you eat too much sugar. There is no necessity for you to give up sugar altogether, but be more moderate in the amount you eat.
Mignonette.—We published a long article on blushing and nervousness a short time back in which you will find all the information you require.
MISCELLANEOUS.
Primrose.—We do not think a stone could be set in a small wedding-ring. You had better consult a jeweller about it, as we have not seen it and cannot give a reliable opinion.
Dodo.—The distinctions between the heterodox beliefs of a Deist and an Atheist are considerable. The former believes in the existence of a God, but rejects the divine revelation of Him given in the Holy Scriptures. He also believes in the immortality of the soul, and in the suitable reward of virtue and the punishment of vice. The latter denies the existence of a God, or Divine Providence, and holds no religious belief of any description. An infidel, or unbeliever, is one who denies the Jewish and Christian religions, and may be of any unorthodox belief.
H. H.—Much depends on your finances. There is a good rule which tells you to “be just before you are generous.” Of course, it would be best to take nothing that you can help (by self-denial) from the contributions you usually make in church; but the money required for restitution of fraudulently-acquired money, it should be your first duty to make good (see St. Matt. v. 23 and 24). This precept would apply to such a case as yours. Of course, “there is hope while there is life.” Our blessed Lord says “He is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God through Him”—His blood-shedding—and “Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.”
Olive.—That the Celts are a branch of the great Aryan family is regarded as beyond all doubt, by their language, which bears a close resemblance in grammatical structure and vocables to Sanscrit. They were the first of the Aryan settlers in Europe. Herodotus (B.C. 450) speaks of the Keltai. By this name the Greeks called them, and the Romans Galli, and a very numerous branch of them called themselves Gael. They settled in most of the European countries, and in the British islands, notably in Scotland and Ireland, but more in England than is generally supposed. Your own aboriginal family name is clearly Celtic.
Sunflower.—The fact that your copy of the Bible is 100 years old is not the only question to be considered. If one of the several editions named after typographical errors, such as the “Breeches Bible” or the “Vinegar Bible” (published in 1727), and others, then there would be a fixed value for it. The celebrated “Bowyer Bible,” illustrated with 7,000 engravings, etchings, and original drawings, was sold to a Mrs. Heywood, of Bolton, for £500. It was one of the Macklin Bibles. You had better send a particular account of yours to some large library, and discover its value from the manager.
Queenie B.—Fringes, if worn, are short and encroach little on the forehead. You should look at the dummies in the hair-dressers’ windows, and get a hair-dresser to cut your hair properly, or it will not curl. A situation as “companion” is rarely to be obtained. A girl should have a good address and good manners, should be a good reader, and write a good legible hand, be well-informed, sing, or play; have a sweet temper, and a great store of patience, with tact. As to the salary, that would vary, and must be left to private arrangement. If you possess all these qualifications, then advertise.

OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.
Prizes to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved for competitors living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of the above Puzzle Poem. The following conditions must be observed:—
1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.
2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.
3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.
4. Send by post to Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London. “Puzzle Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.
5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be August 17, 1899; from Abroad, October 16, 1899.
The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age.

The End