The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 364, December 18, 1886
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 364, December 18, 1886

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 364, December 18, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: May 22, 2021 [eBook #65406]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII, NO. 364, DECEMBER 18, 1886 ***

THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 364.]

[Price One Penny.

DECEMBER 18, 1886.

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

TINNED MEATS; THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.
A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
CHRISTMAS IN THE GERMAN FATHERLAND.
“NO.”
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

TINNED MEATS; THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.

By A. G. PAYNE, Author of “Common-sense Cookery,” “Choice Dishes at Small Cost,” “The Housekeeper’s Guide,” &c.

LOBSTER CANNING IN CANADA.

All rights reserved.]

Tinned meats and provisions may be regarded from two distinct points of view. The majority of persons, especially in this country, look upon them simply as a convenience to housekeepers, but the subject should be regarded from a far higher point than one of mere convenience, for by means of tinned provisions the whole food supply of the world is increased, and thereby the happiness and enjoyment of mankind at large.

By means of tinned meats the superfluities of one country help the deficiencies of others. Owing to this useful invention, no longer are sheep slaughtered for their wool and tallow only, and the carcasses wasted, but the whole is utilised. It should be borne in mind that economy in the use of food is a duty clearly pointed out to us by the highest of all authority. The age of miracles has passed, but were it in our power to multiply our food miraculously, we are taught that it would still be a duty to gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.

At present I will confine myself to the consideration of tinned meats in relation to their value to housekeepers, and I will illustrate my subject by supposing the following case, which is by no means a rare one in England in the present day.

There are, throughout the length and breadth of the land, many hundreds of little quiet country villages which, to a certain extent, may be said to be isolated from civilised life. There is the village inn, alas! generally more than one; the village shop, a few scattered houses and outlying farms. But for all practical purposes the well-to-do inhabitants are dependent for their supplies on the carrier’s cart, which takes a journey into the neighbouring town, some four or five miles distant.

The village shop generally supplies the inhabitants with bread; probably they will kill a pig on Thursday or Friday, and supply the usual dish of pork for Sunday’s dinner. They also will usually be found to deal in cheap crockery, needles and cotton, sweetstuff, candles, pickles, etc. The only means of communication with the neighbouring town is, as I have said, the carrier’s cart, which generally takes a few passengers. I have lately lived in a little village myself, and have travelled by the same hooded conveyance backwards and forwards, never without thinking of the lazy horse associated with David Copperfield; and, indeed, at times I have felt inclined to chalk up in the corner, “Barkis is willin’.” The carrier usually takes his orders the night before, starts at an early hour in the morning, and returns in time to supply the dinner-table. Let us suppose that he has brought with him a shoulder of mutton, and that, instead of dining late, as is our wont, we, on this particular day, dine early. Shortly before our usual dinner hour, we are suddenly alarmed by the astounding news, “Oh, mamma, Mr. Smith has arrived; what are we to do?” Hospitality is a duty, and were I cynically inclined, I would imagine Mr. Smith to be a rich old bachelor uncle, very fond of good living, from whom we had great expectations; but I would rather put this supposititious case. Suppose Mr. Smith to be an old friend of our father who has seen better days, in which he showed us many little acts of kindness. Under these circumstances he is, of all men in the world, the very last one to whom we should like to give the “cold shoulder.” What is to be done?

We will suppose that our housekeeper, or whoever acts as such, has, in anticipation of such contingencies, laid in a little stock of tinned goods, which are safely put by in the store closet. Having welcomed our guest, and whispered a few words to the cook and those willing to assist her, we will calmly sit down to our table, take a sheet of paper, and commence as follows:—

- Menu.

- Ox Tail Soup.

- Salmon Mayonnaise.

- Hashed Mutton and Pickled Walnuts.

- Curried Rabbit.

- Asparagus.

- Plum Pudding. Brandy Sauce.

- Jelly in glasses.

- Pine Apple (whole in syrup).

If the cook is smart, the whole dinner could be served easily within an hour, and should one or two of the girls in the house be willing to assist (and who would not, under such circumstances?), the dinner might be sent to table in considerably less time. I can imagine some of my readers glancing over the bill of fare I have just written, and saying to themselves, “What a lot of saucepans we shall want on the fire at the same time!” This, however, is not the case; for I would remind you that one of the first points to learn in connection with the serving of tinned meats is that they should be warmed up in the tin before it is opened. We can, therefore, perform the astonishing trick of making hot our ox-tail soup, our curried rabbit, our asparagus, and our plum pudding in the same saucepan at the same time.

I must, however, commence at the beginning. Our store cupboard is supposed to contain the following provisions in tins:—Ox-tail soup, preserved salmon, mayonnaise sauce, curried rabbit, asparagus, plum pudding, pine apple in syrup, as well as a bottle of jelly. I may, however, mention, with regard to the mayonnaise sauce, that should you have a bottle of oil in the house and a couple of eggs, it would be better to make some fresh sauce from the egg and oil direct. Our cupboard will also contain a bottle of pickled walnuts, a bottle of capers, a bottle of olives, and a bottle of anchovies.

Of course we commence dinner with the soup, unless we happen to have in the house a Brunswick sausage, in which case a few thin slices of Brunswick sausage may be placed in a plate with a few of the anchovies, capers, olives, and a little pat of butter, as there are many persons who like to commence dinner with what is known as a hors d’œuvre, and I do not know a better mixture than the one I have named.

But to return to the soup. In my opinion, of all provisions sold in tins at present, the soups are the greatest failures.

This is very much to be regretted; but there is a good old saying, that we must always make the best of a bad job. As a rule, the thick soups are better than the clear, and although I have mentioned ox-tail soup, I will later on give a list of the soups from which you may take your choice. Fortunately, all thick soups in tins can be very greatly improved by a very simple method. Make the thick soup hot in the tin, take the tin out of the hot water, open it, and pour the contents into a saucepan. Of course, if there are many persons to dinner, it would be necessary to warm up two tins, or even more. I will now describe the contents of the tin. The soup itself is not exactly thick, nor is it exactly clear. The bones of the tail, instead of being surrounded by the meat, are quite bare, and it looks as if the bone and the meat had had a quarrel, and they had mutually agreed never to speak to one another again, while the bone itself recalls a game known as “knuckle-bones.” To every pint of soup in the saucepan add as follows: a brimming dessertspoonful of brown thickening, or what French cooks know as brown roux. This brown roux looks like light-coloured chocolate. It keeps good for months, is very cheap, very useful, and I will describe how to make it by-and-by. Add, also, a brimming teaspoonful of extract of meat and half a glass of sherry. The effect of adding the brown roux is that when the roux is crumbled into the soup and gently stirred over the fire till it boils, it makes the soup thicker than it was before. It also makes it darker in colour, richer in flavour, and makes the divorce between the meat and the bone less conspicuous.

The extract of meat also greatly adds to its nutritious properties, and gives additional colour. The sherry gives it flavour. Were I going to take the soup myself, I should also add a little cayenne pepper and lemon-juice, but we must be very cautious how we use cayenne, unless we know the taste of our guests.

We will next consider the salmon mayonnaise. As this is all cold, we should naturally see to the hot things first, and we will, therefore, suppose that the ox-tail soup, the curried rabbit, the asparagus, and the plum pudding are all getting hot in the saucepan. First open the tin of salmon. Turn the contents entirely out. If there is any liquid, throw it away, and, as far as possible, absorb all the moisture of the salmon in a dry cloth before placing it in a dish. Make the surface, as far as possible, oval, and raised in the middle, and then pour the sauce with a spoon gently over the top, so that it looks like a custard pudding. If the season of the year is suitable, and we have some lettuces in our garden, of course we should cut one or two lettuces, and surround the salmon with the best part of the lettuce. Next to ornament the salad. Take a bottle of capers, and with a spoon take out about a couple of dozen, throw these into a cloth and dry them, and place them at intervals on the sauce. Then take three or four anchovies out of the bottle, cut them into strips, remove the bone, and place these little strips of anchovy round the base of the light pyramid of sauce like trellis work. A dozen olives may be placed also round the base of the salad, the stone being removed with a knife. This is done by taking not too sharp a knife and cutting the olive sideways, keeping the blade of the knife always in contact with the stone of the olive. When the stone is removed the olive assumes its original shape, of course with a hole in the middle where the stone has been. Now take a little piece of parsley and chop up enough, say, to cover a shilling or a little more. Place this on the tip of a knife and shake it gently over the mayonnaise sauce, so that the little green specks of parsley fall naturally. Now take a bottle of cochineal, supposing you have one—cochineal can be bought at sixpence a bottle, and keeps good for months, or even years—and drop a few drops in a plate or saucer; take a little piece of dry bread and make about a saltspoonful of fine breadcrumbs. Throw these dry breadcrumbs into the saucer with the cochineal, and shake them. This will cause the breadcrumbs to turn red. These can be shaken over the mayonnaise like the chopped parsley, and we shall have a very bright-looking dish. The green lettuce round the edge, the raised surface of the salmon covered with the yellow mayonnaise sauce in the middle, which is decorated round the base with the anchovies and olives, and on the top the capers and the little green and red specks, which contrast nicely with the yellow. If you have no lettuce or salad of any kind to put round the base, you can ornament the edge with hard-boiled eggs cut in quarters, and a sprig of parsley between each piece.

Our next dish is the hashed mutton and pickled walnuts. This scarcely comes in the category of tinned meats. The mutton we had for dinner was probably in a semi-cold and flabby state when our guest arrived. Were I going to make the hashed mutton, I should commence by slicing up a couple of onions, browning them in a frying-pan with a little butter, then pouring in the remains of all the gravy that had been left from the joint, cutting the mutton into slices, and warming them up in this gravy, taking care it does not boil; and as the gravy would be rather poor, as soon as the soup was got ready I should add two or three tablespoonfuls of the soup to the hashed mutton. And let me remind you of another very great improvement. Add, as well, a dessertspoonful of Harvey sauce, after shaking the bottle. You can toast a piece of bread a nice brown, as you would not have time to fry any bread, which is better. Cut the toast into round pieces, and place them round the hash alternately with the pickled walnuts cut in half. Do not send the hashed mutton to table in a great, big dish, large enough to hold a round of beef, but serve it in a deep dish—a vegetable dish, for instance. By this means it keeps hot longer, and looks more appetising.

Our next dish is the curried rabbit. First class curry can be obtained in tins. Remember that tinned meats are like everything else in the world—some are good, and some are bad. If you wish for a bottle of really good wine, you must go to a first class wine merchant; and if you wish your tinned provisions good, you must get them from first class people, or see that some well-known name is on the label. Unfortunately, this country has been flooded, from time to time, with worthless imitations, introduced by unknown men who have no name to lose.

The curry, having been made hot in the tin, should be turned out in a deep dish; and here again I would recommend a vegetable dish. Boiled rice should be served with it in a separate dish, and the rice should be handed before the curry. If you have any chutney in the house, the chutney should be served with the curry, like they do on board the P. & O. boats, which are so famed for their oriental curry cooks. When the curry has been turned out into the dish, you might add a few fresh bayleaves and serve them up in the curry whole, and if you feel anxious to have the dish ornamental you can proceed as follows, and, should your guest be an “old Indian,” he will probably appreciate the addition:—Take some red chilis and bend each chili in the middle, so as to make it look like one of the small claws of a lobster, and place these red chilies round the edge of the dish in a triangular shape, exactly as if you were placing the small claws of a lobster around a lobster salad mayonnaise.

The asparagus should be served as a course by itself. When the tin is sufficiently hot, which it will be a few minutes after the water has boiled, take it out and open it, pour off the liquid, and serve the asparagus on a piece of toast. A little butter sauce should be handed round with it.

Butter sauce is best made by simply thickening, say, half a pint of water (not milk) with a little butter and flour mixed together. When the water is sufficiently thick, add some more butter to the hot, thickened water till it becomes rich and oily.

As soon as you have handed round the butter sauce with the asparagus, take the tureen down-stairs, and let the cook put back the butter sauce in the saucepan for a minute, and add a tablespoonful of moist sugar, a tablespoonful of rum, and two tablespoonfuls of brandy. By this means we avoid waste, and make the same sauce do twice. If you don’t approve of spirits being used in the kitchen (I don’t approve of it myself), add a little sherry, and rub a few lumps of sugar on the outside of a lemon, and also two drops of essence of almonds. (You can, indeed, leave out the sherry, and still have a good sauce.)

The plum pudding will be hot through after the water has boiled for over half an hour. Open the tin, take out the pudding, and serve with a little sauce poured over it, and the rest in a tureen.

The jelly should be served in glasses, for the simple reason that there is no time to melt the jelly. Open the bottle, and rake out sufficient jelly with a bent skewer to fill the glasses.

The pineapple, whole, in addition to the usual stock of almonds and raisins, figs, biscuits, &c., makes a first-class dessert.

It is perhaps needless to add that as a rule all these dishes are not necessary for one dinner; but I wish to show what can be done in order to avoid giving your friends the “cold shoulder.”

(To be continued.)

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

CHAPTER XI.

THE WHITE RAM.

he secret of Fairy’s parentage died with Dame Hursey, and for the next two or three years she lived quietly on with the Shelleys, nothing more remarkable than the finding of some rare bird, or an occasional tiff with Jack, the Lewes carnival on the fifth of November, and the sheep washing and shearing every June, occurring to vary the monotony of her happy life. She was naturally a bright, happy little creature, not much given to thinking, and if she sometimes wondered who she was and where she came from, she never allowed the matter to distress her; she had the Shelleys, and they all worshipped her, and if she wanted other friends she was always welcome at the Rectory, where she still continued to go every day for her lessons. As to the future, it is doubtful if she ever gave it a thought; she lived as all children do, for the present, at least, as far as this world is concerned, though neither she nor any one else could have been brought up by good John Shelley without learning that life here is but a preparation for the life to come. Ignorant as the shepherd was in many things, he was by no means ignorant in things spiritual, and his knowledge of the Bible, large portions of which he knew by heart, would have put many an educated man and woman to shame. It was a favourite amusement of Fairy’s and the boys on long Sunday winter evenings, when there was no service at church, and after John had read the evening service to them, as he invariably did, to start him off in some chapter and see how long he would go on without stopping, saying it by rote. He always carried a small Bible in his pocket, and during his long days with the sheep, he had plenty of opportunities of studying it; and he studied it to some purpose, for he was a fine character. Faults he may have had, but you might have known him a long time before you discovered them. Mrs. Shelley, who had better opportunities of judging than anyone else, would have said he liked his own way too much; and that, for such a wise man as he was, it was surprising how easily he allowed a little thing like Fairy, whom he always had spoilt, to get over him; but it is doubtful whether in her heart of hearts she considered either of these faults.

If he had any pride in his composition it was entirely professional, and when one May evening, sixteen years after Fairy first was brought to Lewes, he announced to his family that he had been elected captain of the Lewes shearing company, his face certainly glowed with an honest pride, for he had then obtained the highest honour which could be conferred on a shepherd, and realised his fondest dreams of earthly happiness.

In those days it was the custom for shearers to form themselves into companies, called after the district in which they lived, and to go round to the various farms in the district in the shearing season, which begins in the middle of June, shearing the different flocks. The shearers in those days were generally shepherds, and each band had a lieutenant and a captain, the former distinguished by a silver band round his cap and a badge, the latter by a gold band and badge to match. They were chosen according to their proficiency in shearing, and for the good character they bore. John Shelley had been a lieutenant for some years, but he was now elected captain, owing to the death of the captain of the Lewes band, an old man over seventy; and with this honour some new duties devolved upon him, for at the captain’s house was held the shearing feast, called the White Ram. This feast lasted throughout the shearing week, and consisted of a supper after the day’s work was over; first, a good, substantial meal, in which the Sussex dish of beefsteak pudding, the crust made of flour and water, played an important part, and then ending with cakes and ale, during the consumption of which shearing songs were sung and many pipes were smoked till late in the long summer evening, when the men dispersed—sometimes not before midnight—to their various homes.

These bands are now a thing of the past, though the shearing is still done by men who go round for the purpose, but no lambs are shorn nowadays, so the work is very much lessened.

“There is plenty of work for you, Polly; you’ll have to get someone in to help you; we shall have to have the White Ram here for the future,” said John.

“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Fairy; “now I shall see it all, and hear the shearing songs. Mother, you must let me help; John says no one can make plum heavies, not even you, mother, like me: can they, John?”

“No, but I am thinking those little white fingers of yours are not fit for that sort of work, my pretty one,” said John.

“Stuff! white fingers can work as well as red ones—better, I daresay, if the truth were known. And may I help to wait on you?” asked Fairy.

“No, certainly not,” growled Jack; “you listen outside to the shearing songs with me, but you are not going inside to wait on a lot of rough men, who will, perhaps, take more beer than they ought.”

“No, Jack; I’ll have none of that; it shall never be said that John Shelley’s White Ram is disgraced by drunkenness. But you must come to the feast, even if Fairy does not, for you must go round shearing this year; it is time you began, if, as I hope, one of these days you are to take my place of captain.”

“There’s an honour for you, Captain Jack. Don’t you wish you may ever get it?” laughed Fairy.

But Jack neither laughed nor wished for the honour; hitherto he had always managed to escape going round with the shearers, but this year he saw he must go, since he had not the heart to throw a shadow over his father’s innocent joy by refusing; so he said with the best grace he could, “Very well, father, I’ll go shearing, but Fairy can’t be left out in the cold, I shall have to stay with her during the supper.”

“No, you need not, we will take it by turns; I can stop with Fairy sometimes,” said Charlie, a remark by no means calculated to soothe Jack, whose love and jealousy had grown greatly in the last few years; but Mrs. Shelley wisely stopped the discussion by remarking that there was plenty of time to settle the details, as the sheep-washing was not begun yet.

“It begins to-morrow though; Jack and I are off with half our flock at daybreak to-morrow. Charlie, you must follow the rest for a day or two; I must have Jack with me to-morrow,” said the shepherd.

“And I shall come too. If mother can’t take me, I shall get the Leslies to come. I always go to see our sheep washed every year,” said Fairy.

Accordingly, early next morning the shepherd and his son were up at dawn, driving their sheep to the brook in which the sheep-washing took place. For some days previously, preparations had been made for this washing, which lasts two or three weeks, as all the sheep for miles round are brought to this spot. These preparations consisted of pens made of hurdles by the side of the river for the sheep; in the stream itself, opposite to each other, were erected two rough pulpits or deal boxes, in which stand the sheep-washers. When Jack and his father arrived, it was so early that no one was there, not even the washers; but at ten o’clock, when Mrs. Shelley and Fairy went, the scene was a most lively one.

Hundreds of sheep were in the pens, some white and clean, their agonies over; others still dirty, with their tortures to come. On the neighbouring bridge stood or leant every child in the village, thoroughly enjoying the sight. On the roadside were some stragglers of all grades, watching the performance, one or two farmers on horseback who had a lively interest in the washing of their flocks, and on the banks several shepherds, among them Jack and his father, all armed with large, toothless wooden rakes, with which they push the sheep about, holding them under water when necessary, and steering them from pulpit to pulpit.

What with the laughter and screams of delight from the children, the shouts of the shepherds, and the coughing of the sheep and jingling of their bells, the scene is a very noisy one; but, noisy as it is, Fairy thoroughly enjoys it, and declares she must stay till the last of John’s red-ringed flock are finished. It is such fun to see the poor sheep tumbled into the water and then rolled over on its back and rubbed from head to foot in the bright, clear stream, first by one washer in his pulpit, and then, after sundry pushes and thumps from the toothless rakes, to be seized by the other washer and subjected to another vigorous rubbing and scrubbing, and splashing and dashing, and finally to be pushed off to scramble or swim as best it might out of the river.

Poor, patient sheep! They take their sufferings in very good part, and submit meekly enough to the inevitable ordeal, basing a protest as feeble as it is useless, the older and wiser ones knowing that this washing is but a preliminary to the still more disagreeable ceremony of shearing to be performed a fortnight hence, as soon as the wool is dry. And Fairy, fascinated by the picturesque scene, could not be persuaded to move when Mrs. Shelley was forced to go home to prepare some dinner—a useless labour, Fairy declared, since there would be no one to eat it, for Charlie had taken his with him, and John and Jack were too busy to stop for dinner, and she herself was not hungry, and had no intention of going home till all John’s sheep were washed. But Mrs. Shelley had no idea of leaving a pretty young girl like Fairy alone among a crowd of people, so she proposed they should both go home and fetch some dinner and share it out in the field with John and Jack, a proposal Fairy jumped at; and an hour later the four were sitting on a bank under a hedge of blackthorn, with a carpet of buttercups and daisies at their feet, eating their simple meal as happy as it was possible for four people to be.

And then, while the shepherd smoked his pipe, Jack gave Fairy a lesson in the notes of the different birds which were singing around them, and Mrs. Shelley listened with pride to her eldest and darling son, and wondered whether Fairy would ever care for him in the way he evidently cared for her, and thought what a handsome couple they would make.

“Oh, Jack, how clever you are; you know everything; but there, I do know one thing—I am right this time at least—there is a skylark singing up over our heads. Look,” cried Fairy, who had been making various wrong guesses at the names of the different songsters around them.

“Poor little Fairy! you are wrong again; it is a woodlark; the skylark mounts up straight in a succession of springs, and then hovers, singing; the woodlark flies round and round in circles, singing all the while, as this bird is doing,” said Jack.

“Oh, I give it up; I know nothing; but as long as I have you to tell me, what does it matter? I shall go and look for a wheatear’s nest in that fence,” said Fairy, rising and shaking back her long golden hair, which she still wore down her back, and which added greatly to her childish appearance.

“My pretty one, wheatears don’t build in fences,” cried John Shelley, as she ran lightly past him.

“She is doing it on purpose; she knows as well as you and I wheatears build in rabbit-holes or chalk-pits; she only wants me to scold her,” said Jack.

“It is time we were at work again, Jack, or we shan’t get our eight hundred washed to-day,” said John, who saw Jack showed signs of going after Fairy, and wisely thought he would not see him back in a hurry if he once let him go.

So the sheep-washing began again, and Mrs. Shelley, who had brought some work with her, promised Fairy to remain till tea-time, on condition that she then accompanied her home.

“I do enjoy it so, mother,” said Fairy; “it would be wicked to spend such a bright warm sunny day as this shut up in a house; it is so delicious out in this field. I wonder how much they pay those washers; it must be dreadfully hard work; they ought to pay them well.”

“They give them half-a-crown for every hundred sheep, and they can wash a thousand sheep a day, but these men won’t do more than finish John’s eight hundred to-day.”

“That leaves nearly eight hundred more for to-morrow. Oh! do let us come and have another day like this. Will you, mother?” pleaded Fairy.

Mrs. Shelley looked at the fair little face, with its great brown eyes, its dainty pink and white complexion, and the long wavy hair which veiled the slight girlish figure, and smiled and sighed—the smile was for Fairy, and the sigh for Jack—as she promised to do so if the weather were fine.

THE SHEEP-WASHING.

And so it came to pass that that sheep-washing was long remembered by Jack as two of the happiest days in his life, though, alas! they came to an end, as all days, however happy, must only too soon; and then came a fortnight of preparation for the great event of the shepherds’ year—the sheep-shearing and the Feast of the White Ram. Jack had not much to do with the preparations, for he was upon the downs with his washed flock, but little else was talked of when he came home in the evening, and it was a very busy time for Mrs. Shelley, who had to provide supper for twelve men for five nights, the shearing beginning on the Tuesday, and ending on the Saturday, when the money earned was divided among the company. It had been a source of much anxiety to Mrs. Shelley to know where the supper was to be held. To have these twelve men in the kitchen in which she had to cook it all would be very inconvenient, and she was by no means inclined to lend the little sitting-room, which Fairy had made so pretty, for the purpose; but at last Jack suggested borrowing a tent and pitching it in the field near the house, a plan which was at once adopted. The shearing itself took place outside a barn belonging to the farmer who owned the sheep about to be shorn, and the company went round to the principal farmers in the neighbourhood, taking one each day of the shearing week. How Jack hated this business of shearing! He would have given anything to have got out of it, if he could only have done so without vexing his father; but as this was impossible, he was obliged to go on with it with the best grace he could, but he was in an irritable mood all the week. The work brought him into contact with other shepherds, with none of whom had he anything in common, and made him realise his lowly position, which in his lonely life on the downs, lost in his studies, he was apt to forget. He would long ago have given up his shepherd’s calling and gone to London to seek more congenial work, if it had not been for Fairy; she was the magnet which held him in her vicinity, but he was daily becoming aware that if any of his dreams were to be realised, he must go away at once, though the time he spent on the downs was by no means wasted, since he was educating himself to the best of his ability. His idea was to try and get an appointment as usher in a school, for which in those days he was fully qualified. In teaching others he would learn himself; he would have access to books of all kinds, and he would be able in his leisure hours to pursue his favourite study of natural history. He had confided this plan to Mr. Leslie, who had promised to look out for him, and when an opening occurred to give him a testimonial. Another reason which had kept Jack at home hitherto was that Charlie was barely old enough to take his place, but during this last sheep-washing Charlie had had the care of half the flock, and had shown himself quite up to his work, which, in the summer, at any rate, was just the lazy, dreamy kind of life to suit an indolent nature like his, and Jack saw he need no longer delay his departure because there was no one to take his place. On the contrary, it would solve a difficulty, for it had hitherto been rather a puzzle to know what to do with Charlie since John Shelley only required one under-shepherd, and he did not seem to have any inclination for any other kind of work. Accordingly, all through the White Ram Jack was making up his mind to tear himself away from Fairy, in the hope of eventually winning for himself a position he could ask her to share, and the thought of the coming separation did not tend to make him happier.

Every morning he started with the rest of the Lewes company of shearers, with his father at their head, for some farm, where they spent their day in shearing the sheep, pausing about twelve and again about two o’clock to “light up,” that is to sharpen their shears, eat cakes, and drink beer, the meal of the day being supper when they got back after their labours were over.

(To be continued.)

EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.

A PRACTICAL GUIDE TO THE WORLD OF INDUSTRY AND THRIFT.

By JAMES MASON.

Part III.

e are going now to speak about money: not, however, about how to get it, but about what to do with it after it is got. About the occupations by which money is made, we shall not at present say anything. Many of them have already been treated of in The Girl’s Own Paper.

When people have money there are three things they can do with it; they can spend it, or place it out at interest, or tie it up in a parcel and hide it away. Perhaps they do not need at the moment to spend it; in that case of the two ways that are left the only wise one is to place it out at interest.

And what is interest? Interest is the sum paid by anyone who gets the loan of money, for the use of it. Selina, say, gets the loan of £50 for a year—not for nothing—oh, no, she pays £2 for the twelve months. This £2 is the interest. At the end of the year the lender receives back her £50 and £2 added to it, so, you see, it is for a good reason that we recommend lending in preference to unfruitful hoarding. Money—and this is a wise rule—should never be allowed to lie idle.

The sum lent is known as the principal, and on the principal the interest is calculated at so much per cent. (by the hundred); that is to say, at so much for every £100. For instance, 5 per cent. means £5 for the use of every £100; 2½ per cent., £2 10s. for the use of every £100; and 3¾ per cent., £3 15s. for the use of every £100. Selina’s loan, in the preceding paragraph, is at 4 per cent., in other words, £4 for £100; so, of course, for £50 she just pays £2.

When you see a rate of interest quoted you may safely conclude that it is for a year—per annum (by the year), is the correct phrase—unless something is said to the contrary.

The rate paid in the shape of interest depends on a number of things, but the main question is, will the principal be perfectly safe? If the answer be yes, then the interest in these days will certainly be low. But on this subject we shall have more to say in a succeeding article.

To calculate interest on any sum for a year, the rule is to multiply by the rate per cent. and divide by 100. For example, find the interest on £460 at 4½ per cent. Here you multiply 460 by 4½, which gives 2,070, and dividing by 100, arrive at the answer, £20 14s.

When the interest is wanted for a certain number of days, you must multiply by the number of days and by double the rate per cent., and divide by 73,000. By way of example, find the interest on £320 for 30 days at 3 per cent. Multiply 320, first by 30 and afterwards by 6, which gives 57,600. Now divide by 73,000, and you have the total amount of interest, 15s. 9d.

People who have much calculating of interest to do should invest in a book of Commercial Tables. The use of these saves a great deal of trouble. There are some short cuts, however, which every business woman should carry in her head. At 5 per cent. per annum the interest upon a pound for every month is one penny. Having seen what this comes to, other rates may be reckoned by adding to or deducting from the 5 per cent. product.

For example, 2½ per cent. is one-half; 3 per cent. is six-tenths; 3½ per cent. is seven-tenths; 4 per cent. is four-fifths; 6 per cent. is six-fifths; 7½ per cent. is one-half more. Thus, 5 per cent. on £30 for ten months will be £1 5s.; 2½ per cent., 12s. 6d.; 3 per cent., 15s.; 3½ per cent., 17s. 6d.; 4 per cent., £1; 6 per cent., £1 10s.; and 7½ per cent., £1 17s. 6d.

Sometimes, on interest becoming due, it is regularly added to the principal, and interest is paid on the new principal thus formed. Money invested on this accumulating system is said to be placed at compound interest.

There is something startling about the growth of money invested in this way. “A penny,” says Dr. Price, “so improved from our Saviour’s birth as to double itself every fourteen years—or, what is nearly the same, put out at five per cent. compound interest at our Saviour’s birth—would by this time have increased to more money than could be contained in 150 millions of globes, each equal to the earth in magnitude, and all solid gold.

“A shilling put out at six per cent. compound interest would, in the same time, have increased to a greater sum in gold than the whole solar system could contain, supposing it a sphere equal in diameter to the diameter of Saturn’s orbit; and the earth is to such a sphere as half a square foot or a quarto page is to the whole surface of the earth.”

To show the difference between “simple interest,” in which the interest does not bear interest, and “compound interest,” in which it does, we give the following table, showing the time it takes for a sum to double itself at different rates:—

Rate per cent. | Time in which a sum will double itself.
Simple Interest. | Compound Interest.
2 | 50 years | 35 years 1 day
2½ | 40 years | 28 years 26 days
3 | 33 years 4 months | 23 years 164 days
3½ | 28 years 208 days | 20 years 54 days
4 | 25 years | 17 years 246 days
4½ | 22 years 81 days | 15 years 273 days
5 | 20 years | 14 years 75 days
6 | 16 years 8 months | 11 years 327 days
7 | 14 years 104 days | 10 years 89 days
8 | 12½ years | 9 years 2 days
9 | 11 years 40 days | 8 years 16 days
10 | 10 years | 7 years 100 days

The really surprising difference between simple and compound interest is, however, only seen after the first few years are over. A loan of £100 for ten years at 4 per cent. simple interest would give £40, and at 4 per cent. compound interest about £47. But if the loan were for a hundred years the simple interest would be only £400, whilst the compound interest would be no less than £4,950.

Having now said all that is necessary at present about interest, we must speak for a little on the subject of banking, for it is by means of banks that most money transactions are satisfactorily managed.

What, then, is a bank? There seems, at first sight, something mysterious about it, but it is really a simple institution. It is partly a shop and partly a left-luggage office. It is a shop for dealing in cheques, bills, notes, gold, and silver, and a left-luggage office to which we consign our spare cash to lie till called for.

This, however, is only a rough and ready way of putting it, and we may as well add the following extract from a writer who has taken pains to give an exact definition:—“A banker is the custodier of the money of other people. Such is his business, viewed in its simplest aspect. A banker, however, if he hoarded the money deposited with him, would be simply a cash-keeper to the public; his bank would be literally a bank of deposit.... But the business of receiving money on deposit has always been, and is now, universally combined with that of lending it out. A banker does not hoard all the money deposited with him—he gives the greater portion out in loan. The lending of money is as much a part of his business as the receiving of deposits.”

You cannot go into a banker’s and say, “I have come to open an account,” just as you would enter a grocer’s with, “Be so good as send me half a dozen tins of the best sardines.” You must be introduced by someone who can vouch for your respectability, or, if not introduced, you must be able yourself to satisfy the banker that you are likely to be a desirable customer.

This first step being taken, you open what is called a current or drawing account; that is to say, an account into which you can pay money whenever it suits you, and from which you can draw money at any time by means of orders, or cheques, as they are called. In a current account in a good bank money is kept safely—which is a great matter—and at the same time you can make use of it as readily as if it were lying in your pocket.

For convenience, and partly, too, as a protection against fraud, bankers are in the habit of supplying their customers with books containing forms of cheques. When a book of cheques is exhausted, a new one is supplied on the presentation of a form which, when filled up, may resemble the following:—

The Cashier,
The Cosmopolitan Bank.
London, 29th November, 1886.

Please deliver to Bearer Cheque Book containing 25 cheques payable to
Jemima Bouncer.

Each cheque bears a penny impressed stamp, and a book of cheques is supplied at the price of the stamps—a book, say, of twenty-five costing two shillings and a penny.

Cheques may be in one or other of two forms. The first form is—

No. 478953. London............188...
The Cosmopolitan Bank,
14, Marketjew-street, E.C.

Pay..................or Bearer..................
£...............

The other form is precisely the same, except that instead of the word “Bearer” it has the word “Order.”

As an example of a cheque with the particulars filled in, take the following:—

No. 536212.

London, 19th November, 1886.
The Cosmopolitan Bank,
14, Marketjew-street, E.C.

Pay Miss Georgina Makepeace or Bearer Nine pounds Thirteen shillings and Four pence.

£9: 13: 4. Alice M. Littleproud.

The difference between cheques made out to “Bearer” and those made out to “Order” is this. Cheques payable to bearer can be cashed by anyone. Those payable to order, however, must be endorsed by the person in whose favour they are drawn before the money can be received. But what is to endorse a cheque? It is simply to write your name on the back of it.

Cheques payable to order are certainly safer than those payable to bearer. And they have another advantage. In the event of receipts being lost or mislaid, they supply evidence that the money was received by the person to whom it was owing.

A cheque payable to bearer can be made payable to order by drawing the pen through “Bearer,” and writing “Order” above it. A cheque payable to order can also be made payable to bearer by scratching out “Order” and putting “Bearer” above it; but in this case you must put your initials to the alteration.

To give extra security to a cheque, draw two parallel lines across the face of it with the words “—— & Co.” inserted between them. This makes it what is called a “crossed cheque,” which will only be paid through some banker to a known customer. Instead of “—— & Co.” you may write the name of the banker of the person to whom the cheque is payable. When this is done, the cheque is only payable through him.

If in crossing the cheque you add the words “Not negociable,” that is another safeguard. These words “warn all whom it may concern that they accept the cheque subject to the liability of being compelled to refund its value should it prove to have come improperly into the possession of any person from whom their own title is derived.” This makes a cheque as secure against the wiles of the dishonest as anything in this world can be.

The filling up of a cheque should be done very carefully, and the style of signature should be always the same. The figures in the body of a cheque must be in words, and should be written close together, so that there is no room left for the fraudulent to improve on the amount. Cases have frequently occurred of “ty” being added to six, seven, and nine, to make them read sixty, seventy, and ninety, and a “y” being given as a tail to eight, to multiply eight by ten, is quite a common trick. As a protection, the words “Under ten pounds” are sometimes written upon a cheque that lends itself to this sort of roguery.

Suppose a cheque is given by a person who has not money enough in the bank to meet it, the banker will most likely return it, with the words written on it, “No effects,” or “Refer to Drawer.” The cheque is then said to be dishonoured.

Cheques should always be cashed—that is to say, payment of them should be got—as soon as possible after they have come to hand. It is never safe to delay, for the most unlikely things happen; the bank may fail, or the drawer may become bankrupt, or his account may become locked up through his death.

A memorandum should be preserved of every cheque you give away. This is provided for by the cheque-books furnished by the banks having a margin which is left when the cheque is torn out. This margin, separated from the cheque by a perforated line, is known as the counterfoil. The counterfoil bears the same number as the cheque to which it is attached. Here is an example of one filled up:

No. 213,551
17th November, 1886.
Dr. Simon Burre.
Medical Attendance.
£7.7.0

On the back of each counterfoil some people are in the habit of writing the balance they have at the moment in the bank. This has some advantages, and is certainly a check to extravagance.

Though cheques are usually made out on engraved forms, you may write a cheque on a sheet of note-paper should a cheque-book not be at hand. In that case, remember to put a penny stamp on it, and to cancel the stamp by writing on it the date and your initials.

Keep your cheque-book always under lock and key. If you leave it about, it only puts temptation in the way of people to abstract a blank form and make free with your signature. Should your book ever be lost or stolen, give notice at once to the bank.

Lodging money is one of the easiest of business operations. You go to the bank, and fill up a slip, headed, say—

The Cosmopolitan Bank,
14, Marketjew-street.
............18...
Credit...........................
Paid in by.....................

Below this heading you enter the particulars of the sum you are going to lodge:—Bank-notes, so much; coin, so much; cheques and bills (mentioned separately), so much; total, so much. You hand this slip over to the teller with the money, and the whole thing is done. No receipt is given, and it says a great deal for the perfect machinery by which banking is conducted that one never hears of a mistake, or that any customer ever thought his confidence taken advantage of. We speak here of the method in the best London banks. In the provinces and in some London establishments the form of procedure varies a little.

When you send money to your banker by post, you should write with it somewhat as follows:—

Brackenhurst, 24th November, 1886.

Dear Sir,

I enclose cheque for £34 12/—Messrs. Bagwell and Sackit on the Welsh Counties Bank—which kindly place to my credit.

I remain, Dear Sir,
Yours truly,
Silvaninha Hamilton.

The Manager,
The Cosmopolitan Bank.

Receipt of this will be acknowledged by the manager, thus:—

Dear Madam,

I beg to acknowledge receipt of your favour of 24th inst., with enclosure, value £34 12/, for your credit.

Yours, etc.,
Jacob Birchenough,
Manager.

To every person keeping an account the bank supplies a book, generally known as a pass-book. On the Dr. or left-hand side of this book, will appear the sums received on behalf of the owner of the book; whilst all the cheques paid on her account by the bank will appear on the Cr. or right-hand side. Here is an example in which, for convenience, we have printed the Cr. side under the Dr., instead of side by side:

The Cosmopolitan Bank.
in Account with
Miss Esmeralda Beatrice Bones.

Dr.
1886
Sept. | 6 | To | Cash | £60 | 0 | 0
| 13 | ” | Draft | 14 | 7 | 6
| 23 | ” | do. | 4 | 1 | 8
| 29 | ” | Bill | 17 | 18 | 0
Oct. | 2 | ” | Notes | 15 | 0 | 0
1886 | | Cr.
Sept. | 9 | By | Twentyman | £ 3 | 5 | 0
| 15 | ” | Self | 10 | 0 | 0
| 25 | ” | Jones | 5 | 1 | 3
Oct. | 6 | ” | Williamson | 4 | 9 | 8
| 12 | ” | Thomson | 27 | 2 | 5

In this book you must never make an entry yourself. It should be left at regular intervals at the bank to be “made-up,” that is to say, for all the sums received and paid to be entered in it. The pass-book is really a copy of the bank ledger. When received again from the bank it should be gone over carefully to see that all the entries are just as they should be.

Current accounts, as a general rule in England, do not bear any interest, in other words, the banker pays nothing for the use he enjoys of any balance left in his hands. Unless the balance is large he thinks he does enough in taking the trouble of keeping the account. In Scotland interest is usually given on current accounts, but it is only a slight advance upon nothing.

Besides receiving money on current account, however, bankers receive it on deposit. Deposit accounts are those in which sums of money are lodged in a bank on the understanding that a certain rate of interest is to be paid upon them, and that a certain number of days’ notice is to be given before they are withdrawn. There is no such thing as drawing cheques on a deposit account.

When money is received on deposit, a deposit receipt is given. The amount is usually repayable to the depositor alone, but it may also be paid to anyone to whom the depositor gives an order on the bank, either written on the back of the deposit receipt or accompanying it.

The rate of interest paid on deposits varies with the Bank of England rate. It is, however, usually so small that no one, except for special reasons, will let money lie on deposit in a bank whilst there are plenty of perfectly safe investments to be met with outside.

For business women who travel few business documents are of greater interest than a letter of credit. This is a communication from a banker to a correspondent, or correspondents, authorising credit to be given to the bearer to a certain specified amount.

In applying for a letter of credit you must name to your banker the sum you will require altogether, and the number of towns in which you wish to draw portions of that sum, and if there are, say, three towns—Paris, Berlin and Rome—you must enclose your signature on three separate sheets of paper. The banker sends one of these slips to an agent in each of the towns named, and forwards to you a letter of credit in this form:—

Messrs. | Ancelot & Santine | Paris.
” | Otto, Rust & Umlauf | Berlin.
” | Trento, Bertoni, & Valentino | Rome.

London, 27th November, 1886.

Gentlemen,

We have the pleasure of establishing a credit in favour of Miss Robina Turpin, who will present to you this letter, and we shall thank you to supply her with cash to the amount of one hundred and twenty-five pounds (£125) sterling, or such part thereof as may not previously have been paid on this credit, writing off on the back of this letter the sum advanced, and taking her drafts on us in your favour for your reimbursement, which we engage duly to honour.

We remain, Gentlemen,
Your most obedient Servants,
Smith, Paterson & Winkles.

Across the face of the letter of credit is written, “This credit to be in force for twelve months only from this date.”

Circular Notes, as they are called, are in one respect an improvement on a letter of credit: they can be cashed in almost every town the traveller is likely to visit. They are issued by most London bankers and for sums of from £10 upwards.

A banker has a pretty responsible time of it. He is bound to keep secret the state of his customer’s account. He must also know his customer’s handwriting, so, should he pay a cheque or bill which turns out to be a forgery, he must bear the loss. If he neglects to carry out any instructions within the legitimate sphere of banking business, such as the payment of premiums on a life insurance or the purchase of shares, he may be called to account for any loss the customer may suffer through his carelessness.

The simplest bank in the country, and the most important to depositors of small means is the Post Office Savings Bank, about which we must now speak. It is an extensive institution, having over eight thousand branch establishments all over the country; indeed, every money order office is a branch office of the Post Office Savings Bank. At the present time there are more than three and a half millions of accounts open, with an average balance of £13 10s., and the average turnover of the bank, counting both the money deposited and the money drawn out, is twenty-eight million pounds a year.

You cannot, in the Post Office Savings Bank, open an account from which, by means of cheques, you can draw money at any hour. It does not provide cheque books, and makes the withdrawal of money comparatively a slow process, for its leading idea is not to facilitate present business, but to provide for future need. It really starts with the reflection that

“If youth but knew what age would crave,

Many a penny it would save.”

An account may be opened with a very small sum. You can do it with a shilling. With that in your hand you can go to a post office, and assert your intention of placing your savings under the care of the Government. And remember that the shilling, and anything else added to it, will be safer than in any other bank whatever; for the Post Office Savings Bank can only come to grief with the ruin of the British Empire.

Intending depositors must state their Christian name and surname, occupation (if any), and residence, and they must sign a declaration to the effect that they have no interest in any savings bank account, and are willing to have any deposits they may make managed according to the regulations of the Post Office.

When that is done a deposit book is supplied. In this book every deposit must be entered at the time of its being made by the postmaster, or whoever receives it, and he must affix to the entry his signature and the stamp of the office.

“In addition to the receipt in the book, the depositor will receive an acknowledgment by post from the Savings Bank department in London, and this should reach him within four clear days, exclusive of Sundays and bank holidays, if the deposit be made in England or Wales; within six days, if it be made in Ireland or Scotland.”

The interest allowed is 2½ per cent. per annum—that is to say, at the rate of £2 10s. every year for every £100. This is just a halfpenny each month for every pound. Thus, a pound lodged in the bank, and lying there for a year, becomes £1 0s. 6d.: £10 becomes £10 5s.; and £30 grows to be £30 15s. The interest is calculated to the 31st of December in every year, and is then added to and becomes part of the principal.

The deposits made in any year ending 31st December must not exceed £30, and when a depositor has lodged in all £150, not counting interest, she is not allowed to lodge any more till she has reduced the sum standing at her credit. If she chooses to let it lie, it will, of course, by the addition of interest, increase every year. When it reaches £200, however, no more interest is allowed till some of the money is withdrawn.

When a depositor wishes to withdraw any money, she fills up a notice of withdrawal, to be had at any Post Office Savings Bank, and forwards it to the Savings Bank Department in London. She then receives by post a warrant, which she should present with her book at the post office where payment is to be made.

Once in every year, on the anniversary of the day on which the first deposit was made, the deposit book should be forwarded to the Controller of the Savings Bank Department in London, that the entries may be checked, and that the sum due for interest may be added. When sending the book, do not pay postage: all communications on Savings Bank business go free.

Deposits may be made by married women, and in that case their husbands have no control over the money. They can draw from it when they please, and bequeath it by will to any person they choose.

The Post Office Savings Bank adapts itself to saving on the smallest scale. If a girl can only save a penny at a time, she can with the penny buy a stamp, and the stamp she can stick on a form with twelve divisions, supplied by the Post Office. When she has in this way saved twelve stamps, she must take it to the post office, and have the shilling entered in a regular bank account.

But the Post Office undertakes more business in connection with money than merely storing it up against a rainy day. Of that, however, we shall speak in our next article.

(To be continued.)

A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR.

By M. M. POLLARD.

A tale of the past, a tale of the past!

Of the days that have vanished, the first and the last,

Of the year, the old year that has met with its doom,

And is vanished for ever in time’s yawning tomb!

The snow of December is spread as a pall

Of white-crested trophies to mourn for its fall,

And the flow of the river is hushed in its bed,

Silent and still as the year that has fled.

Bright were the blossoms that welcomed its birth,

Springing afresh from the bosom of earth,
Smiling in valley, on mountain, and glade,
Gladdening the pathway in sunshine or shade.
But they have budded and blossomed to fall,
Summer birds answer no more to the call,

They are gone—and the wail of the chill wintry blast

Sweeps like the sound of a requiem past.

E’en as the seasons my life-tale has been,

Sunshine has lightened up many a scene;

Sometimes the hours seemed all brightness and joy,

Cloudless and calm as a sweet summer sky;
Sometimes the beauty fled swiftly away,
As rising clouds shadow the glory of day,
For life has all changes—is joyous or drear,

Like the seasons that make up thy round, hoary year!

And many more cycles will swiftly roll past,

With changes, and sunshine, and gloom like the last,

Giving new birth to the blossom and rill,

And voices will praise them when mine shall be still,

And others will welcome with gladness or tears,

The hope and the promise of many more years.

Oh, year that is vanished! I bid thee farewell,

And the chill winds of winter are sounding thy knell.

THE NEW YEAR’S BELLS.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XI.

MARSHLANDS.

e had started by an early train, and arrived at Netherton soon after four. I knew we were to be met at the station, and was not at all surprised when a fresh-coloured, white-haired old gentleman brandished his stick as a token of welcome to Joyce. I was quite sure that it was Squire Cheriton before Joyce clapped her hands and exclaimed, “There’s gran.”

“Halloa, little one,” he said, cheerily, as she ran up to him with a joyous face, “so you have not forgotten grandfather. Bless me, you are not a bit like Vi, you have taken after Alick. So this is the boy, nurse? Dear me! which is the nurse?” looking at me with rather a puzzled countenance.

“I am the nurse, sir,” I returned, quietly; “and this is Hannah.”

“Hannah Sowerby, of course. Bless me, I never forget a face—never; I knew yours directly,” as Hannah dropped a countrified curtsey to the squire. “I saw Michael the other day; he was looking hale and hearty—hale and hearty; ‘that comes of hard work and temperate living, Michael,’ I said—oh, we are both of an age, old Michael and I, and I am hale and hearty, too. So this is my grandson; he is a fine fellow; takes after Vi, I should say. Come along, come along, there’s auntie waiting for us,” and, talking half to us and half to himself, Mr. Cheriton led us through the station. On the way, however, we were stopped twice; first, the station master was interviewed and the children introduced to him—

“My grandchildren, Drake,” observed the Squire, proudly, twirling his gold headed stick as he spoke; then a burly farmer jostled against the squire, and the two commenced observations on the weather.

“Fine weather for the crops, Roberts; the oats look lively. These are my grandchildren; fine boy that.”

“Little girl looks rather peaky, squire; wants a bit of fattening.”

“Eh, what! We’ll fatten her, won’t we, Joyce?” pinching the child’s thin cheek. “Takes after her father, Alick Morton. You can’t find fault with my grandson, Roberts, I hope; never seen a finer child in my life.”

“Father, father,” exclaimed a fresh young voice, “what are you doing with those children? Methuselah is fretting terribly to be off. Do be quick, pray.”

“I am coming, Gay. Now then, all of you, move on. Ta-ta, Roberts.” And Mr. Cheriton drove us out before him. An open barouche was waiting at the door, and a young lady was on the box trying to hold in a pair of thoroughbreds. When she saw us, she at once handed the reins to her father, and jumped lightly to the ground.

“Kiss me, you darlings,” she said, coaxingly; “don’t you know me yet?” as Joyce hung back a little shyly. “I am Gay, the little auntie, as you used to call me. How do you do, Miss Fenton—you see I know your name. Hannah, I am glad to see you again. There is plenty of room for us all; the boxes are going by omnibus. Now, father, we are all ready,” and in another moment Methuselah and his mate were on their homeward way.

Miss Cheriton chattered all the time. She was a pretty, dark-eyed girl, rather piquante in style, but not equal to her beautiful sister, though I caught an expression that reminded me now and then of my mistress. She struck me as very fresh and unconventional, and she had a bright, chirpy voice and manner that must have been very attractive to children. Joyce made friends with her at once, and even Reggie wanted to go to her, and received her caresses and compliments with unusual condescension.

“How wonderfully he has improved, nurse—Miss Fenton, I mean. My sister told me he was a lovely boy, and so he is. Why, Rolf will look quite plain beside him. What nicely-behaved children they seem. Poor Rolf is such a plague to us all.”

“Don’t you love Rolf, auntie?” asked Joyce, fixing her dark eyes on Miss Cheriton’s face.

The young aunt looked rather perplexed at this question.

“When Rolf is good I love him, but not when he teases, fidgets, or frightens my canaries; I do not love him a bit then. I am always longing to box his ears, only his mother would be so angry with me. Father, dear, do make Methuselah go a little slower, Mr. Hawtry is trying to overtake us.”

“Holloa, Roger,” exclaimed the squire, in his hearty voice, “you did not think to pass Methuselah, did you, on that hack of yours?” And the next moment a gentleman, well mounted on a dark bay mare, rode up, and entered into conversation with Miss Cheriton. He threw a searching glance round the carriage as he lifted his hat, and then laid his hand on the carriage door.

“Good afternoon, squire; Methuselah seems a trifle fresh. How is it you are not driving, as usual, Miss Cheriton? Better employed, I suppose,” with a look at Reggie. “So these are Alick Morton’s children, are they? The little girl looks delicate. You must bring them out to my place; Mrs. Cornish will give them plenty of new milk. By the by, isn’t that Hannah Sowerby?” And as she dimpled and looked pleased, “Why, I was over at Wheeler’s Farm this morning, and your sister Molly was talking about you. I wanted Matthew to come up to the Red Farm for a job—he is a handy fellow, that brother of yours—so, as I was waiting, I had a chat with Molly.”

I looked across at Hannah and saw how this kindly mention of her home pleased her. It was good-natured of Mr. Hawtry to single her out, and this little act of Christian charity prepossessed me in his favour. He was not very young—a little over thirty, I should have judged—and had a strong sensible face, “not a mask without any meaning to it,” as Aunt Agatha sometimes said, but a face that seemed to reveal a sensible, downright character.

I saw Mr. Hawtry look in my direction once a little doubtfully. I daresay, being an old friend of the family, he thought it rather odd that Miss Cheriton did not introduce him to me, but Joyce soon enlightened him.

“Oh, nurse! do look at those pretty flowers,” she called out, pulling my gown to enforce my attention.

“Yes, I see them, dear,” I answered, quietly, and then Reggie became restless and struggled to get to me, so I took him in my arms, and at that moment the carriage turned in at some lodge gates.

I had not been able to judge much of the place. Miss Cheriton’s chatter had engrossed me. I knew we had driven very fast through a pretty village, and that we had turned off down a country road, and that was all. Once I fancied I had caught a blue shimmer in the distance that must have been the sea, but after we had turned into the lodge gates, I took no more notice of Miss Cheriton and her companion. I was far too curious to see Marshlands, the home where my beloved mistress had passed her childhood.

A short avenue brought us to the gravelled sweep before the hall door. A large sunny garden with terraces seemed to stretch into a park-like meadow; in reality it was divided by a wire fence to keep in the sheep that were feeding between the trees. An old white pony was looking across the fence, attracted by the sound of our horses, a little black and tan terrier flew out on the steps barking, and a peacock, who was spreading his tail on the sundial, retreated in much disgust, sweeping his train of feathers behind him.

“Jacko hates Fidgets,” observed Miss Cheriton, as the children clapped their hands at the gorgeous bird, and then Mr. Hawtry dismounted and lifted Joyce out of the carriage.

I stood for a moment with Reggie in my arms, admiring the old red brick house, with its ivy-covered gables, before we entered the wide dark hall, and it was then that I distinctly heard Mr. Hawtry say—

“Who is that young lady?”

“Do you mean the children’s nurse, Miss Fenton?” observed Miss Cheriton, carelessly. “Oh, yes, Vi says she is quite a lady, and very nice, but——” Here I passed on quickly and lost the rest, only my foolish cheeks caught fire. Merle, Merle, be prudent, remember the Valley of Humiliation. What does it matter, my girl, what the world thinks? Eve was a dairymaid in Eden.

An old grey-headed butler had hurried out to meet us. Miss Cheriton, who had joined us after a minute or two, questioned him at once.

“Is Mrs. Markham still out, Benson?”

“Yes, ma’am, and Master Rolf and Judson are with her, but I have taken tea into the morning-room.”

“Very well, Benson, I will be down presently. Now, Miss Fenton, let me show you your quarters,” and she preceded us up the dark old staircase, and down a long narrow lobby, lighted with small lozenged pane windows, and threw open a door at the end of the passage. “This is the old day nursery, and there are two bedrooms communicating with it. Susan will bring up the children’s tea directly. Will you ring for anything you want. I am sorry I cannot wait now, but I must pour out tea for my father and Mr. Hawtry. I will come up again by-and-by,” and she nodded pleasantly and ran away.

I looked round the nursery approvingly. It was such a charming, old-fashioned room, rather low, perhaps, but with brown wainscotting, and a dark panelled ceiling, and wooden window seats, and though the windows were small, they were deliciously quaint, and they looked out on the grass terrace and the sundial, and there was the white pony grazing under the elms, and such a pretty peep of the park, as I supposed they called it. An old black-faced sheep came in sight; I called Joyce to look at it, and even Reggie clapped his dear little hands, and cried out, “Ba—ba, ba—ba.”

The bedrooms were just as cosy and old-fashioned as the nursery. The bed where Joyce and I were to sleep was hung with curious blue chintz, and there was an oak wardrobe that looked black with age, and curious prints in little black frames hung round the walls. Reggie’s cot had chintz hangings too. The afternoon sunshine was flooding the room, as I stood at the window a moment. I called to Hannah to admire the view. We were at the back of the house; there was a kitchen garden and fruit trees, then came a deep, narrow lane and cornfield, and beyond lay the sea; I could even catch sight of a white sail very near the shore.

I never saw Hannah so excited as she was when she caught sight of that lane. She thrust her head out of the window, almost overbalancing herself in her eagerness.

“Why, miss,” she exclaimed, “there is Cherry-tree-lane, and if we could only see round the corner—but those pear trees shut it out—we should see Wheeler’s Farm. Isn’t it like being at home?” her voice trembling with emotion. “Directly I had a taste of the salt air, and a glimpse of Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, I felt almost beside myself.” And indeed the girl’s honest joy was good to witness, and again, as I thought of those sisters crowding out the attics of Wheeler’s Farm, I could have found it in my heart to envy Hannah.

When I had taken off the children’s things we went back to the day nursery. A freckled-faced country girl was covering the round table with all sorts of dainties—new laid eggs, fruit, jam, and honey; there seemed no end to the good things. She nodded to Hannah in a friendly way, and asked after her health in broad Sussex dialect.

“Do you know Susan?” I observed, in some surprise, as I poured out some milk for the thirsty children.

“She is a neighbour’s daughter,” replied Hannah, as she waited on us. “Susan was never much to my taste, but we learnt our samplers together. The Mullinses are not our sort,” she continued, with manifest pride. “Joseph Mullins is the village cobbler, but he is none too steady, and father and Molly can’t abide him.”

As soon as the children had finished their tea, I took them to the window, where they found plenty to amuse them. The white pony was still cropping the grass; here and there was a nibbling sheep; the rooks were cawing about their nests in the elm trees; the peacock was strutting along the terrace, accompanied by his mate; a pair of golden-crested pheasants followed them.

Presently the bay mare was brought round by a groom, and Mr. Hawtry came out on the terrace, and stood talking to Mr. Cheriton before he mounted.

“Why did you call him Squire Hawtry, Hannah?” I observed, curiously, as he rode away down the avenue.

“He is mostly called by that name,” returned Hannah. “He is a gentleman farmer, and lives at the Red Farm down Dorlcote way. His mother and sister used to live with him, but his mother died two years ago, and Miss Agnes did not long survive her. She was a sweet creature, and very handsome, but she had been a sad invalid the last few years of her life.”

“Poor Mr. Hawtry! and he is all alone.”

“Quite alone, except for his good old housekeeper, Mrs. Cornish; she takes good care of Mr. Roger, as she calls him. Folks say,” continued Hannah, somewhat hesitating, “Squire Hawtry has had enough of loneliness and nursing Miss Agnes, and that he is looking out for a wife; he and Miss Gay are firm friends, and——”

“I think Reggie is getting sleepy,” I observed, hastily, for Joyce was listening with all her might, and the old proverb is true in saying “little pitchers have long ears;” besides which this was gossiping about other people’s affairs, and Hannah knew I never countenanced gossip; it always seemed to me such a mean and undignified thing to chatter about those who were inmates of the house that sheltered us. We had partaken of their bread and salt, and so they ought to have been sacred to us. How little the world understands the so-called word “honour,” but “Noblesse oblige” is a safe motto.

Hannah took the hint with her usual good nature, and went off for the bath water. The next moment there was a slight peremptory tap at the nursery door, and before I could answer a tall, elegant-looking woman, dressed in black, entered the room. I rose at once in some little trepidation; of course it was Mrs. Markham.

“Good evening, nurse,” she said, in rather a thin, highly-pitched voice. “I hope you find yourself comfortable, and that the children are not tired with the journey.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she seated herself languidly, and called to Joyce, “Come to me, my dear; I am your Aunt Adelaide; good children always come when they are called.”

I gave Joyce a slight push, for she was hanging back in a most unaccountable way, and yet she was by no means a shy child, and would be friendly even with strangers, if she liked their appearance. I thought Mrs. Markham looked a little annoyed at her hesitation, but she controlled herself and tried coaxing.

“What would your mamma say, if you refused to kiss poor Aunt Adelaide? Come, that is better,” as Joyce advanced, timidly. “Why what a thin, sickly-looking child it is,” regarding the sweet little face before her rather critically; “I should hardly have thought,” speaking half to herself, “that Violet would have had such a plain child.”

I was indignant at this; for everyone thought Joyce had a lovely little face, though it was rather too thin and grave. “Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I observed, hastily, “but Joyce is a very forward child, and understands all that is said before her,” for it was hard that our pet should meet with such a cold reception.

Mrs. Markham regarded me with a supercilious stare; she evidently thought I was taking a liberty with her in venturing to remonstrate, but I took no notice, and prudently restrained myself.

I felt, even at that first moment, an unaccountable dislike to Mrs. Markham. Most people would have pronounced her very handsome, in spite of her sallow complexion and thin lips, but a certain hardness in her expression repelled me, as it repelled Joyce. Her dark eyes regarded one so coldly; there was such hauteur and indifference in her manners; and then the metallic harshness of her voice! “How could she be Mrs. Morton’s sister?” I thought, as I recalled the sweet graciousness, the yielding softness, that made my dear mistress so universally beloved.

(To be continued.)

CHRISTMAS IN THE GERMAN FATHERLAND.

In the days of my youth it was my good fortune to have letters of introduction to some German friends of our family, and to be invited to spend the winter with them in their charming country house at the foot of the Riesengebirge.[1]

It was the 24th of December, and bitterly cold, when I emerged from the railway carriage upon the platform of a small country station, and was taken into friendly possession by a vivacious little dark-eyed baroness and her tall, flaxen-haired son, who, with many fears that I must be nearly frozen by my long journey from Berlin, wrapped me in an extra fur and supplied me with a third veil before allowing me to encounter the keen outer air and a long sledge drive.

To drive in a sledge at all was to me a novel and delightful experience, and the sledge to which I was now conducted was particularly pretty, with its body of light carved wood, its fur rugs lined with crimson, its pair of cream-coloured Russian ponies, with their harness studded with silver knobs, and arches of silver bells over their heads; and when once we were all warmly ensconced among the cushions and wrappers, and were gliding with noiseless swiftness over the well-kept sledge-way, it seemed to me that sledging was the very acme of luxurious motion, and I felt almost sorry when Baron Max checked his ponies to point out the high tower, now close at hand, which he said formed part of the main building of his home.

After passing through some fine pine-woods, we drove across the whilom moat, now planted with trees and called the Dark Walk, and, driving under a small archway, found ourselves in a spacious court laid out as a flower-garden, while facing us, and forming three sides of a hollow square, stood the schloss itself. The great entrance was approached by a long flight of steps, and upon these were several liveried servants awaiting our arrival, while at the sound of the sleigh-bells and the cracking of the driver’s whip, two great wolfhounds rushed out to welcome their master, and were followed, more sedately, by the daughters of the house, who from their striking disparity in height were always known by the sobriquet of Tiny and Tall.

To Tiny’s care I was immediately consigned, and, after a brief adjournment to my room, was led by her into the saloon, where we found Tall presiding over the coffee and cakes, which, as I discovered later on, she had herself prepared.

The Baroness had disappeared, leaving an apology for me that, as it was Christmas Eve, she had much to do, to which she must attend, and while we were waiting the signal to go and view the tree, Tiny and Tall proceeded to enlighten me as to many of their national customs in connection with this particular season.

In this village, for instance, as in many others of the Fatherland, and especially in Southern Germany, a veiled woman goes up and down the streets after nightfall, bearing in her arms a child chosen for his beauty and goodness to represent the Infant Saviour, and as they pass along they find the cottage windows discreetly left ajar, so that the Christ-child, as he is called, can leave upon the sill some token of the day. Every good child, upon awakening next morning, finds gifts—oranges, sweeties, or some such things; but, alas for the child who has been naughty! for him are no such delights; for him there lies only a pliant willow or birchen rod, suggestive of the chastisement he deserves. Into the towns the Christ-child seldom comes; he is there replaced by the Christmas tree; and it was to decorate such a tree that the mother of the family had now disappeared.

The room in which I was hearing all this was large and lofty, lighted by five windows, the remaining walls being hung with ancestral portraits; for these unassuming, domesticated young girls were the descendants of a noble and historical line, would not have changed their ancient barony for a modern dukedom, and with pardonable pride showed me the family portraits, and gave me slight sketches concerning the originals. The most striking of these was certainly the full-length picture of that old field-marshal of whom Carlyle thus graphically writes:—“With regard to Friedrich, the court-martial needs no amendment from the King. The sentence on Friedrich, a lieutenant-colonel guilty of desertion, is from president and all members, except two, death as by law.”

From this portrait we turned to that of Frederic the Great himself—his own gift to the family; from that prince the transition was easy to the subject of the Seven Years War, and we had begun planning excursions to the different battlefields when a bell began to ring, and changed the current of our thoughts.

We rushed down a long corridor, being joined as we went by different other members of the household, and reached the room from whence the blaze of light betrayed the presence of the great tree. It was, indeed, a giant, and formed a most imposing spectacle, as it stood in the centre of the large room, dazzling with variegated waxen tapers, shimmering all over with ice-like crystals, and decorated with gilded fruits and sweetmeats. The base of this wonderful member of the vegetable world was covered by a pyramid of the tempting confectionery and gingerbread peculiar to the province, and for which lots had afterwards to be drawn.

Round the room, and overshadowed by the mighty branches of the central tree, stood tiny specimens of the same tribe, each standing upon a table laden with gifts, and each destined for a separate member of the family and household.

Even I, stranger as I was, had my own little tree and table of presents—pieces of fine Silesian linen, a huge surprise ball,[2] and a pretty gold brooch, embossed with roses and forget-me-nots, which I cherish still in remembrance of my first happy visit to Germany. There were so many pretty things to admire, so many thanks to tender, so many good wishes to exchange, that it was growing quite late before we could make up our minds to leave these “halls of dazzling light” for the more prosaic supper-room.

Here—as in Germany the Eve is more celebrated (except as regards religious services) than the Christmas Day itself—we found the traditional dishes of Germany and of England. In honour of Germany I had to make acquaintance with real black bread—“Pumpernickel,” as they call it in some parts of Germany, sauerkraut, and raw smoked ham, all of which at first I secretly thought odious, but eventually grew to like very much; and in honour of England we had plum pudding and mince pies—the former not at all badly cooked, the latter a dismal failure, as most English housewives will understand when I tell them that the cook, although adhering strictly to the proportions of an excellent recipe, had—for some extraordinary reasons of his own—pounded the whole into a paste, and enclosed it in a very thick crust, the shape and size of a small pork pie.

We did not linger long after supper; for it had been a long and fatiguing day for everyone. As for myself, after so many interesting and novel incidents, and so long and wearying a journey, I was only too glad to find myself once more in my own room, and I slept without pause or wakening until the appearance of the young ladies’ maid, Amalia, at my bedside next morning with a cup of coffee and the intimation that it was now 7.30, and that the sledge for church-goers would be at the door at nine o’clock.

We were off punctually to the time, and after about half an hour’s drive over the hard-frozen snow, upon which the brilliant sunshine was streaming down, we reached the unpretending-looking little Lutheran church. Here, as the due of the Adel,[3] we sat in a gallery all by ourselves, and had high-backed velvet chairs, surmounted by the baron’s coronet, and with footstools embroidered to match; and very strange it seemed to me to be looking down from this pinnacle of isolated grandeur upon the poorer congregation below.

Generally speaking, these wore the costume of the province, and a charming costume too—a short skirt of red, green, or blue serge, with five broad bands of black velvet round the lower edge; black velvet bodice, laced over a full chemisette, and sleeves of white cambric; pointed velvet cap (of the Stuart shape), in colour matching the skirt, adorned with heavy gold braiding, and edged with a fluting of Silesian lace. Long gold earrings and a broad gold plaque, set with garnets and suspended by a slender chain round the neck, were the ornaments worn with this costume, and were, as I was afterwards told, handed down as family heirlooms from mother to child.

The dress of the men was, of course, less elaborate. It consisted of dark-blue or grey cloth suits, much adorned with silver buttons. Both men and women wore long black stockings and buckled shoes as part of their Sunday garb, but on weekdays generally go barefoot.

Those among the congregation who abjured these picturesque costumes and went in for modern fashion, wore—like the gentle folk—black; and I found to my astonishment that black was also de rigueur for Confirmation and the Holy Communion. The clergyman, a tall, kindly-looking old man, wore a long black gown and a wide box-pleated ruff. There was an ebony and silver crucifix upon the altar, which had lighted waxen tapers burning upon it. The musical part of the service was led by a full brass band; and, to complete my surprise, I found it was against rule to kneel at any time; one either sat or stood.

All this seemed so utterly at variance with recognised ideas in England upon the same subject, that I am afraid I did not much profit by my first church-going in the Fatherland. Still, it was an interesting experience, and when time had familiarised me more with both the language and the customs, I found a great deal that I could honestly admire, though I never ceased to prefer our own bright and beautiful Liturgy to the somewhat ponderous nature of worship in the Fatherland.

“NO.”

By MARY E. HULLAH.

“AN EMPTY CAB CAME RATTLING ROUND THE CORNER.”

CHAPTER III.

The wind blew fiercer than ever as Embrance turned out of the broad avenue into a side path, and found herself face to face with Horace Meade.

“Good afternoon, Miss Clemon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meade.”

She put her hand into his for a second; he had thrown away his cigar and turned to walk by her side. “How fast you walk,” he said; “I have been watching you for the last three minutes.”

“I haven’t much time to lose,” said Embrance, apologetically, “as a rule. The park gate will shut soon.”

“Yes, to be sure. Do you like the Regent’s-park?”

“Very much; don’t you?”

“Oh yes, immensely, but somehow I never come here. No, indeed, I don’t,” in answer to her look of amusement; “I came to-day because I thought there was a chance of meeting you. There is something that I want to talk to you about. Do you know that you are the most difficult person in the world to approach?”

“I should not have thought so,” said Embrance, with a smile. “I think I can guess what you are going to tell me.”

He shook his head: “I’m afraid you can’t.”

“You must not suppose that she means all she says; only give her time and she will take your advice.”

“Ah, yes; Joan, you mean?”

It struck Embrance that he was very absent and unlike himself, but she had broached the subject now, and she felt bound to go on with it. “She told me that she was very sorry that she had been ungracious about some suggestion that you made. I’m quite sure that she would not willingly say anything to hurt you.”

“I’m quite sure she would not,” assented Horace, “she is much too kind-hearted.”

“And,” continued Embrance, clasping her hands firmly in her muff, “I wanted to say (we needn’t talk about it again), if you think that it would be better for her to go down to Doveton, I will try and persuade her to go; it would not be for long, perhaps.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Horace, absently; “but don’t you see, Miss Clemon, the question is not altogether about Joan’s peace of mind, but yours?”

They had reached the gate, and turned into a dreary piece of “outer circle.”

“Mine?” exclaimed Embrance, growing scarlet in the dim twilight; “there is no occasion to talk about me.”

“I beg your pardon, I have a great deal to say. Do you suppose I don’t see what you are doing for my cousin, how you are helping her and teaching her, and taking on your shoulders the responsibilities that her own family ought to bear?”

“I had not looked upon it from that point of view,” said Embrance, dryly.

“Now you are angry at what I have said; I can’t help it, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. Joan knows what I think, but perhaps she has not told you all I said; she is a dear little girl. Don’t imagine that I am throwing any blame on her, but she shouldn’t have come to London!”

“I have tried to do my best for her,” said Embrance, in a broken voice.

“Miss Clemon,” cried Horace, “you must think that I am behaving like a brute! Do you suppose I don’t know that? You have done her, and are doing her, all the good in the world.”

“I thought that you did not trust me,” explained Embrance, simply. “I’m so glad I was wrong; indeed, Joan is like a younger sister to me; don’t try to separate us.”

The light of a feeble gaslight fell upon her face as she spoke; her eyes were raised pleadingly to his.

“You have mistaken me altogether,” he said, hurriedly, “but I couldn’t expect it to be otherwise. You must not misunderstand me again. Embrance, I know I am taking you by surprise; I must say it. I love you. I am miserable when I am away from you. Don’t, don’t turn away!”

A gust of wind came roaring down the road; she did not heed it. She walked quietly by his side, stricken dumb with great joy. She did not deceive herself for one instant, it was too late for that, she liked him too well. She could not shut her heart to the truth, any more than she could shut her ears to his words. Alas, alas! where were all her plans for Joan? Did Joan love him? In the darkness of the badly lighted road, she seemed to see Joan’s beautiful face, and to hear her say, “Embrance, have patience with me. Don’t think ill of me! You are the only one who has patience with me!”

“My poor dear, I will do my best for you,” she thought, as a feeling of great tenderness towards Joan came over her. She had no answer ready for Horace Meade. Ah! he was strong, and did not want her pity.

“What shall I say? What shall I do?” she cried at last, in desperation. It seemed as if hours had passed since he had spoken the words that made this great difference in her life.

“Have I distressed you? I can’t help it. Tell me, won’t you listen to me?”

“I, I am sorry,” she faltered, looking at him with a tearful glance.

“I didn’t know. I had thought——” She stopped; Joan’s name must not be mentioned now if she loved him; if—nay, she must love him, and he would find it out by-and-by; he could not but be fond of her. Only give them time; he was vexed with her for the moment; it would all come right. Nevertheless it was hard to give him her answer. “Mr. Meade,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “it is very good of you. I thank you very much. I can’t listen to you; it is better not.”

“Are you engaged to that man who went to New Zealand?”

“My cousin? No, certainly not; why should you think so?”

“Joan said something about it, that is partly why I determined to know my fate at once.”

“You must have misunderstood her altogether. When did you see her last?”

“About a fortnight ago. I can’t remember,” he replied, impatiently. “I believe your whole thoughts are wrapped up in her.”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to vex you. Can’t we be friends, at least?”

Up to the present moment she had indeed been thinking how she could best make a reconciliation possible between him and Joan. With a sharp pang it struck her that perhaps after all she was in the wrong.

“Listen,” he said; “I am in earnest, in bitter earnest. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Embrance.

“Thank you. I was sure of that, at least. I care so much that I can’t stay here any longer, coming to see you like a stranger, and having no right to help you in any way whatever. I have seen enough in the last few months to guess a little what your work is. No; let me say it out to the end. Before I knew you I fancied that you were selfish and indifferent. Heaven knows how wrong I was! If I can’t win your love, it is my own fault. Embrance, don’t decide in a hurry. Think it over. I love you. Give me a chance.”

They had reached the crowded thoroughfare. Gaslights were flaring; the road was thronged with cabs and carts; the people were pushing along the pavement, too busy to notice the quiet couple, or to observe that the plain girl in an ulster had a white face, and that the lines of her mouth were set with pain and suffering. Across the street, in a few minutes, they were in a dreary square. Here there were no loiterers. A murky grey sky; black trees, flinging their gaunt arms to the chimney pots; rows of melancholy stone houses, with carved heads, placidly unconcerned, gazing down from the lintels.

In vain she strove to find words to tell him her perplexity. How could she accept this gift from his hands, believing as she did that the child at home was longing to make friends with him? How should she return and look her friend in the face, saying, “I have stolen your lover”?

“Embrance, be patient with me,” Joan had said. “Embrance, don’t give me up.”

Then she turned and put her hand into Horace’s. Her fingers were cold as ice, but they did not tremble. “I can’t; don’t ask me,” she cried under her breath.

He strode by her side in silence. An empty cab came rattling round the corner. “Stop it,” whispered Embrance. He obeyed her, opened the door, and told the man where to drive. He lifted his hat, standing on one side, and waiting for the cab to drive off. At last she raised her eyes to his. “Forgive me,” she whispered; “do forgive me. God bless you, Horace.”

He turned away without a word. What should he say more than he had said? She could not love him. There was nothing more to be done. She was no coquette to say “No” when she meant “Yes.” Fate was hard on him. The one woman in the whole world whom he longed to call his wife had rejected his love. He must bear his grief as best he could.

Embrance sank back into a dark corner of the cab, shuddering as she recalled his look of misery. She had none of the spirit of a heroine or a martyr to support her; she had tried, struggling against her own self, to act uprightly by one friend; suppose that her very love of honesty had caused her to be cruel to another? Now that it was all too late, she longed to have the last five minutes over again. No, a thousand times, no! Let her only get home and have time to think, and she would leave off being sorry. Whether rightly or wrongly, she had done what seemed honest and fair; she would not reproach herself, and he would soon get over it. “Men forget sooner than women,” she reflected, falling back on one of her aunt’s numerous truisms. Then she almost laughed in scorn at her own insincerity. “You don’t believe it; you know he loves you, and your ridiculous behaviour will make him think worse of all womanhood from this day forth.” “Oh! I hope not. I hope not!” she sobbed aloud, with her head against the cushion of the cab.

The sound of her own voice roused her to the consciousness that she was getting very near home; she sat up, dried her eyes and smoothed her hair. It would not do to alarm Joan; what had happened this afternoon must be kept a secret from her at all events. She had her own latch-key. She opened the door and stole upstairs. The landlady and her daughter were chatting in the back parlour, but Embrance did not want to exchange civilities with them just now. Outside her own door she paused for a moment, then opened it, saying: “Well, Joan, are you waiting for your tea?”

There was no answer. The lamp was lighted, the tablecloth was laid, but Joan was not there. Her chair was in a corner by the window; there were no signs of her drawing or scraps of millinery about.

“Joan!” cried Embrance, nervously. “Where are you?”

No answer. She ran to the door of the next room and looked in; all was dark and silent. “I suppose it is not so late as I thought,” she said to herself. “She will be in soon, I daresay.”

She took off her bonnet, and sat down to wait with a book, but she could not fix her attention. She was very, very tired, and rather lonely; she did wish that Joan would come. The longing to speak to somebody was so great, that after a short time she put out her hand and rang the bell. Annie came running upstairs at the summons; her eyes were round with excitement; she hardly waited to hear Miss Clemon’s question.

“Did Miss Fulloch leave any message for me when she went out?”

“No, miss; she’s been gone ever since ten o’clock, half an hour after you left. I heard the door bang, and I said to myself, ‘What’s that?’ And it was Miss Fulloch; she had on her new bonnet, with the pink feather, that she was making.”

“Never mind the bonnet, Annie; did she say when she would be in to tea?”

“No, miss; and I expect she won’t be back; she took her bag.”

“Very well. I will wait half an hour, and then, please, bring tea.”

“There’s something wrong upstairs,” was Annie’s report in the kitchen. “Miss Clemon looks as if she see a ghost. She isn’t half the lady she was.”

Seven o’clock struck; eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and no Joan appeared. Embrance drank a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. In vain she told herself that very likely Mrs. Rakely had made one of her flying visits to London, and had persuaded Joan to spend the day with her; it was absurd to be anxious; of course she would be back directly; nevertheless she could not read, write, or rest. The late postman brought a letter for Miss Clemon. Annie, having studied the envelope on the way upstairs, saw that the postmark was Brighton.

Embrance took the letter. The handwriting, firm and neat, was quite strange to her. She opened it hastily.

“Dear old Embrance” (it began). “I had not the courage to say good-bye to you this morning, but I told you that I had a secret, and I think you guessed it; you are so clever. I was afraid you would be disappointed, you meant me to be a painter’s wife, didn’t you? but I was happily married to Alfred Brownhill this morning, and we are spending our honeymoon at Brighton. We must come and see you before we go to Doveton. Alfred sends his kind regards; he remembers you quite well. You will be glad to hear that I am so happy; I hope you won’t miss me too much, you busy old dear.—Your loving, Joan Brownhill. P.S. Alfred likes the bonnet very much. He wrote the address; were you mystified?”

A little bunch of sweet smelling violets dropped out of the letter and scented the room—Joan always loved flowers. She liked everything that was pleasant and good to look upon.

Alfred Brownhill! he was a staid, middle-aged man, with a comfortable home and a prosperous income. No wonder that old Mr. Fulloch had wished for the marriage. He would be surprised, too, and would wonder that his grand-daughter had not returned to his roof, as she was prepared to follow his advice at last. But Embrance saw clearly enough that Joan would never have done that. A runaway wedding, and a triumphant return to Doveton, would be much more to her taste. She looked at Joan’s unused cup and saucer on the table, and she shivered as she realised the truth; her friend would never come back. While she had been rejecting the pleadings of a good man who loved her, Joan had perhaps been telling her husband that “Embrance wished her to marry a painter.”

“I will write to him,” she said, turning to the little table where she had so often sat when he and Joan talked together over the fire. She never swerved from her intention; he had been cruelly treated; he might not care to accept her apology, that did not matter. She must see him once more, and explain to him that she had been deceived—mistaken, that was a more gracious word. She would write no more than she could help.

“Dear Mr. Meade,—Please come and see me. I have made a mistake.—Yours truly, Embrance Clemon.”

She knew his address, she had written to him before, asking him to do various little acts of kindness for Joan. Once she had been to tea at his rooms, with Mrs. Rakely and Joan, he had shown her his sketches and asked her opinion about his pictures. It was all long ago. It had been a bitterly cold day, Joan had caught a bad sore throat, and was ill for a week afterwards; she had been an impatient invalid, and Horace had called to inquire after her very often, and had left fruit and flowers.

Embrance could no longer endure the loneliness of the little parlour; she missed Joan terribly, her laugh and her many coaxing ways. She longed for air; it was a good excuse for posting the letter herself. As she tied her bonnet-strings before the glass, she shrank back aghast at the sight of her pale face. She put on a thick veil and threw a shawl over her shoulders; she would feel happier when the letter was once in the pillar-box. A hundred times she had been up and down the crooked staircase in the dark; to-night, it might be that she was tired, or that her eyes were full of tears, but her foot slipped, she clutched instinctively at the banister, missed it, and fell down into the darkness below.

So it came about that the letter to Horace Meade was left unposted till the following morning.

Some days passed before Embrance could leave her room; the doctor, whom the landlady had summoned in her fright, said that she had sprained her ankle badly, and ordered perfect rest. The people in the house were good to the solitary invalid; the first-floor lodger brought her knitting and a great many dull stories of her own youth, and experiences of sprained ankles and broken limbs, and came and sat by her sofa, while the landlady and Annie were unceasing in their attentions. Some of Embrance’s pupils called, and Joan wrote sheets of sympathy, crossed and recrossed. Her husband sent his kind regards and hoped that Miss Clemon would come down to Doveton and stay there till she was quite convalescent. However, Embrance refused the invitation, she would rather stay at home for the present; later on, she would like to visit Joan.

Mrs. Brownhill, in the snug breakfast-room in her new home, fretted a little over this refusal; then she recovered her spirits and laid plans for summer excursions; it would be better to have Embrance, after all, when the roses were in bloom. Alfred Brownhill was very much in love with his young wife, and considered her interest in the welfare of her sick friend the prettiest trait of character imaginable.

“Poor old Embrance,” exclaimed Joan, with her hand in his; “I should die of loneliness in that pokey room all by myself, but she has so much strength of will; I don’t believe she minds a bit. I shall never be like her!”

“Heaven forbid!” murmured he devoutly. He was prepared to be kind to the lady for his wife’s sake, but he had a virtuous horror of a strong-minded woman wrapped up in herself, and his principles (which he held sacred) did not allow him to disguise his feelings.

In the meantime Embrance recovered slowly and went back to her work, but she received no answer to her letter.

(To be concluded.)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

L. M. D. (Suisse).—We have no charge whatever to make against the moral or intellectual training given in Swiss schools, having had opportunities for making ourselves well acquainted with some of them. But we speak advisedly in stating that, on the score of diet, and certain other matters, English habits differ from those of foreign countries, and many English constitutions cannot bear so great a change with impunity, especially young growing girls. Thus it is better that they should be educated at schools in their own country; or, if abroad, should attend day schools, or engage visiting masters, and sleep and board at home. We have many Swiss friends, and are partial to them and their country. We are glad you like our paper, being one of “our girls.”

Young Antiquary.—The word “cromleac” is a compound of two Irish words—viz, crom, “to adore,” or “worship,” and leac, “a stone.” Crom was likewise one of the Irish names of the supreme God. These ancient remains are therefore very clearly those of altars or places of worship. You would learn all that is known of them by reading Higgins’ rare work on the round towers, etc., in the British Museum.

WORK.

Duchess.—To tan a tennis net, soak it in boiled oil, and let it dry under cover, hung up in the air. Your writing is too full of flourishes.

Young Mother, Helen C.—Get a shilling manual with knitting and crochet patterns. Our space cannot be occupied by them.

Florence Gobbler.—We thank you for your communication about hat cleaning.

Courts.—Clothing for Ceylon should consist of what we here call summer clothing—white and pale-coloured cambrics, tussore and Surah silks, very thin cashmere, silk gauze webs for undervests, etc. Go to an Indian outfitter’s, and you will be shown the materials which are the most suitable.

T. A. and C. M.—The best dress for tricycle-riding is a tailor-made short habit, or tight short jacket, and a plain narrow cloth skirt, without any trimmings, festooning, and draping.

C. C.—Table centres are much used for dinner parties, but not of gathered up plush. They are made of straight pieces of silk, German canvas, or satin sheeting, ornmented with an appliqué of plaited straw, or plush edged with fine cord or tinsel.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Maud.—Go to the police office and inform the inspector of your trouble and the cruel treatment to which you are subjected, and he will take you to the proper quarters, where you may obtain a separation and an allowance. Do nothing rashly and nothing wrong, be your trials and provocations what they may. What you suggested to us would be very wrong indeed, and we think and hope you must have done so under great excitement. If by word or act you thoughtlessly gave cause for jealousy, you might not obtain the separation and allowance, to which otherwise you could lay just claim. Pray God to guide you and preserve you from evil.

Blush Rose.—Requiescat in pace means “Rest in peace.”

Lotta.—Try to live much in prayer during each day while at your business, or in little intervals of leisure. The responsibility of either turning to God and accepting or “neglecting so great salvation” lies on you. You are not a mere puppet, but a reasonable being, and have been given to distinguish between good and evil. “Ye will not come unto Me,” not “Ye shall not come.” “Why will ye die?” etc. Do not let anyone deceive you with the idea that you have no free will. God does not unjustly “gather where He does not strew.” He had already given the one pound to the idle servant, and thus supplied the means for trading, or would not have expected any return. May He guide you aright.

Kittie.—Perhaps some glycerine or vaseline might remove the roughness from your face and neck. Get some nice nursery hairwash and apply it to the skin of your head with a small sponge.

Harry’s Wife.—We sympathise with you in your trouble and your sister in her sufferings. Certainly, the prayer offered in faith, resting on God’s promises, will certainly be answered. He who bestows faith will accept His own gift with favour. It is He who is drawing your heart towards Him.

Emma Walker.—There is the Royal Free Hospital in Gray’s-inn-road, W.C., for the relief of the sick poor of all nations, without any letter of recommendation or other claim beyond sickness and destitution. Write to the secretary, James S. Blyth, Esq. About 2,000 in-patients and 25,000 out-patients are annually under its care.

Beatrice Marie.—1. The 16th July, 1869, was a Friday. 2. A series of articles on girls’ pets was given in vol. iv., pages 83, 274, 602, and 731.

A Dark Lady and Sussex.—When a married man dies intestate, having children, the widow can claim one-third of his property, and the remaining two-thirds are divided between his children in equal portions. If he die without children, the widow can claim one-half of his property, and the rest is divided in equal portions between his nearest of kin. “Sussex” is quite wrong in his ideas respecting a brother’s claims taking precedence of those of the widow and the children, and it would be most unjust if such were the law. The “Dark Lady” writes well.

Priscilla.—Your digestion needs attention, and perhaps your diet and mode of life. If you get a bad headache whenever you read for long at a time, why do you attempt it? Read a little from time to time, and rest your eyes and the feeble nerves connected with the brain.

Adelaide.—What you name are designed as acts expressing respect and veneration for Him whom we worship on bended knee. We cannot enter more fully into the subject of your letter. We have no remembrance of any letter signed “Ade.”

Antoinette R. informs us that “she is pretty,” and that gentlemen whom she serves in her father’s shop “stare at her as if she were an unseen object.” (?) We fail to understand what that means. She should resolutely try to forget herself, and give her whole attention to selling her father’s gloves, etc.

Julia F. E. must count the feet of her verses, so as to get them even. It will not do to have nine feet in one line and eight in another. “Heaven” and “driven” do not rhyme, and in the poem to a “Skylark” here are many mistakes in the length of the feet. But, after all, to an invalid the pleasure of writing down the “thoughts that oppress” and “the words which burn” is very great, and the relief is excellent both for brain and the feelings.

An English Voice from Ireland.—We certainly could not advise you to marry under the circumstances that you “neither love nor respect” the man to whom you have promised your hand. Perhaps you do not know your own mind, and had better ask to wait a year before you decide finally.

Marion, Newcastle.—The new volume of the G. O. P. begins with the November part. You could improve your writing by crossing your “t’s” and dotting your “i’s.”

Rilly.—The Malvern Home of Rest might suit you. Particulars may be had from the Hon. Mrs. Hewett, Barnard’s Green, Great Malvern. There is also Fern House, Coleshill, Warwickshire, standing high, having a large garden, etc. Apply for terms to Miss Price, Fern House, Coleshill, Warwickshire. We think that one of these might suit you. If a boarder were willing to share a bedroom, the charge would be 17s. per week, everything included except washing, which would be 9d. a dozen.

Annie.—The office of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation, an institution intended to give aid in temporary distress to them, their widows, or orphans, is at 36, Southampton-street, Strand, W.C.

Thyra and Cassy.—There is no “usual time” for giving answers. There is very little space allowed for putting them in. In reference to your question, the use of tweezers and pumice-stone is all that we can recommend.

Auntie Laurie.—Your parents’ objection to an engagement with the man you name is fully justified by his conduct. The fact that he has endeavoured to induce you, a minor, to rebel against them and “marry him secretly,” shows him to be devoid of all honour and right principle. He is taking a disgraceful advantage of your youth, weakness, and inexperience.

Maude Scott.—1. When a cemetery is closed it is generally because the neighbourhood has become overcrowded near it. We never heard of a cemetery being re-opened. 2. The colours of the hoods worn by clergymen and their linings show the university or college from which they come.

A Perplexed One.—We know of no remedy so good as golden ointment. But why not consult a doctor, as your house and its surroundings must be in fault?

A Scotchwoman.—“Edward Garrett” is the nom de plume under which Isabella Fyvie Mayo has written several popular works, amongst others, “Occupations of a Retired Life,” and “Premiums Paid to Experience.”

Virginia Maud.—We could not answer your letter at the length you desire, as we have no space in our columns. We should advise you to write to the secretary, Girls’ Friendly Society, central office, 3, Victoria Mansions, Victoria-street, Westminster, S.W., with a view to joining the Girls’ Friendly Society, which will offer you all the aid and information you may require.

Lily.—Ten extra summer and Christmas numbers have now been published.

Hermon’s Servant.—Ember Week is a corruption of Quatuor tempora, through the Dutch Quatemper and German Quatember. The four times are after Quadragesima Sunday, Whit Sunday, Holyrood Day (September), and St. Lucia’s Day (December). The ancient belief that persons sat in embers or ashes on those days is without foundation.

Rance and Gypsy.—Canaries’ claws when too long can be cut with a small pair of sharp scissors, but it is a very delicate business to perform.

Portia.—Your sending out cards of thanks for kind inquiries is an intimation that you are prepared to receive the visits of the friends who made them. That will decide the time for you. Until you send the cards, they would be most indiscreet and intrusive in calling, unless the very nearest relations, or an exceptionally intimate and privileged friend.

Rowena.—It is a fixed and general rule that for a girl to ride out only with a riding master is very far from expedient. Of course, if he were an uncle or brother, or a very old and respectable married man, the objection would be lessened, especially if riding up and down the sea sands in full sight, instead of taking a country ride out of sight. There should always be a second lady or a brother, though quite young.

Jerboa is thanked for her kind letter, and the Editor feels much obliged to those who proposed his health at the dinner party “Jerboa” attended. She makes the tails of her letters too long below the lines. Those above are of a suitable and prettier length. Make them correspond.

Priscilla may probably outgrow her headaches, as she is so young. They may arise from various causes. Thus, we could not prescribe without due acquaintance with her constitution and many surrounding circumstances.

A COQUETTE.

Louie.—Your informant was right, and probably drew his information from Major A. B. Ellis’s work, entitled “West African Islands,” published last year. Canaries have no song in their wild state; it is of artificial origin, and the song our birds give us in no way resembles their natural shrill chirp. They are placed in cages near those of birds already trained to sing, and when accustomed to imprisonment they strive hard to imitate the notes of their educated fellows. The natives of the Canary Islands keep a large stock on hand in process of training. The young of those trained and taught naturally learn from the parent birds.

Ella Brown.—The statue of the Venus de Medici is only 4 feet 11½ inches in height. It is believed to be the production of Cleomenes, of Athens, of the second century. It was exhumed in the seventh century near Tivoli, in the villa of Hadrian, and was removed in 1680, by Cosmo III., to the Imperial Gallery at Florence, from the Medici Palace at Rome. It was broken into eleven pieces when discovered, all in a perfect state, one arm only missing, which has been added.

Twin Sisters.—The 5th of June, 1876, was a Monday.

C. of Rudolstadt, Ida, and Stella.—We are inundated with verses from girls, young and untaught; and, as a rule, the same opinion and criticism would be suitable for all alike. But in the case of “Ida’s” verses there is some promise of better to come; as, at least, she has a good ear for rhythm. Our young friend with the long name should count the feet and make each line correspond with its fellow, observing where the beat falls in every line, and placing it uniformly on the same syllable in each verse. Those that follow her first verse neither correspond with it in feet nor in the beat. Though quite incorrect, there is some little poetic feeling in “Stella’s” lines.

Vevey.—We are much obliged for your article, but are unable to give it a place in our columns owing to lack of space.

Lulu.—Consult our series of articles on “Good Breeding,” and “The Habits of Polite Society.” At page 314, vol. ii., you will find “Dinners in Society,” and from this you can glean all the information you require. You only show your good sense in making inquiries when unacquainted with any subject. There is nothing to be ashamed of in so doing.

Bulb.—You should put out a good-sized barrel or tub to catch any rainfall in a garden, backyard, or on the leads, where accessible, and use it at least for the face and hands.

Lily Leaves.—To prevent moths from eating your clothes in the summer, keep them constantly brushed and aired. Camphor, Keating’s powder, or sandal-wood shavings should be placed about all clothing that is kept in boxes and cupboards. The 23rd of September, 1867, was a Monday.

Millicent Leigh.—St. Catharine was a virgin martyr, who suffered at Alexandria under Maximin in 307, and whose relics were said to have been miraculously conveyed to Mount Sinai, where they are preserved in a monastery. The celebrated Duchess of Devonshire was the youngest daughter of John, Earl of Spencer, born, June, 1757; died, March, 1806. Her beauty, wit, and audacity made her one of the most celebrated women of her day.

A Ward in Chancery.—Rice thrown at a bride is a relic of the panis farreus in the most honourable form of marriage amongst the ancient Romans, and it was called Confarreatio. Orange blossoms were first worn by Saracen brides, but the modern custom of wearing them is a fashion introduced by dressmakers, and is referrable to the “language of flowers.”

Armistice.—The redness of the scar can only be removed by time. Nature has produced a new skin, but, like that of a new-born infant, it is tender and red. Leave it alone.

Maud Kinsley.—Au revoir is the French for “to see again,” and is pronounced as “o-rev-voir,” and retroussé means “turned up,” or “tucked up,” and is pronounced as “re-troo-say.”

Anahuac (Mexico).—The individual who is desirous of being naturalised as a British subject should have resided seven years in Great Britain. Did the applicant do so when being educated in England? Children belong to the father’s nationality, not the mother’s. The British consul would give all necessary instructions and assistance.

T. M. B.—Your nice letter deserves a kindly acknowledgment. You may send as much as would fill a sheet of notepaper as a specimen of your style and originality of ideas, and we shall hope to give you our opinion, as you desire.

Will’s Darling.—We do not know how to advise you, save to marry and live with your aged grandmother. You cannot possibly leave her, and in all probability she will be glad to have you comfortably settled with a kind husband before she is called away. Your writing is rather careless.

Shiny Face.—It is not the so-called working men whose wives enter learned professions and neglect home duties. They enter public-houses instead. The complete monopoly of almost all occupations for bread-earning for such a length of time by men could not continue amongst an ever-increasing population; so many suitable fields of intellectual and manual work have been shut out from women by their “natural protectors.” It is sad to see the latter selling tapes and ribbons behind counters. They can be clergymen, schoolmasters, soldiers, sailors, emigrants to prepare new settlements, lumberers, navvies, engine-drivers, stokers, mechanics, chimney sweepers, masons, etc., and the women will leave all such work to them. But dairy, fruit, flower, poultry, and other farming may be very suitably directed by women; also printing, binding, engraving, designing, china painting, and very many other ways of bread-earning should be equally open to them as to men.

Roseleaf.—An ell (cloth measure) was fixed at 45 inches by Henry I., A.D. 1101. The word is derived from ulna, “the arm,” although much longer than that member; but even now measurements are made by it.

Lady Adelaide.—Edelweiss is pronounced as “A-dle-vice.”

Anxious One.—Lessons can be had to cure stammering. Fill your lungs well with air, and consider what you wish to say before you speak. Make your sentences very short, and open your mouth well. When alone, read aloud, and beat time with your foot or hand regularly at every second syllable.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A lofty chain of mountains lying to the south of the province of Silesia.

[2] A ball of this kind is a favourite gift in Germany. It looks like a very unskilfully-wound ball of knitting wool. You are bound in honour to knit it up, and as you do so you disclose, one by one, a variety of gifts, the most precious being generally the innermost of all.

[3] Nobility.

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 180: flocked to flock—“with his washed flocked”.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII, NO. 364, DECEMBER 18, 1886 ***

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Table of Contents

- THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

- TINNED MEATS; THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.

- THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

- CHAPTER XI.

- EVERY GIRL A BUSINESS WOMAN.

- Part III.

- A SONG FOR THE OLD YEAR.

- MERLE’S CRUSADE.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHRISTMAS IN THE GERMAN FATHERLAND.

- “NO.”

- CHAPTER III.

- ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

- EDUCATIONAL.

- WORK.

- MISCELLANEOUS.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE