The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Girl's Own Paper. Vol. XX. No. 1007.
April 15, 1899, by Various

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Title: The Girl's Own Paper. Vol. XX. No. 1007. April 15, 1899

Author: Various

Release Date: February 26, 2019 [EBook #58966]

Language: English

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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

VOL. XX.—NO. 1007.]      APRIL 15, 1899.      [PRICE ONE PENNY.]





“OUR HERO.”

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


[Illustration: “‘PRAY FOR ME, THAT I MAY MAKE RIGHT DECISIONS.’”]

_All rights reserved._]


CHAPTER XXIX.

ROY BARON’S FIRST CAMPAIGN.

In the press and excitement of this his first campaign, Roy did not
lose sight of Molly’s suggestion that he should keep a slight journal
of the course of events. The plan commended itself to him, and he
carried it out, albeit in somewhat fitful style. His entries were
brief and irregular, yet in the future they might well prove to be of
interest to himself and his friends.

The life that he had led, more especially his Bitche experiences, had
tended to give him an unusually thoughtful turn for his age; and he was
not troubled by the smallest difficulty in expressing himself on paper.
To write was as easy to Roy as to speak.

For very obvious reasons, however, the journal was scarcely started
before he decided not to send any part of it to Molly, but to write
separate letters to her, as occasion served, keeping his memoranda for
the present to himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Oct. 11th, 1808.

“At last the chief Command has been bestowed where it should be; and
for five days past Sir John has been at the Head of Affairs. Some hope
now that things will go right! Jack says that when Sir John was first
placed third in command, after being first, he declared that fight for
his Country he _would_, and no man should Hinder him; and if the King
saw fit to bid him act as Ensign, he would unhesitatingly obey.

“Strict Orders are issued that we are to be excessive Polite toward the
Spaniards, they being somewhat warm in their Tempers.

    “Oct. 16th.

“Salamanca to be the general _Rendez-vous_. The different Divisions
follow at intervals by different Routes. The Spaniards are declared
on all hands to be gloriously enthusiastic—the French weak, and far
out-numbered by them.

    “Oct. 28th. Sacavem.

“Early in the day still. Scarce an hour since I came across Major
Charles Stanhope and Major Charles Napier breakfasting together
under an olive tree.[1] They were talking eagerly—not hard to guess
the subject! I caught words as I passed; and ’twas as I would have
conjectured, admiration of our General.[1] What Moore is and what Moore
may do are the theme of all. Was ever man more beloved than he?

“The three Napier brothers are gallant fellows—which the more so
’twould be hard to say. A little later, on my way, I met Jack’s friend,
George Napier, who is Aide-de-camp to Moore, and had some words with
him—a fine fellow indeed, and ardently devoted to our General. ‘Any
tidings from Verdun of late?’ he asked me. I would there were!

    “Nov. 8th. Almeida.

“Nearing fast the borders of Portugal. Reports continue to reach us
of the immense and warlike enthusiasm of the Spaniards. Even the
peasantry, ’tis declared, are Ardent to fight. Sixty or seventy
thousand Spanish soldiers, under their Generals, Blake and Romana,
await our advance, and they are said to be ‘full of contempt’ for the
French. Jack says contempt won’t help ’em so well as hard fighting.
Boney is no Enemy to be despised. But at most there are, if accounts
be true, only some fifty thousand French to be dealt with, and our
twenty-five thousand, backed up by the entire Spanish Army, should be
well equal to that.[2]

    “Nov. 11th.

“Little baggage allowed. Conveyance the grand difficulty. Some
grumbling at this. A lot of young fellows here, who have never been in
the field before, and who don’t know what to make of Discomfort. Seem
to expect that everything should be as in Barracks at Home! Good for me
to have had experience of a Bitche dungeon. That’s like to knock the
softness out of a fellow, if anything would.

“The General toils night and day unceasingly. What he gets through is
Amazing. Large number in our force of untrained levies, and these have
to be, as Major Napier would say, ‘drilled and rattled’ into shape.
The difference in ’em already wouldn’t be believed. One man has
had unfortunately to be shot for marauding; otherwise discipline is
splendid, and everybody in the Highest Spirits.

“The Portuguese nobles _en route_ have received Sir John well at their
private houses. Country we’ve come through anything but beautiful.
Villages wretched. Roads not so bad as reported beforehand by the
Portuguese. Red cockades ready—ordered to be worn by the whole force so
soon as we cross the border, in compliment to the Spanish.

    “Nov. 12th. Ciudad Rodrigo.

“Here we are in Spain. Red cockades in full swing. Little time for
writing. Everybody busy, and the General has his eye on each one.
Grand reception of him here by the Spaniards; and shouts of ‘Vivan
l’Ingleterra y l’Inglese!’ Doing my best to get up a smattering of
Spanish. Find my knowledge of French useful already; likely to be more
so.

“Rodrigo stands high; right bank of the Agueda. Had time to take a look
at the ancient rampart yesterday evening, Jack and I together. The word
‘rampart’ brings Verdun to mind, and all who are there. What wouldn’t
Denham give to be here!—and what wouldn’t I give to have him! Yet I
often think how lucky it was I knocked down that bust, and got myself
sent to Bitche! But for that, I might be kicking up my heels at Verdun
to this day.

    “Nov. 13th. Salamanca.

“At the general _Rendez-vous_! Grand sight to see the Regiments come
in—splendid fellows, ready for anything—and the Colours flying. All
long for but one thing—to meet the French, and have at ’em!

“General Moore has arrived this afternoon—looking harassed and weary,
Jack says, who saw him; and he confesses to feeling jaded. But there’s
no sort of rest for one in his position.

“Country-folk hereabout seem mightily struck with Amaze at the Ways of
our Army, and everything being paid down for as it is, after the manner
they’ve been handled by the French soldiers in the past.

    “Nov. 15th. Salamanca.

“French Army reported to be advancing, and only 20 leagues off.
Both Spanish Generals retiring before ’em. Question now is, whether
Castanos, commanding the third Spanish division, will make any better
stand. Our troops are coming up in detachments; quicker advance
impossible, for lack of transport. Three brigades of Infantry here, and
not one gun! I hear they can’t hope to Concentrate the whole force in
less than a fortnight. Let’s hope the French may leave us alone till
then.

“If Castanos should run away too, some say we may ourselves be forced
to retreat. But that’s not the common expectation; and Retreat is the
last word that Moore will utter, without dire need. Jack of course
hears more than I do, not only being Captain, and having known Sir John
in private life, but also having more than one intimate friend on the
Staff. Privately he tells me he does not believe Sir John to have any
enormous faith in Spanish enthusiasm; but that is not known to most.

    “Nov. 22nd.

“The way Sir John works! ’Tis enough to make laggards ashamed! Each
morning regularly he’s up betimes, between three and four, and lights
his own fire from the lamp kept burning in his room. Then he writes
hard till eight, when the ‘Officers of the Family’ breakfast with him.
Breakfast over, he sees the Generals and anyone who may have business
to communicate, and issues his Orders. As he writes all his letters
with his own hand, he is often at that a great part of the forenoon as
well as in the early morning—till he rides out, either to reconnoitre
or to review the Troops. At dinner he has commonly from fifteen to
twenty officers at his table, and he is then at his best, and talks
much and freely with them all. He keeps a good table, but is himself
a most moderate eater, and drinks wine sparingly. Dinner over, he is
again at his writing and despatches, and goes to bed, if he may, at
ten, but often he is prevented. Our Chief lives indeed a life of Toil.
No marvel if at times he has a worn look.

    “Nov. 29th. Salamanca.

“Castanos has been beaten by the French at Tudela; and ’tis now pretty
clear that the ‘retiring’ of the other Spanish troops meant a thorough
drubbing. We hear that the Spaniards are provided with neither clothing
nor shoes, arms nor ammunition, and for days together have no bread.
What can be expected of them in such case?

“Some fear that Retreat on our part may become needful; others scout
the notion. I heartily hope we may first have a brush with the Enemy.

    “Dec. 10th.

“At Salamanca still; tho’ ’tis now ten days since the General gave
orders to make ready for Retreat.

    “Dec. 11th.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Moore—glorious fellow!—will _not_ retire, without
giving the Spaniards one more chance.

“Jack says he has been assured in the strongest manner that all is not
yet up; that Castanos is far from utterly routed; that some of the
Provinces are warmly patriotic, and ready to sacrifice their all for
freedom from the French yoke. Two Spanish Generals, arrived in our
Camp, speak with enthusiasm of the Undismayed Courage and Resolution of
the Spanish Army, despite some late unfortunate Reverses. In short, one
more effort is to be made. Without delay, the whole British force, now
at Salamanca, is to make a rapid advance. Jack gathers that the plan
will be to attack Marshal Soult beyond the Carrion. We hope now at last
to meet the foe. That is enough for us!

    “Dec. 14th.

“Madrid has fallen—after holding out against Napoleon _one day_!
So much for Spanish enthusiasm. But we are advancing still towards
Saldana, where Soult lies. All in the best of spirits.

    “Dec. 21st. Sahagun.

“Sharp brush with the Enemy yesterday. News came that the French
Cavalry, to the number of 700, lay at Sahagun. Lord Paget,[3] with the
15th Hussars, about 400 men, went to surprise them. In one charge he
put ’em to the rout, taking 150 prisoners. Well done, Hussars! Sir John
thanked them right heartily when he got here. Every man in the force is
burning to get at the Enemy. Desperate cold weather. Snow everywhere.

    “Dec. 23rd. Sahagun.

“All is up with our hopes of striking a blow at Soult. One more
night, and we should have come up with him. Now the forward march is
countermanded. Seems that Napoleon is making a rush to cut off our
communication with the coast. I suppose there isn’t a man of us that
wouldn’t still go on, in the face of any odds. But Sir John asks no
advice. He is quiet, resolved, with never a look of hesitation.

“Yet having come so far, now to go back, with nothing done—’tis an
awful disappointment. Some, much as they love Sir John, are bitter
about it, and will not or cannot see the need. Jack trusts him fully,
and says he understands,—Boney has been too sharp. If he can cross our
communications with Portugal, we shall just find ourselves between him
and Soult, and the Spanish Armies nowhere.

“So we cross the Esla at once—that’s to say, the Army begins to-day.
Our Regiment, luckily, is one of the Reserve, and we shall be among the
last to retire.”

       *       *       *       *       *

All this was true, as jotted down by Roy; and very much besides that no
man in the camp knew, except Moore and his most intimate friends.

When the news first arrived of the collapse of three Spanish forces,
Moore at first planned an immediate retreat to Portugal, there to await
fresh reinforcements from England.

But when one assurance after another was given that the Spaniards were
still in the mood to fight, with vehement urging that he would not
leave them to their fate, he at length resolved to give them another
opportunity to show themselves men.

A daring conception came to his mind, and was rapidly acted upon.
Instead of retiring at once to a position of safety, he would first
make a swoop upon Soult’s Army, thus threatening the line of Napoleon’s
communications with France. And his object in so doing was, simply
and definitely, to draw the whole weight of the Conqueror’s fury
upon himself and his small British Army, thus relieving the terrible
pressure upon the more southern provinces of Spain.

It was a startling and a hazardous step. In the hand of any less
brilliant and experienced Commander, it might have ended in an awful
disaster—in a modern Thermopylæ on a huge scale—in the complete
destruction of the entire British force. But Moore knew what he was
about.

That brought matters to a point. Napoleon had expected, as a matter
of course, that Moore would retreat so soon as the Spanish Armies
melted away. What else could he do? Napoleon at this date had in Spain
not less than 330,000 soldiers, 60,000 horses, and 200 pieces of field
artillery. Moore had with him less than 24,000 soldiers, and perhaps
another 10,000 in Portugal, including 4,000 in hospital.

Then, to Napoleon’s unbounded amazement, he learnt—getting the news on
December 21—that, in place of retreating, the puny English force was
boldly advancing towards the Douro.

The Emperor’s exclamation, as heard by Marshal Ney, and afterwards
repeated by him to Major Charles Napier, was—

“_Moore is the only General now fit to contend with me! I shall advance
against him in person._”

       *       *       *       *       *

That Sir John Moore had thoroughly grasped the situation, and that he
understood to the full the perils of his position, may be seen from
his own letters. As early as the 26th of November, he had written from
Salamanca, in confidence, to one of his brothers—

“Upon entering Spain, I have found affairs in a very different state
from what I expected, or from what they are thought to be in England.
I am in a scrape, from which God knows how I am to extricate myself!
But, instead of Salamanca, this Army should have been assembled at
Seville.” And at the close of a full and clear statement of the whole
matter—“I understand all is fear and confusion at Madrid. Tell James
it is difficult to judge at a distance. The Spaniards have not shown
themselves a wise or a provident people. Their wisdom is not a wisdom
of action; but still they are a fine people; a character of their
own, quite distinct from other nations; and much might have been done
with them. Perhaps they may rouse again. Pray for me, that I may
make right decisions. If I make bad ones, it will not be for want of
consideration. I sleep little. It is now only five in the morning; and
I have concluded, since I got up, this long letter.”

The whole letter is very patient and calm; and especially touching are
those simple words, “Pray for me,” from a man so intensely reserved on
religious questions. If words are needed to show what he _was_, besides
the plain utterance of such a character and life as his, these alone
would serve to make clear that silence on his part meant neither lack
of thought nor lack of feeling.

Again, on the 23rd of December, he wrote to the British Envoy in
Spain—“I march this night to Carrion, and the next day to Saldana,
to attack the corps under Marshal Soult.... Buonaparte is dating his
proclamations from Madrid; and as to the British Army, if it were in
a neutral or Enemy’s country, it could not be more completely left to
itself. If the Spaniards are enthusiasts, or much interested in this
cause, their conduct is the most extraordinary that ever was exhibited.
The movement I am making is of the most dangerous kind. I not only
risk to be surrounded every moment by superior forces, but to have my
communication intercepted with the Galicias. I wish it to be apparent
to the whole world, as it is to every individual of the Army, that we
have done everything in our power in support of the Spanish cause; and
that we do not abandon it until long after the Spaniards had abandoned
us.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Buonaparte seldom did things by halves; and he acted now with even more
than his usual energy.

The force and genius of this English Commander, by whom he was so
daringly opposed, had suddenly burst upon him; and he at once realised
that no ordinary effort on his part would ensure to him the victory. To
oppose Moore’s twenty-three thousand men with only another twenty-eight
or thirty thousand was not to be thought of. That might mean disaster.

Without an hour’s delay, orders went forth to check the southward march
of his columns, and, as a first step, to pour fifty thousand men in a
torrent across the snowy Guadarrama hills, that they might cut off the
retreat of Moore to the coast.

His object was, to place the small force of Moore between the great
Army of the south and the other French corps under Soult, consisting of
some twenty-five or thirty thousand men. That once done, the crushing
out of existence of the British Army might be looked upon as a mere
matter of detail. At any moment Napoleon could supplement his first
fifty thousand with another fifty or hundred thousand.[4]

But Napoleon’s fierce northward rush was exactly what Sir John Moore
had intended to bring about. He had drawn away the main body of the
French Army from the harassed south; he had given the Spaniards
a breathing-space in which to rally, if they would, for renewed
resistance; and he had for the moment saved Portugal from desperate
peril.

Twenty-three thousand men, with eight or ten thousand more out of
reach, opposed to seventy or eighty thousand, with a hundred thousand
more within reach! Two thousand cavalry pitted against at least five
times their number! A collie-dog snapping at the heels of a Bengal
tiger would be no inapt picture of Moore’s desperate daring. Well might
he write—

“With such a force as mine I can pretend to do no more. It would only
be losing this Army to Spain and to England to persevere in my march on
Soult; who, if posted strongly, might wait; or, if not, would retire
and draw me on until the corps from Madrid got behind me.[5] In short,
single-handed, I cannot pretend to contend with the superior numbers
the French can bring against me.”

There was, indeed, not a moment to be lost. By forced marches and the
utmost expedition the first and most perilous stage was accomplished.
The River Esla was crossed—and not too soon. Napoleon, pushing
furiously forward, bent heart and mind on getting to Benevente before
the English, found himself twelve hours too late. Moore had precisely
reckoned his time and had neatly baffled Europe’s Conqueror.

A few days later, on the 1st of January, 1809, Napoleon underwent a
second dire mortification. He reached Astorga, for which he had been
aiming, again straining every nerve with the hope of cutting off
Moore’s retreat—and as at Esla, he was once more a day too late. A
second time Moore had quietly slipped away out of his grasp.

While here, Napoleon had unexpected news. He heard of the fresh
alliance between Russia and Austria; and he heard that an attack upon
France during his absence was being planned. This altered the face of
matters. The crushing of Spain, delayed by Moore’s action, had to be
put off indefinitely. Napoleon, with a large body of troops, hurried
back to Paris. But he left Soult and Ney in command of about sixty
thousand men, in two columns, one to attack Moore in rear, the other
to take him in flank, while thousands scattered about the country were
advancing to support the attack.

Enough, in all conscience, one would imagine, to deal with a retreating
force of less than twenty-four thousand!

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Fact.

[2] At this date Napoleon was already at Vittoria with 170,000 good
troops. If the fact was known to the Spaniards, it was carefully
concealed by them from the English.

[3] Afterwards Marquis of Anglesey.

[4] “This Army” (under Moore) “did not exceed twenty-four thousand
men, and he was opposed by Napoleon, who had passed the Pyrenees at
the head of three hundred and thirty thousand, and could readily
bring two hundred and thirty thousand to bear against the British
General.”—_Peninsular War_, vol. i., by Sir W. Napier.

[5] Precisely what, at this very date, Napoleon was ordering Soult to
do—one of the many instances of Moore’s extraordinary “prescience.” Had
Moore yielded to the clamours of his Army for a continued advance, he
would simply have played into Napoleon’s hands.




OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;

OR,

VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.


PART VII.

Brick seems, as we pointed out in our last paper, to have been
generally preferred to stone for house and cottage building in this
country from the sixteenth century, but during the earlier centuries,
and in places where good stone was easily procurable, the latter was
frequently used, even in the erection of cottages. A charming example
dating from the fourteenth century exists in a very perfect condition
at West Dean in Sussex. It has graceful and elegant traceried stone-cut
windows and doorways, and is a carefully constructed little building
showing excellent though simple Gothic details.

[Illustration: AT AMERSHAM.]

Cottages built of brick with stone “dressing” are common all over
England, especially in almshouses. At Amersham are six little cottages
built round an open courtyard. An inscription over the archway leading
to the garden informs us that these cottages were built by “Sir William
Drake, Barronet (_sic_), in the year of our Lord 1657, to the glory
of God, and for the relief of six poor widows well reputed in this
parish.” It is a pleasant home for these good old people and a pretty
retreat where they may spend the remainder of their days in peace.
There are many such in England: would there were many more! How far
more pleasant it is to think of these poor old souls quietly living
out the few months or years of existence, waiting for God to call
them, in such an abode rather than in a workhouse, with its hard and
fast rules, or some pretentious-looking asylum where official charity
seems to stare one in the face at every turn. No doubt in these modern
institutions sanitary arrangements are better, and matters are more
practically attended to, but something seems to be wanting in them:
they do not look like “homes.” We may perhaps be too sentimental, and
possibly are arguing from what we should ourselves feel if placed in
a similar situation, indeed we have known cases in which the poor old
folks in the country have rejoiced at their quaint old habitations
being pulled down and replaced by brand new houses.

[Illustration: AT WEST DEAN, SUSSEX.]

We were once drawing two streets, one a bit of a pretty old village,
and the other a modern suburban street which we had tried to make look
as detestable as possible, when a lady called upon us and looked at the
two. “Ah,” said she, “I am so glad that these tumbledown old cottages
are going to be replaced by your smart and cheerful-looking villas!” We
thought at first that it was a joke, but no, she was absolutely serious!

A few years back a very eminent Member of Parliament succeeded to the
possession of what was at that time the most perfect mediæval village
in England, every cottage dating back to the sixteenth or seventeenth
century. I was told of this absolutely unique place and went to see it.
To my horror I found a large gang of workmen busy upon what appeared to
be wholesale destruction. Upon inquiry I was told that Sir —— —— was
such an excellent landlord that he was rebuilding all the houses of his
tenants! There appeared to be little reason for this work, as the old
cottages which were being pulled down looked as if they would stand
quite as long as the new ones, and even if modern requirements were
supposed to necessitate different arrangements to those which satisfied
our forefathers, the beautiful old gables, with their ornamental oak
badge-boards and timber framing, might have been preserved, as the line
of frontage was not changed or the street widened.

This feeling is, however, by no means universal, and we have known
cases where those who have lived in old cottages which have been
condemned to destruction have offered to buy the sketch we were making,
as a recollection of the “dear old home.”

Unfortunately, however, now people have no “homes” for the most part,
our population is becoming nomadic, and folks move about every three
years.

A friend of ours told us that he had “moved” eleven times in ten years!
Now what love of his home can a man feel who spends ten months in each
house. At Rothenberg in Bavaria, I was buying some bread at a baker’s
shop, when I happened to see a carved stone sign over the doorway dated
1590. I remarked to the baker, “It is rather a coincidence that it
should have been a baker’s then.” “Oh,” said he, “it has always been
a baker’s, and always in the hands of the same family.” What is still
more remarkable is the fact that at Mont St. Michel in Normandy, until
some three or four years back there was a house which had been for
six centuries the home of the same family, but now the last member of
the old stock is dead. Now that was indeed a home, but what “rolling
stones” we have all become! Our very cats shame us. Pussy often
absolutely refuses to move. I once took a house, and the cat belonging
to the former tenants insisted upon remaining in the house. They took
him away with them, but he came back with the milkman in the morning.
We turned him out again, but he took up his residence in an outhouse,
and had his eye so fixed upon the back door that the moment it was
opened, he found his way in and sat in front of the kitchen fire. In
vain did the cook “rout him out,” and declare that he had “no rights
in her kitchen.” He maintained his rights, and point-blank refused to
budge. At last we absolutely took a great liking to the animal, which
showed such an attachment to his home. Directly he gained his way he
became very affectionate, and was a most amiable companion to the
children. By a curious coincidence he died the very day before we left
that house!

Love of the very place called “home” is a sentiment which should in
every way be encouraged, and it is greatly to be regretted that it
seems to be dying out, and we much fear that “flats” will give it its
deathblow.

(_To be continued._)




OUR MEDICINE CHEST.

BY “THE NEW DOCTOR.”


PART II.

THE MEDICAL DRAWER.

How many of our readers know how to perform artificial respiration?
Only a very small proportion, we are afraid. Yet everyone ought to
know how to do it, for rarely does a girl go through her life without
encountering a situation where a knowledge of how to perform artificial
respiration would be the means of saving the life of one of her fellow
creatures.

Every girl ought to be taught how to perform artificial respiration
when she is at school. This immensely important aid ought to be able to
be rendered by every man, woman or child in the world. It is the most
important, and perhaps the easiest of all measures for the saving of
life.

Let us see if we can explain to you how to perform artificial
respiration. Two persons are required. Place the patient on her back,
open her mouth, pull her tongue forward and wipe out her mouth and
throat, so as to clear it of any blood or whatever it may contain,
which would hinder the air from entering her chest.

Each of you must then take hold of one arm, with one hand grasping the
forearm and the other grasping the upper arm. Now start. Slowly draw
the arms away from the chest and elevate them above the head. Pull the
arms as high above the head as you possibly can. Rest for two seconds,
then slowly bring the arms down again to the side of the chest, cross
them over the chest, press upon the chest, and gently press upon the
pit of the stomach. Again rest for two seconds, then elevate the arms
again and repeat the performance as long as necessary. Never be in a
hurry. The performance is no good at all unless it is done slowly.

Now we will tell you where artificial respiration is necessary.

Suppose you are on the scene when a person is dragged out of the water
after drowning. The person is unconscious, but not dead. What are you
going to do? Place her on her chest, and squeeze out of her chest
any water that you can. Wipe out her mouth and throat. Pull out her
tongue, turn her on to her back, and perform artificial respiration.
Get someone else to wrap her up in blankets, and apply warmth to the
extremities. But do not discontinue the artificial respiration until a
surgeon arrives, or until the patient breathes regularly in a normal
way, or until some other pair of philanthropists relieve you.

If you find a person hanging, cut her down, wipe out her mouth and
perform artificial respiration at once.

If someone is found unconscious in a room where gas is escaping, bring
her out into the fresh air and perform artificial respiration at once.

If a person is suffocated in the smoke of a fire, or an infant is
smothered by the bed-clothes, take her out into the fresh air and
perform artificial respiration at once.

In all these cases, the patients are in the greatest peril of their
lives, and if you run after assistance, they will die in your absence.
But one might almost say that a person cannot die while proper
artificial respiration is being performed upon her.

Now let us wander to another emergency—the treatment of acute poisoning.

First find out if you can what poison the person has taken. Most
poisons cause vomiting, intense pain in the stomach, collapse with
pallor and coldness of the fingers and toes, and cold sweats. Purging,
cramps in the calves, unconsciousness, and heavy noisy breathing are
also common.

The cause of the symptoms of poisoning is the presence of the poison
in the body. Therefore the first item of treatment is to get as
much of the poison as you can out of the body. Therefore make the
patient vomit. Give her an emetic for every poison except the strong
mineral acids (sulphuric, nitric and hydrochloric acids) and the
strong alkalies (caustic soda, caustic potash, and strong solution of
ammonia). In poisoning from these you must not give an emetic.

The best of all emetics is a large tablespoonful of mustard in a
tumblerful of tepid water. Therefore in poisoning from anything except
the six drugs mentioned above, give mustard and water before you do
anything else.

Then loosen the clothes about the person’s neck, and apply warmth to
her extremities. The further treatment depends upon the nature of the
poison.

For the strong acids, sulphuric, nitric, hydrochloric and acetic, give
the patient magnesia, if you have it handy. If not, give her dilute
solution of soda.

For the alkalies, caustic soda, caustic potash, or ammonia, give
dilute vinegar. For poisoning with copper or mercury salts, give
white of eggs. For oxalic acid or salts of lemon or salts of sorrel,
give lime or chalk. For opium, give hot coffee and perform artificial
respiration. For prussic acid or cyanide of potassium, apply cold water
to the spine, and perform artificial respiration.

If you have done these things, the doctor, when he arrives, will
probably find the patient at all events alive. The further treatment,
of course, belongs to him. But if you have rendered your first aid, it
will make a very great difference to the patient.

Let us leave this chapter of horrors. But one moment—we want to say
something to you about fainting. We suppose it has been the experience
of very nearly everybody to see a girl faint in church.

It is rather a hot stuffy day in July, and Miss Jones goes to church;
but the place is rather more crowded than customary, for the sermon
promises to be more interesting than usual.

About the middle of the service Miss Jones feels “queer.” She reels a
bit, utters a faint cry and falls down “in a heap” fainting. Confusion
at once reigns. The gentlemen about her lift her up, elevate her head
and take her out of the church.

What is a faint? It is the momentary cessation of the heart’s action.
The heart stops for a second. The brain is deprived of blood. It
instantly ceases its function. The body drops as if inanimate. It
is this dropping down in a heap which prevents the brain from being
deprived of blood for long. It is this which saves the person from
danger.

When a person falls down in a faint, leave her alone. Unloose her
collar if you like, but under no circumstances should you elevate her
head. Let her head be the lowest part of her body. Remember this! Let
the head of a fainting person be the lowest part of the body.

Afterwards you may give her a little sal volatile and fresh air. But it
really does not matter what you do as long as you pay attention to the
position of the head.

Oh, by the way, we were talking about our medicine chest! Let us return
to our subject, and exactly describe the box and its fittings. The box
should be made of metal, not wood. The reason for this is that metal
is such a clean material, and when it has been soiled, it is a simple
matter to wash it, whereas wood holds the dirt, and is not by any means
so easily cleaned.

A japanned cash-box makes as good a medicine chest as anything. One
about twelve inches long, six inches broad, and six inches deep, makes
a capital medicine chest. Certainly it is quite large enough! What
would you have? What is the good of a medicine box that you cannot
carry about?

We keep a medicine chest of the size above mentioned. We find it
quite large enough for when we are travelling “off duty.” It is quite
sufficiently large to carry all that we require for emergencies. Of
course it is furnished differently from what yours should be; but, as
regards size, it is only ten inches long, six inches broad, and six
inches deep.

A new cash-box makes the best of all medicine chests. No, you do not
want partitions, nooks and crannies. The simpler the box is the better.
But it must be clean. When you have got your box, dust it and rinse it
out with warm carbolic solution, and let it thoroughly dry.

Now let us start to furnish it. Surgical necessities first.

A glass syringe, about eight inches long, with the piston fitted with
an asbestos plug, and not wound round with string. This is useful
for washing wounds, etc. A needle mounted in a holder for removing
splinters, etc. A pair of small, well-made, nickel-plated forceps for
removing splinters, etc. A pair of small, blunt-pointed, nickel-plated
dressing scissors. These scissors are for cutting dressings, etc. No
other pair of scissors must be used for dressings, and the dressing
scissors must never be used for any other purpose.

These are all the instruments you require. They should be kept
scrupulously clean, and wrapped up in small pieces of chamois leather
when put away.

The dressings you require are these: Sal alembroth gauze. This is
absorbent gauze impregnated with perchloride of mercury. It is coloured
blue to distinguish it from other kinds of gauze. We have described how
it is used for dressing wounds. It is an excellent material with which
to dress any abrasion or cut or raw surface.

We are not going to allow you to have any poisons in your box, except
carbolic acid. We must allow this, for it is indispensable. Oh, it
is not that we do not trust you with poisons; but no one who is not
a physician ought to keep poisons in her house, for you never know
who may meddle with them. And besides, you can never get a sufficient
knowledge of drugs to enable you to use any of the poisons with safety.
Of course, perchloride of mercury is a very powerful poison, and so we
suppose that sal alembroth gauze is too; but it is quite safe to keep
it, and it can no more be called a poison than can lead water-pipes or
silver spoons.

The second dressing you require is lint. This is very useful for
many purposes, such as for spreading ointment upon or for making
fomentations.

Then you want cotton wool. Either the best white absorbent wool or else
the blue wool—the companion to sal alembroth gauze.

For bandages keep white calico ones, eight yards long, and two and one
inches broad.

Just a little piece of sticking-plaster to keep dressings upon the
face, where bandaging is difficult, and a fair-sized piece of either
oiled silk or green protective to cover over fomentations, complete the
list.

A half-pint bottle of carbolic acid dissolved in water (1 in 20) is the
first application required. Then you want about an ounce of powdered
boracic acid for dressing wounds; and an ounce pot of boracic acid and
eucalyptus ointment.

To allay the pain of bruises do not use tincture of arnica; but apply
the following lotion on a piece of uncovered lint: one part of spirit
and one part of solution of acetate of ammonia (B.P.) to eight parts
of water. When the pain of a bruise has been allayed, the absorption
of the residual swelling and discoloration may be hastened by gentle
massage. So much for the surgical requisites.

We are of opinion that the less you have to do with drugs the better.
People cannot understand that if a drug has a powerful action in
disease—if, for instance, a drug will stop convulsions—it will have an
action if given to a perfectly healthy person, and that action will do
harm to the body.

The drugs which we advise you to keep in your medicine chest are all
perfectly safe; but at the same time they all have definite actions.
The liquids should be kept in half-ounce bottles. They should be
labelled with the names of the drugs, their doses, and the complaints
for which they are used.

Mind you, this box is to treat emergencies. It is to serve you when you
cannot obtain medical aid. Do not imagine that when you possess this
box you can consider yourself independent of medical science. This box
is for emergencies, and for emergencies only.

These are the preparations the box should contain:—

1. _Sal Volatile._—For fainting. Half a teaspoonful in a small
wineglassful of water.

2. _Brandy._—A teaspoonful—_not more_—for collapse from poisoning after
an emetic has been given and has acted. Also for fainting and colic.
People always give too much brandy. A teaspoonful at a time is ample.
If necessary, this dose may be repeated.

3. _Ipecacuanha Wine._—For the early stages of cough. Ten to twenty
drops on a lump of sugar or in water. For children two to eight drops.
This is one of the very few drugs which may be given to children for
cough.

4. _Oxymel of Squills._—A very useful preparation for cough with
profuse expectoration. Especially useful for elderly persons, the
subjects of chronic winter cough. The dose is half a teaspoonful.

5. _Solution of Carbonate of Ammonia_ (1 in 10).—A very useful adjunct
to the two former for coughs. The dose is ten to thirty minims in
water, either with or without ipecacuanha or squills.

6. _Spirit of Ginger._—Half a teaspoonful of this in a wineglassful of
water will relieve flatulency, colic, and diarrhœa.

All these liquids must be measured. A glass minim measure must
therefore be kept in the box.

These are all the liquids. Not a very formidable list, is it? Now for
the solids. The best way to keep these is in the form of pills or
tabloids. Some, however, are best as powders.

7. _Liquorice Powder._—Dose, one teaspoonful. Mild aperient. Best kept
as a powder.

8. _Bicarbonate of Soda._—One of the most valuable of all medicines.
Dose, ten to thirty grains or more. For indigestion with acidity. May
be kept in powder or in tabloids.

9. _Bicarbonate of Soda and Sub-nitrate of Bismuth._—For indigestion
with vomiting. Best kept in the form of tabloids containing two and a
half grains of each. One to four tabloids is the dose.

10. _Calomel._—Infinitely and beyond all comparison the most valuable
of all drugs that act on the stomach, the liver, or the bowels. Used
chiefly for dyspepsia, especially “liver attacks.” It is best kept in
tabloids containing one grain each. Dose, one to two tabloids.

11. _Phenacetin and Caffeine._—Best kept in the form of tabloids
containing four grains of phenacetin to one of caffeine, or three
grains of each. Dose, one tabloid for headaches.

12. _Pill of Aloes and Nux Vomica._—Of the following formula: aloin,
one and a half grains, extract of nux vomica, quarter of a grain. An
excellent aperient for chronic cases.

Besides these always have in the house the following drugs:—

_Mustard._—As an emetic, one tablespoonful in a tumbler of tepid water.
It is also useful for making mustard plasters.

_Epsom Salts_ and _Seidlitz Powders_ and _Alum_ which is very useful as
a gargle for sore throats. The gargle may be made of the strength of
two in a hundred.

We have described our medicine chest for emergencies. No one can say
that it is elaborate or costly. Yet we know you are disappointed with
it. You wanted something more pretentious. But if you follow our
instructions and use the various items as we have directed, you will
soon find that you have got all that is absolutely necessary for the
treatment of emergencies—that is, as far as you yourself can treat them
in the absence of a doctor.

Before we leave you we wish to make one request. That is: If you
follow our advice and fit up your box as we have directed, you will
add nothing else thereto. No, nothing whatever—not even to fill up an
awkward corner.




VARIETIES.


ALL WILL COME RIGHT.

    Things can never go badly wrong
    If the heart be true and the love be strong,
    For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain
    Will be changed by the love into sunshine again.—_George MacDonald._


IN PRAISE OF WORK.—Work drives away depression, whets the appetite
for food, invites sleep, promotes digestion, strengthens the muscles
and sinews, gives free circulation to the blood, stimulates the
intellectual faculties, provides the comforts of life, develops all the
powers which it brings into exercise, transforms stupid ignorance into
brilliant genius, fills the world with works of art and literature, and
develops the resources of nature. Nothing can stand before work.


WELL NAMED.

_Bainbridge_: “I know why they are called fugitive poems.”

_Goldsborough_: “Why?”

_Bainbridge_: “Because the author had to run for his life.”


BE WISE TO-DAY.—“Dear young friends,” says a popular preacher of the
present day, “begin right. You will never find it so easy to make
any decisive step as just now. You will get less and less flexible
as you grow older. You will get set in your ways. Habits will twine
their tendrils round you and hinder your free movement. The truths of
the Gospel will become commonplace by familiarity. Associations and
companions will get more and more powerful, and you will stiffen as a
tree trunk becomes stiffened with the growth of years. Be wise to-day.”


PRINTERS’ ERRORS.

In the early half of the present century it was announced in a London
newspaper that “Sir Robert Peel, with a party of _fiends_, was shooting
peasants in Ireland,” whereas the Minister and his friends were only
indulging in the comparatively harmless amusement of pheasant-shooting.

Shortly after the battle of Inkerman one of the morning papers informed
its readers that “after a desperate struggle the enemy was repulsed
with great _laughter_.” The omission of a single letter has rarely
perhaps played more havoc with a subject which was certainly no
laughing matter.


NO MORE FAULT-FINDING.—The business of fault-finding would soon come to
an end if every fault-finder could be only introduced to herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: “THE GUIDING LIGHT.”

(_From the painting by Marcella Walker._)]

       *       *       *       *       *




“THE SONG THE RAINDROPS SING.”

BY AUGUSTA BRYERS.


    I stood within my garden,
      While fell the gentle rain
    On thirsty leaf and blossom,
      To bid them smile again.
    But my heart mourn’d sore the sunbeams
      And all the joys they bring,
    Till I heard, like sweet bells chiming,
      The song the raindrops sing.

    They told of fading flow’rets,
      Of little leaves that die,
    While the lark soars on unceasing,
      And the sunlight floods the sky.
    And they said, “We are not teardrops,
      But tend’rest show’rs of love,
    To cheer the heart that’s weary,
      And lift sad eyes above.”

    And I thought, as fell the raindrops
      On fainting buds and leaves,
    So may sweet words and hopeful
      Wake for the heart that grieves.
    That to the world’s great garden
      Each may his harvest bring,
    Thro’ the sunshine or the storm-cloud,
      Or the song the raindrops sing.

[Illustration]




THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

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


CHAPTER III.

AS A LITTLE CHILD.

The day after the episode with Pollie Captain Grant’s letter duly
arrived.

He was only too delighted to think that his suggestion had borne fruit
with his old friend.

“It’s just settled that the _Slains Castle_ will leave Peterhead on
the twenty-eighth of this month,” he wrote. “That will give you plenty
of time. But as we don’t touch anywhere in Great Britain, you will
have to join me here. Don’t take the long railway journey. Like a
wise man, come as far as Aberdeen in the steamer, and then you have
not much further to travel. As for the hundred pounds, I tell you, my
dear fellow, that we don’t intend to be away longer than one year, and
that is the precise figure I should name. But I’ll go on to add that
if we should happen to be a little longer, you shall not be charged a
shilling more. Persuade Mrs. Challoner to come north with you and to
bring the boy, and then she’ll see you fairly aboard, and will note
what snug quarters you’ll have, and be able to see you with her mind’s
eye all the time you are away. My wife hopes she will come.”

“You see there is no doubt that you are to go, Charlie,” said Mrs.
Challoner. “Everything has worked to that end without one hitch. You
are to go, because you are to come back strong and well. It is clearly
the will of God that you go. I am so glad that my plans have been
carried out beyond my own power. If it had all been my planning, I
might have doubted afterwards.”

“But, Lucy,” said the young husband, his pleasant frank face shining
with the mysterious light which often illumines the countenances which
have just been bravely turned to confront the darkness of the Valley of
the Shadow of Death, “I own, with you, that it does seem to be God’s
will, but we must not think so now, unless we can continue to think so
whatever be the result. Let us say together solemnly, ‘God’s will be
done: not our will, but His.’”

And there was a little silence.

Lucy resolutely refused to consider the Grants’ invitation to
Peterhead. She warmly seconded their suggestion that Charlie should
travel in the snug, well-attended saloon of the magnificent coasting
steamer rather than in the train. She refused to listen to his plea,
that unless she would come with him this mode of travel would part them
a day or two sooner than if he went by rail. She even nerved herself to
say that when a matter of a year’s separation was in hand, what could
a day more or less signify? It would be best that they should part in
their own home, where life could go straight on, and she could set to
work at once. It would be dreadful to come back to the house alone.
(“Pollie would have a welcome for you,” interposed young Challoner.)
Besides, who knew whether she and little Hugh might not prove to be the
very worst of sailors, and then Charlie would go off quite unhappy,
thinking of the misery of their return journey.

In all these arguments Lucy knew there was force and good sense,
but she knew, too, that but for the secret knowledge that her whole
household life was crumbling about her, they would not for one moment
have sufficed to withhold her from clinging to her husband’s presence
till the latest possible moment.

“Now, Pollie,” she said to her servant, “I am able to tell you why
I wish silence about your departure. It is finally arranged that my
husband is going for a long sea-voyage. He will be away for about a
year. When we first began to think of this it was a great consideration
that I and the boy should have you—our household friend of seven years’
standing—to be with us. That thought was a great comfort. Now as we
find this cannot be, I think we may save Mr. Challoner the distress of
knowing about it before he goes. It might make him wish to postpone his
going. And he ought to be off before the winter.”

Pollie was sniffing.

“I wish I’d known. I was huffed a bit thinking I wasn’t to be much
consideration in any changes you was making.”

“But what made you think of changes?” asked Mrs. Challoner. “This is
no change. All will go on the same, though with your master away for
a year, and then we shall hope that all will go on the same when he
returns. It is only since this very morning, Pollie, that we have been
quite sure this voyage can be arranged. You are the very first person I
have told. We think those in a household, whose interests are naturally
bound up together, should be the first to hear such news.”

“Didn’t you mention it to Mrs. Brand, m’m?” asked Pollie.

“Certainly not,” Lucy answered. “There was no use mentioning it to
anybody when it might have come to nothing.”

Lucy rather wondered at this question. It did not occur to her that
Mrs. Brand had had the girl to herself on the afternoon when Lucy had
gone to see Dr. Ivery, nor that it could have been she who had put the
idea of “changes” into the head of her sister’s servant. And Pollie
kept the secret, as servants often do, or it would go hard with many a
gadding and gossipping “lady.”

“You may trust me not to speak, m’m,” said poor Pollie, still sniffing.
But she put such emphasis on “me” that it reminded her mistress that
Mrs. Brand also knew of Pollie’s imminent departure and would be almost
sure to blurt it out before Charlie. Lucy hated to ask her sister
to keep a secret from him. It would be as useless, too, as painful,
for Florence would be sure to “forget” or “not to think.” As such
“forgetfulness” or “want of thought” always pleads “meaning no harm,”
and resents indignation as harsh and uncharitable, there is nothing to
be done but to prevent their harmful doings by keeping them out of the
way.

And while Lucy was pondering what steps she could take in this
direction, she got warning that Charlie might get an impression of
trouble of some sort and question the facts out of poor Pollie however
loyally she might try to keep them back. For Pollie seemed unable to
keep from “sniffing,” and when she went into the drawing-room the sight
of Mr. Challoner brought on a very bad attack.

“Why, what’s the matter, Pollie?” asked he, quite innocently. “No bad
news from home, I hope?”

“Oh, no, sir! Yes—oh, it’s a-thinking of you a-going away, sir!” said
Pollie desperately, and rushed from the room.

“I had no idea that Pollie cared a bit for me,” observed her master. “I
thought she regarded me as a wage-paying machine, and that you and the
boy were the idols. It is quite flattering to find that I came in for a
bit of the adoration.”

“Of course Pollie cares for you after living in the house with us for
seven years, and you always so considerate and polite,” said Lucy.

“Considerate and polite!” echoed Charlie. “Well, I do hope I’m not
quite a brute in my own home, and I don’t know how many other fellows
I’ve rebuked for calling their landladies’ servants ‘the slavey.’ And
they’ve often said to me, ‘Well, but it’s true,’ and I say, ‘Then it
oughtn’t to be true.’”

“Of course it should not be true,” Lucy responded.

“It is quite touching to think Pollie cares for my going away,” Charlie
went on. “But I tell you, Lucy, it occurs to me that it is not my going
that has grieved her, but the thought of your being left alone.” He
paused for a moment. “She thinks you’ll be so dull,” he said, fearing
lest his words might have brought to Lucy’s mind the idea they had
wakened in his own—to wit, that probably Pollie regarded this temporary
separation as likely to be for the earthly forever. “Well, I can only
say again,” he went on, “that my greatest comfort is that she is with
you. What a blessing we have not changed our servant perpetually as the
Brands do! How could I go off and leave you with an utter stranger, who
might desert you the next week?”

“We never know what changes may come,” said Lucy, to whom silence began
to seem criminal. “But we must trust God to provide for emergencies.
They never are so bad as they look beforehand.”

“That is quite true,” answered Charlie, “and that’s just how I feel—a
special trial has come to us, and a special blessing is prepared for it
in the shape of Pollie.”

Lucy could endure no more. She jumped up and went out of the room
so hurriedly that Charlie thought she must have heard a ring at the
door-bell. She really went to little Hugh’s bedroom, and sat down in
the darkness beside the cot where he was already asleep. She began to
revolve schemes. She would get Charlie to go with her and the boy to
spend the interval before his departure at the seaside. That would
take him away in safety from Florence’s chatter and Pollie’s tears. It
had other substantial recommendations, too, such as she could urge.
It was highly desirable that before his great journey Charlie should
shake off the little ways and weaknesses of invalidism as a “change”
helps a convalescent to do. Then she would add what she knew would be
a supreme argument with him—that her teaching duties at the Institute
would begin at the Christmas quarter, and that she ought not to take
up these labours when below par in nerve and health after her anxious
nursing. She would plead, too, the charm of the little family of three
being together quite by themselves in a strange place, where they would
be safe from any calls or condolences or curiosity, and could wander
about or rest, just at their own sweet will. Of course, this trip would
cost a little money, but not very much, and apart from all its other
charms, Lucy felt that it would soothe her own heart in the pain of
having been forced to refuse to accompany her husband to his port of
departure.

“You are a funny little woman,” said her husband, when she went
downstairs again and made these suggestions. “What else will you think
out so cleverly? I shall like this of all things; and all the while
I am away, it will be so much cheerier to have last thoughts of each
other taking quiet holiday by the sea, than of each of us mewed up in a
sick-room, coddling and being coddled.”

“And I’ll be able to do two or three sketches,” Lucy went on. “I should
like to do them with you looking on, to know if you think my hand has
lost any of its cunning. It will get me up to the mark, too. I daresay
I may do something that will more than pay for our trip.”

“Never say that women are not practical!” laughed Mr. Challoner.
“While I am only thinking of sentiment, the wifie has gone on to the
shillings! But ah, Lucy dear, don’t think I don’t know that you want
the shillings only for the sake of the sentiment!”

They sat together hand in hand. They had been married seven years, and
they were on the eve of separation. Both hearts were full of feelings
to which they dared not give utterance. One must not stir a brimming
cup lest it overflow.

“I vote we go to Deal!” cried Charlie at last.

“Isn’t it rather an east windy place for an invalid?” asked Lucy.

“But I’m not an invalid, and am not going to pass as one,” he said
gaily. “I’m a fellow starting on a sea-voyage! No, no, Lucy, don’t
doom me to some sheltered cubby hole of a ‘resort,’ where half the
population are in bath-chairs and the other half in respirators. It
would give us the blues! If you’ll let us go to Deal, I’ll promise to
be very good,” he went on with his indomitable boyishness. “I’ll only
go out when you say I may, and I’ll come in the minute you say I must.
Only let us go there!”

In the depths of his heart lay the secret thought that to go to any
place where consumptives are wont to congregate, would inevitably
fill Lucy’s mind with dire forebodings, besides exposing her to
the depressing influences of the conventional “sympathy” or forced
“hopefulness” which emanate from well-meaning landladies and others
trained by experience to regard their habitat as one of the last stages
on life’s journey.

All the next day Lucy hurriedly made her little preparations for the
trip. She said to Charlie that, if Deal suited him, and if they got
snug apartments, they might stay on till the very end, so that he need
only use their own house to rest and sleep in on his way through London
to the north.

“As for any sea-going things you want—lockers, waterproofs, and so
on—we can get them at Deal,” she said.

Only when all was in readiness for their start, while the cab which was
to take them to the station actually stood at the door, did she post a
letter to Mrs. Brand, giving the first intimation of their present move
and of Charlie’s future journey.

“We have had it in view for some time,” she wrote, for it was
impossible for Lucy Challoner to be inferentially untruthful, “but it
was only decided the day before yesterday.”

After the railway journey, whose slight fatigue the convalescent bore
capitally, they went straight to an hotel and had lunch, and there
Lucy left her husband and little Hugh, while she went in quest of
“apartments.” She wanted cleanliness, economy, and a sea view. Like
all people who know what they want she was not long in getting suited.
She decided on the second set of rooms at which she looked, preferring
them to the first, because being upstairs, they commanded a wider
horizon. Also she felt attracted to the second landlady, a quiet,
grave, middle-aged woman of few words, whose chambers, with their
well-kept old-fashioned furniture had—what is the greatest charm of
hired rooms—no suggestion of previous temporary occupancy.

The landlady had everything made snug before their arrival; the
curtains were drawn, a cheerful fire was ablaze, and the lit lamp
stood in the centre of the table spread with pretty blue crockery and
provided with ham, eggs and toast. There are few who can wholly resist
the genial influence of such surroundings. Charlie and Lucy Challoner
yielded themselves up to them, and little Hugh danced and clapped his
hands. Lucy felt as if she was happier than she had ever thought to be
again. Safe from the impending worries of the last few days, it seemed
as if the great anxiety which hung like a Damocles’ sword over her life
was for the time held off.

“I believe this is really doing you good, Lucy,” said her husband. “For
me, I feel a different man already.”

The bed-chamber opened from the parlour, and Hugh was not allowed to be
long in seeking the little cot which the landlady had fixed up for him
in his parents’ room. But while Lucy passed to and fro unpacking and
preparing for the night, Mr. Challoner and Hugh got behind the window
curtains and shut themselves away from the cheery room and out with the
misty sea view. Lucy could hear them talking behind the drapery.

“There go the ships!” said the young father. “Look, Hugh, you can see
them by their lights! Look what a lot of them there are! And how many
lights they are showing!”

“How glad the sailors must be to see land again!” lisped Hugh. “They
must feel they are safe at last!”

“Glad to feel they are nearly home at last, Hugh,” corrected his
father. “For ships are in much more danger when they are near land than
when they are out in mid-ocean. What looks safest isn’t always safe, my
boy.”

“I’d like to go on a ship!” said Hugh.

“I daresay you will go in time, sonny,” returned Mr. Challoner.
“By-and-by, Hughie, I am going on a big ship—a big ship with three
masts—and I am going for a long, long voyage. And you’ll have to take
care of mamma while I am away. And then when I come back, and you grow
up, very likely you will go for some long voyage, and then I will stay
at home and take care of mamma.”

“Are you going to-morrow, papa?” said the little voice in an awed
whisper, and Lucy heard a movement as if the curly head snuggled on
papa’s shoulder. How good it was of Charlie to tell the child himself!
The thought of having to do so had haunted her, for she measured her
little lad’s love for his father by what she knew it meant in his life
rather than by that childish inadequacy for profound emotion which
makes a child such a poignantly pathetic figure when it appears on any
tragic scene.

“To-morrow!” echoed papa in his brightest tone. “No, indeed, not
for many days—two or three weeks! We are going to have such a happy
time. We’ll go out and pick up shells, and if there is a very warm
sunshiny day with only little waves on the sea, maybe we’ll go out in
a boat—that’s if mamma will come with us,” he added, remembering his
promised obedience to her discretion.

Hugh broke away from his father and ran back into the room.

“Oh, mamma,” he cried, “you will let us go out in a boat, won’t you? If
the day’s sunshiny—an’ it’s sure to be—and if the waves are ever such
little teeny weenies! Oh, mamma, yes!”

“We shall see, Hugh. We will do what seems wise. It is time you went to
bed.”

In commanding her voice to be steady, it sounded sharp and hard. It
checked Hugh’s ecstasy, and brought his father out from behind the
curtain. She felt that Charlie’s expression was surprised, and that she
would break down utterly if she had to meet his eyes. Without looking
back, she caught the hand of the silenced and awed Hugh, and hurried
him away to the other room.

Neither of them spoke while she helped the child undress. Even her eyes
did not answer his, though she saw his blue orbs raised wistfully. He
knelt down and said his little prayer, the “Our Father,” and the little
verse of godly nursery tradition—

    “Now I lay me down to sleep,
    I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
    If I die before I wake,
    I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Then he passed on to the extempore petitions, in which he was always
allowed free expression. To-night they came with unwonted faltering and
hesitation. The child-soul was aware of a disturbed atmosphere around
it—of groping somehow in darkness uncertain of itself.

“Please, God, bless dear papa—and dear mamma—and dear Pollie—and dear
Aunt Florence—and—and dear Mr. Brand—and dear Mrs. May—and make me a
good boy. Amen.”

“Dear Mrs. May?” Who was that? Lucy had to pause for a moment ere she
remembered that this was the name of the landlady, whom the child had
seen for the first time two hours before, and who had won his heart
by bringing in for him a special tea plate painted with a picture of
Walmer Castle!

It was only as Hugh stood in his little night-gown, half stepping into
the cot, that he said, almost with a whimper—

“I never kissed good night to papa.”

“Then run away and kiss him now,” said Lucy in her natural tone.

Hugh was himself again in a second, scampering away, kicking aside his
flowing white robes with his little pink feet, and bestowing upon his
father what was evidently an ecstasy of hugs, accompanied by a perfect
storm of hearty “smacks.” Then he gallopaded back, hopped into bed,
held out his arms to his mother, and clasped her down to himself in a
rapturous embrace, to which she responded with an added tenderness born
of a little remorse for the foolish pang he had given her.

“But you will let us go in the boat?” he whispered before he released
her.

She kissed him again as her only answer, and went back into the
sitting-room. Her husband looked up at her with some solicitude, and
drew up a chair for her at his side.

“I’m afraid you have been very much overwrought, Lucy,” he said. “It’s
no use saying ‘No.’ I can hear it in your voice. When you went out of
the room, I thought you were actually crying. I was quite uneasy till I
saw you come in again all right.”

“I’m afraid I’m not fit to be your nurse if I frighten my patient,” she
said, forcing a smile. “I was very silly. I was not crying. I’m rather
afraid I was cross for a minute.”

“Cross?” questioned her husband incredulously.

“Yes,” she answered. “It vexed me to think how soon Hugh forgot about
your going away and thought only of getting a sail in a boat.”

Charlie pondered for a second, for the whole thing had escaped him.

“I know I was foolish,” she said. “Hughie is only a little child,
and cannot realise things. I’m sure he would have begun to cry if
you’d said you were going away to-morrow. But when you said ‘not for
two or three weeks’ he could put it right out of his head. It’s only
childlike, after all.”

“But we ought all to be childlike, ought we not, Lucy?” answered
Charlie thoughtfully. “And we are, more or less, even the worst of us.
All who love know they will have to part; but they don’t go on thinking
about it all the years they are together. And days are as long as years
to poor little Hughie.”

“And then he was so taken up about going in the boat!” said Lucy, with
a half-reluctant smile.

“Well, and why not?” asked Charlie undauntedly, “We ought to be like
that, too—taken up with what is our present business—this is a great
business for Hughie—and especially with what we may bring about by
our own efforts, as he felt he might by his coaxings. That is our
affair—not something that is going to happen some time or other,
without any help of ours.”

“I know I’m an idiot,” said Lucy humbly; “but so much seemed to come
at once! He actually prayed in the same breath for you and for Mrs.
May—the strange landlady downstairs,” she explained. And she reminded
him of the little incident of the picture plate.

Charlie leaned back in his chair and enjoyed a quiet deep laugh.

“And there he is altogether right,” he said, “for love is all off
the same piece whether it’s in a great fold that ties two lives
together—like yours and mine, Lucy—or but some little scrap that just
binds up a pricked finger. For God is Love, and therefore Love is God,
and any affection that gets taken outside that unity is—just—an idol!”

“‘And the idols He shall utterly abolish,’” he added after a moment’s
pause. As he spoke, he drew back the curtain. The moon was up,
silvering the mist that hung low over the Channel. They sat side by
side in silence. Lucy was trying to gather from her husband’s words
some cheer for the one trial she could not feel it right to confide to
him—the only secret she had ever withheld from him. After a fashion of
which most of us have had pathetic experience, she strove to get an
oracle at a venture.

“It comforts me so to talk to you,” she said. “You smooth things out.
Worries will come, and jarrings. What shall I do when you are not here
to say good words to me?”

“You will say them to yourself,” he answered. “You will hear them in
your own heart. Sometimes, indeed, it seems to me as if I merely hear
your thoughts and put them into words for you.”

(_To be continued._)




OUR PUZZLE REPORT: A WELL-BRED GIRL (No. 2).


SOLUTION.

A WELL-BRED GIRL (No. 2).

1. A well-bred girl always makes herself pleasant to those about her,
especially to the lonely and unhappy.

2. A well-bred girl always dresses without extravagance, and yet avoids
severity.

3. A well-bred girl always eats and drinks noiselessly, not even
excepting soup.

4. A well-bred girl always refrains from discussing articles of diet
during meals.

5. A well-bred girl always talks quietly.

6. A well-bred girl always upholds her own dignity without apparent
effort.

7. A well-bred girl always remembers that striking manners are bad
manners.

    56, Paternoster Row, Dec., 1898.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRIZE WINNERS.


_Six Shillings and Eightpence Each._

    Eliza Acworth, Blenheim Mount, Bradford.
    Dora Mary Barling, Farnham, Surrey.
    M. A. C. Crabb, Hemel Hempstead, Herts.
    Louie Drury, Edith Road, West Kensington.
    Alfred J. Knight, Edith Road, West Kensington.
    F. Miller, Brecknock Road, N.
    Mrs. Nicholls, Parlors Hall, Bridgnorth.
    Lilla Patterson, Kilmore, Holywood.
    Gertrude M. Stott, Yarburgh Street, Alexandra Park, Manchester.
    Norah M. Sullivan, Otranto Place, Sandycove, Co. Dublin.
    Emily M. Tattam, Green Lanes, N.
    Bettie Temple, Brockley, S.E.
    Ethel Tomlinson, Burton-on-Trent.
    Ada G. Waide, Methley, Leeds.
    Jeanie Walker, Esk Terrace, Whitby.
    Eleanor Whitcher, The Drive, West Brighton.


_Very Highly Commended._

Ethel B. Angear, Lily Belling, E. Blunt, Margaret E. Bourne, Annie
J. Cather, M. J. Champneys, Maggie Coombes, Minnie Cornwell, Leonard
Duncan, Mrs. Fleming, A. and F. Fooks, Miss Fryer, Margaret S. Hall,
L. A. E. Hartshorn, Helen Jones, Alice M. Kellett, B. M. Linington, E.
E. Lockyear, Annie Manderson, Rev. H. Milnes, S. H. Phillips, Robina
Potts, Mrs. Prestige, Ada Rickards, John Rodway, Emma M. Sanderson,
Helen Simpson, Mildred M. Skrine, Helen Smith, Annie Stanser, Ellen C.
Tarrant, Agnes M. Vincent, Anna Walker, N. H. White, Emily M. P. Wood,
Elizabeth Yarwood, Edith M. Younge, Helen B. Younger, Euphemia T. Yule.


_Highly Commended._

Mrs. Allen, Margaret M. Anthony, Emily Bergin, Alice Mary Blake, Ada K.
Bullough, Martha Cairns, Robert H. Carmichael, Mrs. F. Chettle, Dora
Clarke, Alice M. Cooper, Lillian Clews, Mrs. Crossman, E. M. Dickson,
Mrs. F. Farrar, Florence Graves, Marie E. Hancock, Ellie Hanlon, Lizzie
J. Hetherington, Edith L. Howse, M. A. J. Hunter, E. Marian Jupe, Annie
G. Luck, Alice Luckhurst, Jennie M. McCall, Ethel C. McMaster, Helen
A. Manning, Geo. H. Manning, S. Mason, Mrs. A. Motum, E. K. Palmer,
Hilda Petley, Hannah E. Powell, Ellen M. Price, Helen J. Ransom, H. F.
Richards, Henzell G. Robson, Chas. Severs, A. A. L. Shave, Agnes A. M.
Shearer, Merriott T. Smiley, Gertrude Stirling, M. Stuart, Theodore
J. Tasker, Constance Taylor, Marie Threlfall, Violet C. Todd, Queenie
Tyssen, Mary Watts, Alice Woodhead, H. F. Yeoman.

       *       *       *       *       *


EXAMINERS’ REPORT.

The thirst for information continues, and again we have been inundated
with solutions. Happily for our peace of mind, many of them were far
from perfect, and the more subtle methods of our Art have not been
called into requisition. In short, the prize solutions were perfect;
the rest were not.

There were some points about the puzzle which deserved rather more
attention than the casual solver was inclined to bestow, and it seems
to be necessary to refer to them in detail. First let us deal with the
supposed mistakes. One solver, with admirable conciseness, thus calls
attention to them—

“Three mistakes, line 1 an h too many; line 2 an h too few; line 6 an s
too many.”

Now, taking lines 1 and 2 together we find h × 2 ÷ erself + pleasant
tot. That worked out (on somewhat doubtful mathematical lines) yields
“_h_|erself pleasant to t|_h_”; then we find ose _about_ h, and all is
as straightforward as possible. So much for “mistakes” one and two.

And the third “mistake” is no worse, for the correct reading of the
part referred to is not “e_s_ minus ss” but “_seven_ e_s_ minus ss,”
which introduces the word “even” into the solution. The number of
expert solvers who failed at this point was quite astonishing.

In very many solutions the word _around_ was substituted for _about_
in the first sentence. It could hardly be regarded as a bad mistake;
but, inasmuch as the letters o s e were on only three sides of the h,
_about_ had to be regarded as the more perfect reading.

The next point to be noticed is the omission in many solutions of the
word _always_ in the second admonition. But the more careful solvers
noticed that in this instance five stars were employed, and rightly
divined the meaning of the fifth. The fact that the word _always_
appeared in every other sentence ought to have opened the eyes of those
who fell into the trap.

The “noise _less_ ly” in the third admonition also gave much trouble,
and various quaint solutions were suggested, as, for instance,
“leisurely” and “sparingly.”

These two solutions, it should be noted, were generally associated with
the particular kind of soup indicated in the puzzle:—

“A well-bred girl always eats and drinks sparingly (or, leisurely) not
even excepting mock-turtle soup.”

It would not have occurred to us that active greediness in the presence
of that particular delicacy was sufficiently usual to call for rebuke.
Most unhappily, the fault we do indicate is quite as common as it is
unpleasant.

The _die_ in the fourth admonition was generally identified; but a few
solvers could make nothing of it excepting weight. A weight naturally
suggests a balance, and accordingly we learn that “A well-bred girl
always refrains from balancing articles of weight during meals.” We
believe she does, though experiments of a kindred nature with the
lighter articles at hand are not wholly unknown to us. They seldom
prove much, excepting the clumsiness of the experimenter, and they do
not conduce to that repose which is the essence of refinement.

One would have thought that the fifth sentence was simplicity itself;
but many solvers wrote “speaks” instead of “talks.” It must have
required a violent effort of imagination to convert the depicted stalks
into “sspeaks”!

In the solutions of the last sentence “rough” continually appeared
instead of “striking.” It could not be regarded as a satisfactory
interpretation of the picture which is obviously T _striking_ M. One
most interesting reading of the sentence deserves to be recorded—

“A well-bred girl always remembers that boys’ manners are bad manners”!

Truly there are many girls whose conduct towards their brothers
seems to be based upon some such theory as this. They are not the
most pleasing type of maidens, and as to our opinion of their “good
breeding,” let us add an eighth admonition—

“A well-bred girl never nags.”




SHEILA.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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


CHAPTER II.

UNCLE TOM.

He came from the darkness without into the warmth and brightness of
the hall, and threw back his heavy Inverness cape, revealing a square,
bearded face, a broad, well-knit figure, and a pair of shrewd and not
unkindly brown eyes.

“You are our Uncle Tom,” said Oscar, going forward to meet him. “We are
very glad to see you. It is kind of you to come.”

“Well, well, boy, duty is duty all the world over. I would have come
a fortnight ago, but it was impossible. No disrespect meant to your
father, you understand. So you are poor Maud’s children, are you? We
always called her ‘poor Maud’ at home, though I scarcely know why. She
was happy enough, I know, but she seemed like one dead to us somehow.
You are a bit like what she was as a girl, I can see. Perhaps the
sister favours her more,” and he looked across at Sheila, who now came
forward with outstretched hand.

“How do you do, Uncle Tom? I hope you are not very cold. It has been
quite warm till yesterday, and then the cold came back. We are very
glad to see you,” and Sheila held up her face for the kiss of the
strange uncle.

“Thank you, my dear. I hope we shall be good friends. Oh, I am too
seasoned a traveller to mind cold or darkness or anything like that.
No, you are not so like your mother as the boy. I am sorry for that.
John and I rather set our hearts on having another little Maud back
again. Are you called after your mother, my dear?”

“No, my name is Sheila. I was called after my grandmother,” answered
the girl, and her uncle dropped her hand, saying—

“Ah, I am sorry for that! Somehow we had got into the way of calling
you little Maud. I suppose we knew the right name; but none of us
remembered it.”

Sheila felt a little damped; she hardly knew why. Oscar took the guest
to his room, and he shortly returned without having made any attempt
to dress himself for dinner, and his apology for the omission was of
the briefest, as though he considered the matter quite immaterial. He
was not at all a bad-looking man, though there was something in his
appearance different from what the girl had been used to in the life
of her secluded home. In his travelling clothes he certainly looked a
good deal rougher than those friends of her father who sometimes used
to drop in for lunch or dinner; and his voice was louder than theirs;
and there was a little indescribable accent about his speech, which
suggested a lack of polish if not of education. But there was no fault
to be found with his deportment, and he was rather interesting in
his talk at dinner. He described to Oscar some of the new processes
in the works, and in particular how they were utilising electricity
for lighting their buildings and driving some of the engines. And
Oscar’s rather keen and intelligent interest in this made a visible and
favourable impression upon their new relation.

Sheila did not sufficiently understand the matter to be much
interested; but she studied her uncle’s face, and decided that she
should like him, although she thought she might stand a little in awe
of him too. She fancied he could be pretty stern if he were angry, and
that though a just man, he would be a rather exacting one, and would
allow no loitering or shirking in any place where he was master.

She was left rather long alone in the drawing-room after she had left
her brother and uncle together; but when they came to her, she thought
that Oscar looked pleased and animated, whilst her uncle’s face wore a
quietly satisfied expression.

He came and sat down beside her and looked her all over with an air of
taking her measure, which half amused and half vexed her.

“Yes, you will do very well up at the big house. It will suit you, and
you will suit it. We are not fine enough for you in River Street; but
you will find a good setting in Cossart Place.”

“But I would rather go with Oscar, Uncle Tom, if I might,” said Sheila,
with a coaxing note in her voice.

“Ah, so you think now; but you might change your mind if you were to
see the two houses. You’ve not been used to live in a street; and
besides we haven’t too much room to spare. But they will make you quite
comfortable at Cossart Place; and besides you are specially wanted up
there to be a companion for poor Effie.”

“Who is Effie?” asked Sheila, half ashamed that she did not even know
the names of her cousins. Her mother had now and then spoken vaguely of
these relatives; but Sheila had not felt any keen interest, and if ever
she had heard of them individually, it was all forgotten long ago; and
for the last five years she had almost ceased to remember the existence
of her mother’s kindred.

“She is the only child my poor brother has reared out of a fine young
family of six,” answered the uncle gravely. “I can’t think what came
to all the young ones. Whilst mine grew and throve, his would begin
to pine away and dwindle when they got to be about twelve years
old—sometimes before. Their mother has always been rather a delicate
woman to be sure; but there doesn’t seem enough in that to account for
it. Anyway that’s how they all went, and they buried them one after the
other. All but Effie, the youngest, and she’s grown up a fairly healthy
girl till the last year or two; and now she seems delicate, and you can
guess how they feel about her.”

Sheila was interested at once in the story of these little dead
children, and of the cousin who had lived to grow up.

“How old is Effie now?”

“Twenty-two, but you wouldn’t think it. She seems a good bit younger;
she’s been made a baby of, you see. They are anxious to have a
companion for her to keep her amused, and take care of her in her walks
and drives and all that kind of thing. My girls go up as often as
they can; but that isn’t the same thing as being always in the house.
Directly we heard about your loss, and that you would have to leave
your present home, we all said that it would be a fine thing for Effie
to have a cousin to be a sister and playfellow.”

“Perhaps she won’t like it so much herself,” said Sheila, with a little
upward glance through her long eye-lashes. “People don’t always like a
new sister thrust down their throats. I’m not sure that I should have
liked it myself; though papa used sometimes to say that he wished I had
one.”

“Effie is a bit spoiled, I won’t deny that,” answered Uncle Tom in his
straightforward fashion. “What could you expect after such a family
history? She is not always the easiest person to please or amuse; but
you will be patient with her, I daresay, my dear, and try to do her
good.”

Sheila was just a little taken aback. She had always been the petted
darling at home. It seemed rather a turning of the tables to expect her
to study the caprices and whims of another spoilt child. Sheila knew
that people called her that sometimes. There had been moments in her
life when it had come over her with a certain sense of uneasiness that
it might be true. But it was very pleasant, and she had a sunny, happy
temperament. She was seldom vexed or angry even if things did not go
quite right, and she had heard people say of her that she was “unspoilt
in spite of spoiling,” so she had got into the way of thinking that it
had not hurt her to be an only daughter, ruling the house beneath the
mild sway of an indulgent father.

But that was a very different thing from being expected to play the
part of companion and sister to a cousin in uncertain health, who
appeared to have had everything her own way all her life.

“What is the matter with Effie, Uncle Tom?”

“Well, my dear, I am not quite sure what it is. Sometimes I think she
might be less ailing if there were less fuss about her symptoms. She
was a lively little puss enough till about two years ago, and then she
began with asthma, and got thin, and had a cough, and ever since then
there has been a regular panic about her—doctors by the dozen, and new
prescriptions every month. It’s enough to make any girl fanciful; but
the poor child does have bad bouts sometimes—there’s no mistaking that.
We strong folks must not be too hard on the ailing ones. Perhaps we
should have our fads and fancies too if we were in their shoes. When I
heard about what would have to happen here, I said to my brother, ‘The
best thing in the world for Effie will be to have her cousin to be a
sister and companion for her.’”

“And what did Effie say to it?” asked Sheila.

“Well, I never asked. Effie is a bit what nurses call contrary. She
doesn’t always take kindly to what is settled for her; but she has a
good heart at bottom. You will get on with her all right enough. Raby
and Ray always say that her bark is worse than her bite.”

“Who are Raby and Ray?” asked Sheila, who felt the subject of Effie to
be a little discouraging.

“Why, my two girls, to be sure. Rebecca and Rachel are their right
names; but that’s what they get called at home. Lydia is married, and
so is my eldest boy, Tom. He went off to Australia, and is doing well.
But we have four at home still—the two girls and two boys, North and
Cyril. North (he was called after his mother’s family name) is my right
hand at the works. He’s a good steady fellow is North, and works hard.
Cyril is the fine gentleman of the family. Nothing would serve him but
a university education. He has been at Cambridge, and took his degree
at Christmas. He can’t quite make up his mind now between the Church
and the Bar. He’s having a spell at home to think about it. You’ll get
on with Cyril, you two; he’s quite your style, you’ll see.”

Mr. Tom Cossart spoke with evident pride of this son. Oscar and Sheila
were both interested in hearing of their cousins and the home that
awaited them in Isingford. Sheila saw that there was no chance of
getting taken in at Uncle Tom’s with Oscar. Everything had plainly been
settled with a view to her being companion and sister to Effie. She
tried to think it would be pleasant to have a sister, and consoled
herself with the promise that Oscar should come and see her regularly
on Saturdays, and perhaps stay for the Sunday too. It was plain that
the Cossarts meant to be kind to them, although they intended to
arrange their lives for them in their own fashion.

The days which followed were very busy and rather sorrowful. It was one
long good-bye to familiar persons and possessions.

The more closely Mr. Cholmondeley’s affairs were looked into, the less
satisfactory they proved to be; and it was soon evident that almost
everything would have to be sold before all the claims upon the estate
could be cleared off.

Mr. Tom Cossart strove to avoid making severe remarks upon the
shiftless methods of the dead man; but Oscar felt his disapproval, and
could not be blind himself to the selfishness of the long course of
indolent procrastination which had marked his father’s rule. The son
and daughter would have been left almost penniless had it not been for
the small fortune of their mother; and that was a mere pittance to the
son and daughter reared in every luxury. The girl and boy were allowed
to select such things as they specially treasured from the plenishings
of the house; but the bulk must go to the hammer.

Everything was being wound up as quickly as possible; and Sheila soon
began to wish it were all over. It was so trying and sorrowful; and
she could not bear to see her uncle’s grim face as he looked about him
and made arrangements. She knew he was feeling how hard it was that a
fine property had been allowed to go to rack and ruin for want of a
strong hand on the reins, and a managing and unselfish heart to dictate
reforms and retrenchment in times of depression.

Sheila was not one who attached herself very greatly to inanimate
objects; but she was devoted to her live pets. And her uncle found her
in tears in the stable once, with her arms about the neck of her little
mare Shamrock, who had been broken on the place, and had carried her
young mistress ever since she had been a colt. She was quite young
still, and a very pretty creature. The thought of parting from her was
heartbreaking to Sheila.

“I would almost rather she was shot, Uncle Tom,” she said, with a
little sob in her voice. “I can’t bear to think what may become of her.
She will have a good home, I daresay, whilst she is young and handsome;
but when she grows old she may be so badly treated. I can’t bear to
think of it!”

“Tut, tut, my dear, don’t cry! Why, I don’t see why you and your horse
shouldn’t go together. There is plenty of room at Cossart Place; and it
would do Effie a world of good to put her on horseback. We’re not much
of riders ourselves, we Cossarts; but Effie did have a pony once. She
would take to it again. There, there, my dear, don’t smother me. You
shall have your horse right enough. I’ll make that all square here,
and with your uncle and aunt yonder.”

“Oh, Uncle Tom, you’re a darling!” cried Sheila in her impulsive way
with her arms about his neck; and though Mr. Tom Cossart had probably
never been called a darling since his babyhood, and was not at all used
to being hugged, he found it amazingly pleasant to be so treated by his
pretty little niece. Not that Sheila was really little; but she seemed
so from her childlike appealing ways; and her uncle had slipped into
the way of calling her “Baby,” which from him she did not mind a bit.

It was almost a relief at last both to Oscar and Sheila to say their
final farewells, and feel they had left the old life behind them. As
the train bore them away from the familiar country in which they had
been born and brought up, Sheila was able to dry her wet eyes and look
at her uncle with a brave little smile.

“I’m not going to cry any more, Uncle Tom,” she said; “I’m going to
try and be happy and useful and good. I’ve made lots and lots of good
resolutions. Don’t you think it’s a good plan when one is beginning a
different sort of life? And it’s so nice of you to take me in at your
house for a few days—just till I get used to being away! It won’t seem
quite so strange if I am with you and Oscar for a little while.”

“Yes, yes, my dear; you shall stay with us the first night or two; and
we shall always be pleased to see you down in River Street whenever you
have a mind to come. But you’ll like Cossart Place when you get there.
It’s a fine house, and has been made a good deal finer by my brother.
It used to be called The Grange, and a lot of it is quite old and
rambling and queer; but the new wing has made a different place of it,
and it’s got a new name too. Very few people call it The Grange now.”

“I think the old name is nicer than the new,” said Sheila boldly, “and
I like old houses better than new ones. I hope they will give me a room
in the old part. I shall ask Aunt Cossart for one. And I shall call the
house The Grange.”

Uncle Tom laughed and muttered something about “a wilful young puss,”
but Sheila laughed and shook her head at him. She was not a bit afraid
of her uncle now, though she still felt that she would not like to
arouse his displeasure.

He presently folded up his paper and put his head out of the window.

“We are getting very near now. That is the river which runs through the
works a little farther on. You will see the chimneys of the town very
soon. It looks a dirty sort of place as we come in by rail; but you’ll
not find it such a bad one to live in.”

Sheila’s heart beat rather fast as she looked out over the level flats
dotted with houses. It was not pretty; but it was the new home, and on
that account it was interesting—even exciting.

“I mean to like everything!” she said to herself bravely.

(_To be continued._)




ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.


MEDICAL.

A. J. PATTISON.—There is no drug known which will reduce corpulency
without harm. Very few drugs indeed influence obesity at all, and the
few drugs which do have an influence cannot be taken with safety.
Look at the drug you suggest, for instance; bromide of ammonium is
an exceedingly powerful drug. It has no influence whatever upon
the absorption of fat, save that which results from its depressing
effects upon the organism. Even if it did cure corpulency, it would be
inadvisable to take it, for, however annoying obesity may be, it is
nothing compared with the condition which arises from taking bromide
habitually. Have nothing whatever to do with drugs, they will only do
you harm. It is by dieting and exercise that obesity must be kept in
check.

A WINTER SUFFERER.—A few weeks ago we gave a long answer about
chilblains. The remedy you suggest, hazeline, is an exceedingly useful
application to unbroken chilblains, especially in those cases where
chilblains develop in persons in whom the circulation is perfect. It is
less useful for chilblains connected with anæmia or feeble circulation.
It should not be used as a dressing for broken chilblains.

CLAIRETTE.—We will give the treatment of “relaxed throats” in full as
we have not given advice on this subject lately. Avoid talking too
much. Avoid highly-spiced food, cayenne pepper, sauces, pickles, etc.
Do not take very hot or very cold food, nor boiling soups, nor tea, nor
ices, nor iced drinks. Avoid draughts as far as you can. Never sleep
with your mouth open. Do you breathe through your nose? If you do not,
you must have your nose seen to. Mouth breathing is the commonest cause
of catarrh, and relaxed throat is only a mild form of chronic catarrh.
The best applications for the throat are a two per cent. solution of
alum in glycerine and water, and a one-in-eight solution of menthol
in paraleine. These may be used either as paints applied with a brush
to the throat, or as a spray with an atomiser. Gargling is no good
whatever, for in this process none of the solution can get further
back than the tonsils. An astringent lozenge, such as the rhatany and
black currant, or the compound liquorice lozenge, is very useful,
and will relieve the cough and soreness, and diminish and relax the
expectoration.

A MARTYR TO DYSPEPSIA.—Fruits vary very greatly in the ease with which
they are digested. Taken as a whole, uncooked fruits are difficult to
digest, and should only be taken by dyspeptics in moderation. The most
digestible of fruits are grapes, especially the yellowish-green ones.
It is hardly necessary to tell you that you must be careful not to
swallow either the seeds or the skins. Apples and pears are fairly easy
to digest, but of course they must be peeled and cored. Raspberries,
mulberries, blackberries, currants, and gooseberries are also fairly
digestible if they are fresh. Perhaps if these fruits did not contain
seeds they would be very digestible. Stone fruit is difficult to
digest. Melons, pineapples, meddlers and wall-fruit rarely agree with
dyspeptics. Strawberries agree well with some persons; in others the
first dose of strawberries in the year is followed either by symptoms
resembling mild typhoid, or else by a peculiar nettle-rash. Every
summer we have quite an epidemic of nettle-rash due to strawberries.
Nuts should never be taken by dyspeptics. Oranges and lemons are
digested easily by most persons. Fruit is undoubtedly more wholesome
and less liable to disagree if it is cooked: but some persons cannot
bear the flavour of cooked fruit. Dried fruits are very indigestible,
for they are dry and hard and impregnated with sugar. Jams and
marmalade are very good, and may be partaken of by most dyspeptics.

LYDIA.—The chief sulphur waters are those of Harrowgate and
Strathpeffer in this country, and Aix-la-Chapelle, Kissingen, Enghien,
Bonnes Barèges, Cauterets, and Challes abroad. Of these Harrowgate
and Aix-la-Chapelle are the most popular and the most generally
recommended. There are “baleanologists” who think that each and every
mineral spring has special virtue of its own; but to the ordinary
physician the natural waters are arranged in groups, of which the
various constituents are much alike. For most things one sulphur-water
is as good as another, but do not expect any of them to do what it is
advertised to do.

EMILY CAVE.—Certainly, if you are healthy and like gymnastics, by all
means join a gymnasium. But don’t overdo it and tire yourself out.
Remember that at your age you must start very gradually, and beware of
overstraining yourself.

AN ITALIAN GIRL.—Obviously it is to your parents that you should go for
advice. If you lay your troubles before them, they will counsel you. It
is impossible for us to help you in the matter. We advise you to read
the article on “Blushing and Nervousness,” which we published a short
time back.


STUDY AND STUDIO.

E. V. O.—1. You must not be disappointed when we tell you that it is a
very usual thing for friends and relations to be favourably impressed
by the poetry composed by younger members of the family, and to hope
for their future literary success; but the power of stringing rhymes
together is also very usual, and we cannot encourage you by any glowing
prophecy. Do not however suppose that we dissuade you from writing
in leisure moments for your own pleasure. “Home” and “alone” do not
rhyme.—2. Would you like to take up the study of some language, _e.g._,
Italian and its literature? or Greek? We suggest a language as you
say you do not care for music, drawing, or painting. You might take
lessons in wood-carving; or learn cookery as a fine art. There is
always abundant opportunity for those who are willing to work among the
poor. To be eighteen, and have all your time on your hands, is a great
responsibility! For opportunities of technical education, write to the
secretary, Technical Education Board, St. Martin’s Lane, W.C. If we
knew your character and capacity, we could of course advise you more
definitely.

JULIET and E. M. P.—“The Bishop and the Caterpillar” first appeared in
a number of the “_Boy’s Own Paper_.” If you write to the _Boy’s Own
Paper_ Office, 56, Paternoster Row, enclosing 6d., and 2d. postage, you
will doubtless be able to obtain it. It is also to be found in Alfred
Miles’ _Platform Reciter_, part 1. E. M. P.’s handwriting would be
improved by more care and regularity.

S. B.—Many thanks for your amusing _jeu d’esprit_ on the varying styles
of punctuation.

E. W. H.—Browning and Tennyson are most emphatically not “minor poets.”
Some consider Wordsworth as greater than either. Scott, as a poet,
would rank below these three. It is a difficult matter to appraise
poets exactly, as you suggest, but the work of Wordsworth, Browning,
and Tennyson stands in the foremost rank of English literature.

E. M. M.—1. You cannot certainly “take lessons from the Royal Academy
or College without entering.” To take lessons is to “enter.” But you
can be examined at a local centre by the Associated Board of both
institutions. The cost of training at the Royal Academy of Music is
£11 11s. per term, with an entrance fee of £5 5s. The fee at the Royal
College is £40 a year.—2. Only two questions, please. Your age would
be all right. Apply to the Secretary of either institution for fuller
details.

BLUEBIRD.—There are numerous collections of temperance recitations.
“The Geese” is a favourite recitation, but requires two characters. A
“Reciter” of Alfred H. Miles’ series (6d. each) would probably suit
you. Inquire at any bookseller’s.

ALOFA.—1. Your verses are perhaps a little above the average of those
sent to us for criticism. It is pleasant to see the beauties—too seldom
appreciated—of our suburban common-land made the subject of a poem. One
line is faulty—

    “Shall fill all the future with undying perfume.”

where, as you will observe, a forced emphasis on “un” must be used to
make the line scan. But for this error, we should say that verse—the
second—was the best. Perhaps the first now deserves most praise.—2. We
can hardly encourage you to persevere in writing “realistic fiction”
without seeing a specimen of your work, but from your poem, and your
pleasant letter, we should judge you had some talent.

GEORGINA.—We presume that yours are the poems signed “M. D. A.” In
the great accumulation of MSS., it is a help to us if the same name
or pseudonym marks both letter and manuscript. There is much that is
defective in the form of these two poems; but the idea embodied in both
is striking. We should advise you to study the laws of poetic form, and
then perhaps try to express these ideas in a more finished way.

FIDELIA.—We are much interested by your letter, and applaud your
desire for self-improvement. We think the series of articles now
appearing in the GIRL’S OWN PAPER by Mrs. Watson on “Self-Culture for
Girls” may help you. You are wise in supposing that if you indulge in
desultory reading alone, it will spoil your taste for solid reading,
and interfere with your power of concentration. At the same time you
must remember the old proverb about “all work and no play.” We should
recommend you to begin by reading one of Scott’s historical novels,
_e.g._, _Ivanhoe_; or _The Cloister and the Hearth_, by Charles Reade;
or, better still, Kingsley’s _Heroes_, and then follow on the line of
study suggested if it appeals to your taste. But we think you are under
a misapprehension as to the expense involved in joining the National
Home Reading Union. Apply, at any rate, for full particulars to the
Secretary, Miss Mondy, Surrey House, Victoria Embankment, London.—2.
Your letter is well composed, and your writing is decidedly good.


GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.

SAMARITAN (_Art and Designing_).—To pursue any branch of artistic
design successfully, you would need to give all your time to it.
And we are obliged to admit that, outside the chief centres of
artistic production, it is not easy for a draughtsman or woman to
find employment. Perhaps in your own town there may be some firm of
lithographic printers. In that case, it would be well to inquire
what kind of work the firm could use, and then try to supply the
class of design needed. Some artists in London (including one or two
ladies of talent) combine such work as the designing of book-covers,
illustrations, head and tailpieces, initial letters, etc., with
the drawing of picture-posters. Nor is this work confined to the
Metropolis. A gifted artist in Liverpool has designed beautiful
wall-posters for the announcement of picture exhibitions, and he has
not even scorned other kinds of decorative advertising. Does not this
give you an idea? Might not you at least endeavour to do something of
this sort in your own part of England? Find out who are the colour
printers who produce the large fashion-plate figures which probably
cover the hoardings in your own locality in order to announce the
attractions of the leading draper. See whether you cannot do something
that is prettier and equally effective, and then submit your specimen
to these printers. But do not forget that you must draw and paint in a
very broad style, and use the fewest possible colours. Content yourself
with red, black, and a neutral or flesh tint, or some such combination.
If you prefer to attempt drawings on a smaller scale, you could design
Christmas cards, menus, almanacks, and the like. Messrs. Raphael Tuck
and Sons, 72, Coleman Street, London, E.C., are among the largest
manufacturers of things of this kind. Ideas, however, rather than
coloured pictures are what they require.

WOULD-BE TRAVELLER (_Nursing in India or Egypt_).—There is no “hospital
in London or Dublin where probationers are trained for nursing in Egypt
or India.” The best course for a nurse to pursue who wishes eventually
to obtain an engagement for foreign service is to enter one of the
large London hospitals as a probationer, and afterwards apply to enter
the Army Nursing Service, and spend a year or two at Netley. The rules
of the India Office, however, only stipulate that a nurse must have
had at least three years’ preliminary training and service combined in
a hospital in which adult male patients receive medical and surgical
treatment, and in which a staff of nursing sisters is maintained.
Your best plan at the present time would be to seek admission as a
probationer to the London Hospital, St. Thomas’s, or St. Bartholomew’s.

LOUISE (_General Hospital for Training_).—The London, St. Thomas’s,
Guy’s, St. Bartholomew’s, and King’s College Hospitals are among the
best hospitals in the Metropolis for a nurse to enter who desires
general training. Regular probationers (that is to say, those who do
not pay for training) must be between 25 and 35 years of age, and are
trained for two years on the agreement that they remain in the service
of the hospital for a third year. They receive a salary of £12 for the
first year, and £20 for the second. Paying probationers pay a guinea a
week for training, and should be between 22 and 40 years of age. The
rules in the other hospitals mentioned differ in detail, but resemble
these in general principle. Most of the good London hospitals, however,
are so besieged with would-be probationers that we often think a girl
is wise who enters a first-rate infirmary by preference. The Birmingham
Infirmary and the Brownlow Hill Infirmary, Liverpool, are both most
excellent, and several London Infirmaries, notably those in Chelsea and
St. Marylebone, are much to be recommended.

A CONSTANT READER (_Domestic Help_).—This is a matter concerning which
you would need the assistance of some good registry office. It is
outside the scope of our correspondence columns.

STENOGRAPHER.—We fear you may have a struggle to support your husband
and son in this country by your own unaided exertions as shorthand
writer and typist. Still, we believe it might be done if you are very
efficient and ready to undertake work at all times and seasons, and to
do it often under conditions of great pressure. If at first you could
manage to join a lady who already has an office, and act as her chief
assistant, we think that might be wisest, as we assume that you have
no means of setting up an office of your own. You ought to stipulate
for a fixed salary and a certain percentage on the business done by
the office. If you simply went out to work on your own account, you
might look to receive a guinea a day for first-rate verbatim reporting
of meetings, etc.—but orders of this kind are only occasional—or
from £1 10s. to £2 a week if you were competent to take an important
secretarial post to a society. Merely as a stenographer and typist you
would probably not receive so much. Altogether we fear you will have a
hard struggle to make a living for three persons.


MISCELLANEOUS.

E. M. B.—What you really mean are “cheese straws,” and if you had
looked for them by that name, you would have found them, we are sure.
They are made as follows:—2 oz. of butter, 2 oz. of flour, 2 oz. of
parmesan cheese, 1 oz. of cheddar cheese, 1 egg, salt, red pepper. Put
the flour into a bowl, and mix with it the salt and pepper, the grated
cheese, and the butter, and, with the yolk of the egg, make into a
smooth paste, rather stiff. Then roll it out into a strip of about five
inches long, and about an eighth of an inch thick. Cut into strips of
equal sizes, and also some rounds for rings. Grease a tin and put them
on it, and bake in a hot oven for ten minutes till of a pale brown.
To send to table, put the straws through the rings like a bundle of
sticks, and hand round in a silver dish.

FLORA.—As we are quite old-fashioned people, we should say, “Never
marry without your mother’s consent,” and certainly do not worry
yourself about matrimony as long as you write so dreadful a hand and
distribute your capital letters so recklessly. Of course, marriage is
an important subject, but we can dispense with capital letters when we
inquire At What Age We May Marry Without our Mother’s Consent. In point
of fact, dear foolish Flora, you are of age at twenty-one, and, in a
restricted sense, are at liberty to do all sorts of silly things, which
we hope you will avoid doing. As a Christian, you are only free in so
far as you honour your parents.

SUSAN.—There is a demand for capable women at Vancouver (Canada) at
good wages, and laundresses are specially wanted. “Intermediate class”
fare to Halifax amounts to £7, and other emigrants to £5 only. There
are lodging-homes at Montreal, Winnipeg, and Vancouver. Mothers’ helps
find situations in the North-West. Women starting from London assemble
at 53, Horseferry Road, Westminster, the night before embarkation. If
starting from Liverpool, they must sleep at Bromborough House, 10,
Great George Square, where they will be met and conducted on board
ship. Women desiring to emigrate should make application to Miss
Bromfield, Friary Cottage, Winchester, or to Miss Lefroy, Imperial
Institute, London, S.W., so as to obtain “protected emigration.” The
fares for South Africa, Rhodesia, and New Zealand, are more expensive.
Lady nurses, members of the Church of England, having had three years’
training, would find engagements at the Kimberley Nurses’ Home, at a
salary of £60 per annum, and all found. Those holding “L. O. S.” are
preferred.

ROSE.—1. You should read our present series of articles on “Etiquette,”
by Lady William Lennox.—2. We fear that the present is by no means
a good time for selling pictures of any kind. All artists seem to
complain of difficulties in that way.

LEARNER.—“Buddhism” can scarcely be called a “religion,” since it
does not acknowledge a Deity, although paying divine honours to their
supreme teacher and his effigies. The system was founded about 2,500
years ago by Guatama Buddha, reputed by his followers to have been
the son of Sudhodana, King of Kapilawastu, a region at the foot of
the mountains of Nepal, Central India. The name Guatama was given to
distinguish the great teacher, as his family belonged to the chain of
the Guatamas. Sidhartha was his real name, and “the Buddha,” or “the
Enlightened,” his self-assumed title. He set out on a proselytising
mission to Benares, the sacred city of the Brahmins, and so successful
was he, that by the third century B.C. his tenets became the so-called
religion of India. Ceylon was the first new country that accepted his
teaching, and then followed Siam, Burmah, and China, the latter mission
dating about 100 years B.C. Buddhists have a sacred book called the
_Tripitika_ (or three baskets), the first, or _Sutras_, containing the
discourses of Buddha, recorded from memory after his death; the second,
or _Vinaya_, having reference to discipline and morality; the third,
the _Abhidarma_, or metaphysics. Their moral code is very pure, but
always remember they deny the existence of a God.

QUEENIE DESMOND.—The word mandoline is thought to be derived from the
Latin _pandora_, or the Greek _pandoura_, from Pan. But we must go
further back for the origin of all instruments of the guitar class,
which are said to owe their beginnings to the ancient viol, which was a
six-stringed guitar. This instrument is called a psaltery in the Bible;
and you will find in Smith’s _Bible Dictionary_ an account of them.
The words psaltery, or sautry, lute and viol, are all often found in
the old English poets, and were all different, though alike. The first
originals of the mandoline lie, probably, in the psaltery.

BAZAAR (1) would find the quotations she needs for her book in any
dictionary of quotations. We could not undertake so long a search.—2.
For painting in oils on satin there needs no preparation, but in both
cases, for either oils or water colours, the satin must be _very
tightly and evenly stretched_ on a drawing-board, or frame for water
colours. Take one ounce of Nelson’s gelatine, and cover with cold water
for an hour; pour off the cold water, and put a pint of boiling water
to the gelatine, stir and dissolve quickly; then strain through muslin,
and while still hot apply to the satin with a clean sponge. Go over the
_whole surface_, making it not too wet, but rubbing it in. Rub with a
piece of clean silk, and dry, stretched as you have placed it.

ESSEX and LOVER OF “G. O. P.”—We can obtain cross-stitch patterns for
working in Weldon’s _Work Series_, an excellent paper of the kind,
issued monthly, price twopence, at any newsvendor’s.

A WELSH GIRL.—We should advise you to put glass over the panels. That
would look the best, and be the most reliable preserver in such a
position.

LADY BETTY.—We do not know of anything better, nor more easy to obtain,
than Weldon’s _Practical Work Series_, price twopence a number, at any
stationer’s.




FOREIGN AWARDS.

AN IDEAL GARDEN.


_Prize Winners (Half-a-Guinea Each)._

    Cecilia Nicolay, c/o Messrs. John and Cleary, High Street,
    Freemantle, W. Australia.

    Elsie M. Wylie, The Manse, Mintaro, S. Australia.


_Very Highly Commended._

Mrs. H. Andrew (Canada), M. D. Browne (India), Nellie M. Daft
(Portugal), Ethel M. Danford (Canada), Elsie V. Davies, Lillian Dobson,
John A. Fitzmaurice (Australia), L. Hill (Argentine), Anna J. Hood
(France), Gertrude Hunt (New Zealand), Harry John (India), Elizabeth
Lang (France), Margherita P. Martinetti (Italy), Mrs. G. Marrett
(India), Gertrude E. Moore (New Zealand), Beatrice and Hilda D’Rozario
(India), Edith Wassell, Geo. Waterstrom (Australia).

       *       *       *       *       *

No solution has been mentioned which was not verbally perfect. The
prize solutions were only discovered to be better than many others
after the most minute examination.

The defects which marked the difference between the two groups were, a
failure to divide the lines into verses, as shown in the puzzle, the
introduction of a hyphen into noonday, the writing of O! for Oh! in the
last verse, the omission of the note of exclamation, and, in one case
only, the indentation of line 9.

The two competitors who failed in none of these points reap the reward
of their carefulness. Half-a-guinea does not go far in Australia,
as we know by experience, otherwise we would advise them not to be
extravagant with their newly-gotten wealth.




GENTLEMAN’S DRESS SHIRT PROTECTOR.


How often we are asked, “Do tell me of something I can make for a man?”
Well, here is a delightful pattern which comes to us from Sunderland.
Its severe simplicity is in accordance with nineteenth century evening
dress, and there is nothing about it that the most fastidious man could
object to. Fig. 1 gives the shape and measurements, and shows the white
quilted satin lining. It is best to buy the ready quilted material. The
right side is made of thick corded black silk, the edges are neatly
turned in and oversewn or slip-stitched, a button and loop is added,
and Fig. 2 shows the mode of wearing. We think these ought to sell
well at bazaars. A yard and an eighth each of lining and silk would
make six, and cost about five shillings. They certainly ought to sell
at half-a-crown each, which, considering the small amount of labour
involved, would give a big profit.

    “COUSIN LIL.”

[Illustration: _FIG 1_]

[Illustration: _FIG 2_]

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 455: resourses to resources—“resources of nature”.

Page 458: Boths to Both—“Both hearts”.

Page 463: breath to breathe—“Do you breathe”.

Page 463: recieve to receive—“They receive a”.

Page 463: current to currant—“black currant”.]






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1007. April 15, 1899, by Various

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