The Girl’s Own Paper

Drifting.—No waste of time is so lavish as that which is the result of drifting, and there is no way in which people squander it more. Thousands of good intentions are daily swamped and destroyed, simply by allowing the time to slip away unconsciously until it is too late.

Usefulness.—Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires, but according to our powers.

The Deepest Secret.—We shall have read the deepest secret of nature when we have read our own hearts.

“The object of education is the carrying out of God’s will for the individual; but the purpose of His will is hidden from us. The direction, only, in which we are to work is pointed out by the peculiar endowments of temper and of intellect in the child.”—Mrs. Sewell.

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By Mrs. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful Number,” etc.

That very afternoon we set to work, moved our belongings into mother’s room, and dragged up the carpet in our own room. Ann washed the boards for us, while we went off to the stores for the stain. We had to wait till the next morning before we could begin our staining, but it did not take us very long to finish. Ann advised us to let her rub it over with boiled oil, and it certainly looked far better afterwards. That good-natured girl spent her afternoon in unpicking our old carpet to find the brightest pieces to turn into mats.

“Don’t you go down on your knees, miss, to dust these boards,” she impressed upon us more than once. “Where I lived last they had a deal of stained floors, and we always put our soft brooms into a bag of linen and dusted them with that.”

The servants worked very hard, as we did also, so that by the time cook was ready for her new place we had “spring-cleaned” the house all through, staining the floors of the three bedrooms we were using, and putting away all superfluous glass and china, as well as some ornaments and nicknacks.

By cook’s advice we decided to arrange the work as nearly as possible as she and Ann had worked. I, who had all my mornings free, was to be the cook, while Cecilly, who had her music lessons to give, called herself “house-parlour-maid.” Of course, we were always ready to help each other in every detail, and I feel sure that servants would find their work much lighter and pleasanter if only they would work together. The variety even would make it pleasanter, at least, so Cecilly and I found.

It was rather an effort to turn out of bed at half-past six the first morning we were alone. I ran down in my dressing-gown and set light to the stove before I took my bath, so that when we were dressed the kettle was boiling, and we could have a cup of tea and some bread and butter before we began our duties. I stayed in the kitchen to prepare breakfast, while Cecilly went into the dining-room to sweep. I heard her making a great deal of noise, and when I was ready to help her, I could not help laughing at her preparations and efforts. She was scarlet and breathless with exertion, as she swept the carpet as if it were never to be swept again. She had moved every piece of furniture from its place that she could move, and would not believe that the heavy pieces were only moved out once a week on “turning out” days.

I took the broom from her and sent her for wood to light the fire, for the mornings were still chilly. Then we found the wood was damp, but we quickly dried it in the oven of the gas stove, and never afterwards did we forget to dry our wood directly we took it in.

We were just ready to ring the breakfast-bell when from upstairs came such a shouting from the boys, mingled with Jack’s voice, angry and stern, that we both ran out to see what was wrong, and to our dismay found water pouring down the staircase into the hall. We at last learnt that Phil and Bob, who had their bath in their bedroom, had, in order to be helpful, tried to carry it to the bath-room to empty, the result being they had overturned it on the landing. They were so sorry, and had been acting from kindness, not mischief, that we stopped Jack’s scoldings, and very soon we had sopped up the worst of the damage. Jack, however, insisted on their getting up as soon as we were down, so they could take their bath in the bath-room before he was ready for his.

Poor Jack! he did so hate our doing the work of the house, but Aunt Jane had taken him in hand and made him reasonable, and it was she who wrote to mother, telling her of our plan, and begging her to consent to our giving it a fair trial.

I cleared away the breakfast, while Cecilly ran up to air the bedrooms and beddings. Then together we washed up, and afterwards made the beds and tidied the bedrooms. Our house is a bright sunny one in West Hampstead, and the kitchen arrangements are all on the same floor as the living-rooms, which saved us many steps. One of Aunt Jane’s orders was, “Always have something hot for the boys’ dinner,” and she gave me a list of dishes I could prepare in the morning, and leave them to “cook for themselves.” The list was as follows.

Stewed Steak.—Put into your stew-pan a piece of dripping, two or three onions cut up, two or three carrots (according to size), lay your steak on the top of these, till all is a nice brown. Take all from the stew-pan and place in a brown jar (previously heated), add a few peppercorns, a pinch of spice, ginger, and three cloves, add sufficient hot water or stock to cover the meat, cover tightly, and leave in a cool oven for two or three hours. Before serving, strain off the gravy, thicken it with flour, heat to boiling in a saucepan. Put steak on dish and pour the gravy over. In preparing this dish our mistakes were—once we allowed it to cook too quickly, so that it was too hard; another time we cooked it too slowly, so that it was not done enough. We learnt that with all stews they must come to nearly boiling point, then put back just far enough to keep them from boiling.

Haricot Mutton.—Cook as above.

Steak Pudding, Steak Pie.—Beef steak answers perfectly for all these.

Canadian Steak Puddings.—Cut up two pounds of steak into a pie-dish; pepper and salt freely. Pour on water just to cover steak. Take two ounces of suet, shred very fine; the crumb of a small loaf rubbed through a sieve. Mix together, moisten with milk, add two eggs well beaten, pour over the steak, and bake for two or three hours. This was a great favourite.

Curries.—Aitch-bone of beef stewed in the same manner as the steak, but not removed from the pan it is first put into. This requires stewing from four to five hours. When possible use weak stock instead of water, as it makes nicer soup for the following day.

But I must go back to our first day’s experience. We had just finished tidying the house when the door bell rang, and when I ran to open the door, there stood dear Aunt Jane with a lovely bunch of flowers “to help poor Jack enjoy his first dinner without a waitress.” She readily accepted my invitation into the kitchen, and it was certainly by her kind advice we were able to manage as well as we have. “Do you work regularly and methodically,” was one of her maxims we endeavoured to follow, which has smoothed our way considerably. We made a plan of the daily work, turning out a room each day. On the first day Cecilly turned out our room while I prepared the dinner. In the afternoon I was due at my old lady’s, to whom I read for two hours, and to amuse her I told her of our plan. I saw she was greatly shocked, and I never was able to convince her we had succeeded satisfactorily. As I was hurrying home I overtook the two boys, one carrying a brown paper parcel, the other what looked like a broom-stick.

They refused to satisfy my curiosity concerning their packages until we reached home and Cecilly had joined us. Then they disclosed to our view a carpet-sweeper, and on our exclaiming our delight and demanding to know how they had managed to get such a treasure, it came out that the dear old things had parted with their most cherished possession, having sold their stamp collection to a schoolfellow.

“Now Cecilly needn’t get so hot, need she?” asked Phil, but, on Cecilly rushing to hug them, they both fled to their own room, refusing to listen to our thanks.

“Mother is right,” I said to Cecilly. “Hard times have their bright sides. We should never have known how sweet the boys really were if there had been no necessity for their sacrifice.”

Our chief saving has been in the preparation of our food and in doing away with the early dinner. Luckily we have both such very good appetites that, eating heartily as we did at breakfast and dinner, there was no need for us to prepare a midday meal. Our luncheon consisted of anything we had to spare from the larder, sometimes of bread and cheese only, although we always indulged in a cup of hot cocoa afterwards. In the days when cook was in charge of the cooking I had to give her a special order for breakfast, either sausages, bacon, or fish. But now that I was cooking we learned (of course from Aunt Jane as well as by experience) to make out of scraps plenty of suitable dishes. We found the following most liked by the boys:—

Breakfast Pies.—Mince through the machine any scraps the larder affords (ham, cold bacon, cold steak, pieces left in meat-pies—in fact, anything that is quite sweet and wholesome). Boil a cupful of Quaker Oats. Mix all together, add flavouring of Tarragon vinegar, pepper, and salt. Line patty-pans with pastry, fill with mixture, cover with pastry.

Beef Brawn.—Mince any pieces of cold meat, season well with pepper and salt. Boil some weak stock, with an onion, one or two cloves, and spice if liked. While boiling pour over gelatine (previously soaked). Mix all together and pour into a mould. To be eaten cold. Half an ounce of gelatine to a pint of water. Sufficient minced meat to nearly fill a pint measure.

Mulligatawny Pâté.—Mince or cut any pieces of cold meat very fine. Add equal quantity of boiled rice (boiled in stock when possible), add a teaspoonful of curry-powder. Line pie-dish with pastry. Put in mixture, cover with boiled rice, and bake.

Macaroni and Tomatoes.—Boil macaroni in stock, add any scraps of meat, two or three tomatoes cut in slices. Can be eaten hot, baked in pie-dish, or poured into a mould to be eaten cold. All these dishes can be prepared the day before, and only require heating up in the oven.

We always had stock by us, boiling down at once any bones that were in the house, and keeping all liquor that meat had been boiled in. Not being fat eaters we melted down for dripping all we did not consume, and I have often cut off the fat from a joint before cooking it to use as suet for puddings. If we had to buy suet, we bought Hugon’s; it is cheaper and saves much labour in chopping than ordinary suet. But my advice to every housekeeper is, never throw away any fat, for every piece can be utilised.

Unfortunately none of us are fond of what the boys call “pap” puddings, and we had some difficulty in getting rid of our stale bread till Aunt Jane advised us to dip the pieces into milk and crisp them in the oven for the cheese course. The ones that were not eaten at dinner we broke up, ground through the coffee mill, and kept in a tin for when we were cooking fish, rissole, or anything that requires breadcrumbs or raspings. We also used our stale bread in fruit puddings. Fill a pudding-basin, previously well greased, with pieces of bread. Boil any fruit, such as currants, blackberries, etc., and while hot pour over the bread till the basin is quite full. Place a saucer or small plate on the top, stand a heavy weight on it, and leave till the following day. To be turned out and eaten cold.

Half-pay Pudding.—¼ lb. suet, ¼ lb. currants, ¼ lb. raisins, ¼ lb. flour, ¼ lb. breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoonfuls dark treacle, ½ pint milk. Boil for three or four hours. The longer this pudding boils the better it is. Apple charlotte, rhubarb charlotte, and Manchester pudding also used up our stale bread. It had always been a difficulty when cook was with us to choose a pudding the boys would not call “pappy;” and now that every egg represented a penny to us the difficulty was greater, till it occurred to Cecilly that we might substitute cakes for ordinary puddings, and the result was most satisfactory. We could use dripping, of course; and after a friend told us of “Paisley Flour,” there seemed no end to a variety of nice and inexpensive sorts.

The boys delighted in Ginger-bread.—1½ lb. flour, 6 oz. dripping, 1 teaspoonful carbonate of soda, 2 tablespoonfuls “Paisley Flour,” ½ lb. dark treacle (or more), ¼ lb. dark sugar, 2 teaspoonfuls ginger and ground spice, 2 tablespoonfuls vinegar, ½ pint milk. Dissolve the soda in a little milk, mix dry ingredients together, add treacle slightly warmed. Then pour in the soda, add the vinegar to the rest of the milk, stir all thoroughly, and bake immediately.

Vinegar Cake.—6 oz. dripping, ½ lb. currants or sultanas, ½ lb. moist sugar, 1 teaspoonful carbonate of soda dissolved in milk, 1¼ lb. flour, 2 tablespoonfuls “Paisley Flour,” 2 tablespoonfuls vinegar to about ½ pint milk. To be mixed in the same way as the ginger-bread.

Scones with raisins, plain scones, cheese biscuits, were all favourites; but as these recipes can all be made from the recipe for scones given with each packet of “Paisley Flour,” I need not write them. In one of the books that had so annoyed poor Cecilly in her search for advice how to manage without servants the lady had found her greatest difficulty in the door-answering; but that, I can assure you, never troubled us. Our friends came as often to see us as when Ann, in her flying white streamers, answered their knocking—in fact, they came more frequently, for it was no unusual occurrence for us to have three or four willing helpers in the morning to assist us through our work, Cynthia Marriott being our most regular assistant. Never was there a merrier, more laughing set of servants than we were, nor were there more elaborately decorated pies and tarts ever made than those made for Jack’s dinner by the fairest hands in the kingdom. Sometimes I think we might have bored the boys by our domestic interests, had it not been for Aunt Jane impressing on us constantly the importance of making their home-life a social one. It was often a trouble to leave the kitchen just before serving up the dinner to change into an evening blouse; but we always did so for fear the boys would grow careless in their dress, and constantly our helpers in the morning would run in after dinner to help make the evenings as merry as when we had servants to answer the door. But the work was work, although we could play over it at times. There were many backaches and weary feet, many hot, depressing days when even the gas stove suffocated us with the heat as we stirred a saucepan or opened the oven door; but we bore it all bravely, as who would not, when she felt she was, at least, trying to give back health to a father, and such a father as ours?

(To be concluded.)

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It is now authoritatively declared by medical opinion that it is dangerous to moisten many postage stamps with the tongue. It may lead to cancer of the tongue and other serious complaints in the mouth or stomach; and the stamp margin paper should never be used to put over an open wound.

Meat baked in the oven is the cause of much indigestion.

Nothing makes a room look more untidy than blinds drawn up crooked, and faded flowers on the table. Cultivate a spirit of neatness in all the rooms, but especially those in which you receive your friends.

Loose sofa covers and spare blankets should be constantly inspected in summer, and periodically shaken, to prevent moths fastening on them.

Beds should never be placed against a wall except just at the top. If the side of a bed is against a wall, it cannot be properly made, nor can there be sufficient air moving around it for health.

It is well that one member of a family should keep a diary to record family and other events. These diaries prove valuable for reference in after years.

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The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—I was very sorry to hear that your holiday had commenced in such a disastrous manner; but you were quite justified in leaving the furnished house which you had taken for a month at the end of the first week, when you found that the drainage was in a defective condition.

It is all very well for the landlord to threaten Gerald with proceedings to recover his rent for the three weeks which you did not stay at his house. There is an implied condition in the letting of a furnished house that it shall be reasonably fit for habitation; if it is not fit, the tenant may leave without notice.

No one could possibly assert that a house whose drainage was out of order was fit for habitation; so that, if your landlord is ill-advised enough to bring an action against you, you need have no fear of the result. But I fancy that he is only trying it on, and will abandon his claim when he finds that you are determined to resist it.

It was fortunate for him that you did not stay on in his house and contract typhoid fever, or something of the kind. If one of you had done so, you might have taken action against the landlord for damages and compensation.

What I have just written only applies to the hire of a furnished house. The law on the letting of furnished lodgings is quite different. There is no implied warranty that the lodgings shall continue fit for habitation during the term.

I know of a case where a friend of mine took lodgings at the seaside for his wife and family, and while they were staying there one of the landlady’s children became ill with scarlet fever; but, as she did not wish to lose her lodgers, the landlady concealed the fact of her child’s having the fever from my friend. The consequence was that my friend’s wife and child also became stricken with the fever, and he was put to a lot of expense for medical attendance, nursing, etc. But he was unsuccessful in an action which he brought to recover such expenses as damages, because the jury found that the house was healthy at the time of the letting. And the judges of the Appeal Court laid down the axiom that there is no implied agreement in the letting of furnished lodgings that they shall continue fit for habitation.

If a landlady were to let out lodgings knowing that one of the inmates of her house was suffering from an infectious disease, I have no doubt that she would render herself liable to a claim for damages if one were subsequently brought against her; and it may give you, my dear Dorothy, some satisfaction to learn that she would certainly be liable to a criminal prosecution involving a heavy fine or imprisonment.

“Trespassers will be prosecuted” is a notice which one frequently sees in the country; but it is an empty threat. Provided you are careful to do no damage to the grass, you may trespass as much as you please. Very often you will find such notices stuck up in fields over which there is a right of way. In such cases the notice simply means that you should keep to the footpath and not trample down the grass. It has been said that it is no offence to take mushrooms, blackberries, primroses, or wild plants of any kind or to trespass to find them.

Of course this only applies to mushrooms which are growing wild; but it still applies even when such mushrooms may be a source of profit to the owner of the field, provided they are growing wild and not in a state of cultivation.

At the same time I ought to warn you that the farmers do not regard things in a purely legal light, and they generally manage to make themselves exceedingly unpleasant to the people whom they find trespassing over their lands. I am bound to say that personally I sympathise with the farmer to a certain extent.

The law does not regard professors of palmistry with a favourable eye; on the contrary, it is inclined to class them as “rogues and vagabonds,” although it is true that a prosecution of two professors of the art in Yorkshire was not upheld on appeal and the conviction was quashed. I do not think, however, that the followers of the art have much cause to congratulate themselves on this decision as, at any rate, the London magistrates have a very summary method of disposing of those who are brought before them charged with practising “certain subtle crafts, means and devices by way of palmistry, and imposing upon Her Majesty’s subjects.”

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

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

THE MANNERS OF A MISTRESS.

he little excitement in the street centred round the Marvels’ house. Two policemen were standing at its door, and an inspector with his note-book was just inside talking to somebody out of sight.

“I wonder if it is anything wrong about Jane Smith,” remarked Lucy.

“Perhaps the tipsy young carpenter has turned up there at last,” said Tom. While they watched, Lucy and Miss Latimer told Mr. Somerset the story of their midnight alarm.

“They’re all looking across here! They are coming over,” cried Hugh. He was right. In a moment a heavy official knock sounded on the hall door.

“I shall answer it myself,” said Lucy. “Clementina is busy, and, besides, the sight of all these legal functionaries would terrify her out of her wits.”

The others all followed in her train, Hugh clinging to his mother’s skirts.

“There has been something wrong over at Number 14, ma’am,” the policeman explained. “Their servant has run away with some property. We understand she was in your service before she entered Mrs. Marvel’s, and we want you to kindly answer a few questions about her—if you can.”

“I will tell you all I can,” returned Lucy.

“Thank you, ma’am. Was the girl Jane Smith long in your service?”

Lucy considered. “Only for about five months,” she said, “a little more I think.”

He made a note in his book.

“Where did you get her from, ma’am? Excuse me.”

“I got her through a registry office,” Lucy replied, naming it.

“Took her in a hurry, without any references perhaps, ma’am,” observed the inspector.

“Certainly not,” answered Lucy. “I went to her last employer,” and Lucy furnished her name and address. The man wrote them down.

“Character good then, I suppose?” was the next remark.

“The character was satisfactory, or I should not have taken her,” said Lucy.

“Can you be sure you got the girl whose character you received?” he asked. “You know there is such a thing as personation; and the name is a common one.”

“There is no mistake on that score,” Lucy replied. “Jane Smith herself opened the door to me when I went to inquire for her character.”

The man was writing again. “And may I ask why you parted from her?” he went on.

“She gave me notice herself because she knew she had displeased me. I had allowed her to receive a weekly visit from the young man to whom she was engaged, and then, without the least interval, or any intimation given to me, the man was changed!” Lucy was almost startled by the unshrinking directness of her words.

There was a little movement between the two policemen on the doorstep, and a sort of ejaculation from Tom in the rear. Lucy, looking aside from her questioner, recognised in one of his subordinates the policeman who had found Jane’s discarded lover in her area. He made a smiling salute, and said something in a low tone to his superior.

“I understand one of these men has since been found in your area in the night?” the inspector inquired.

“Yes,” said Lucy, “your man found him and removed him.”

“Have you any reason to think he was there for any nefarious purpose?” asked the inspector.

“No; he was quite tipsy,” said Lucy. “He did not know what he was doing. I thought it was only a mistake.”

“Are you sure he was quite tipsy?” urged the inspector.

“Your man and my friend said so, and I could see he could scarcely walk,” Lucy answered. “It was at my request only that your man did not take him in charge. I thought he was in trouble through being deserted by this girl.”

“There’s often more than meets the eye at the bottom of these here love affairs and troubles,” said the unromantic inspector; “it might have done that youth and other folks too some good to have had it all out in court. But there’s no saying. Even there such things can’t be always looked into as deep as they should be.”

He wrote in his book. His next question was—

“Did you tell Mrs. Marvel why you had been dissatisfied with this girl?”

“She never asked me,” answered Lucy. “She sought no character from me.”

The inspector half smiled and gave his head a knowing little wag. He closed his book. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all we need ask now. If any other point arises on which we think you may throw light, you’ll excuse our coming to you. We’re sorry to have had to disturb you, especially to-day.”

“You are only doing your duty,” said Lucy. “Good morning.” As she turned back into her little hall—Clementina’s rueful countenance, gleaming pale in the background—Lucy thought that this was for her a very mild disturbance indeed, as compared with the wreckage of last Christmas Day. It might indeed be otherwise with the Marvels? Yet Lucy could not avoid the reflection that they had, in a manner, brought this trouble on themselves.

The little dinner-party passed off very pleasantly. Clementina had done her part admirably, and everybody was resolutely talkative and bright. Even Lucy brought herself to say that perhaps it might be better still if Charlie arrived for New Year’s Day, since that would be an inauguration of a new order of things, while, socially considered, Christmas is rather a festival of the past.

After dinner in the little drawing-room, Hugh was the centre of all attention, as children always are at Christmas time. Games of the kind in which he could take largest share were the order of the day. In one of these Tom Black was dismissed from the apartment to wait outside till those within should summon him to rack his brains to discover “what their thought was like.” When they shut him out, they left him planted on a little table, which stood on the only half-lit landing. But when they opened the door to call him, he was not there!

“I believe he is so honest that he feared he might catch what we were saying, and he has gone down to his own room,” said Lucy. “Tom!” she cried. But as she did so she heard a sound of voices in the hall. Tom was there and Clementina was talking to him.

He answered, “Coming, coming!” and came running up. He dashed into the game with great spirit, but nevertheless seemed a little absent-minded, and proved so dense that he had to be told what he ought to have guessed, which was very unusual with Tom. After that, Lucy suggested that they would not begin another game till they had had tea, which was just coming in. The little service stood in readiness. Clementina had only to carry up the kettle and the tea-cakes. In this interval, Tom suddenly proposed to Mr. Somerset that they should take a few minutes’ turn in the street. “For a breath of fresh air,” he said.

The gentlemen did not stay out for quite half an hour. Hugh peeping from the window announced that he saw them walking up and down, talking. They nodded up to him, and they came in a few minutes afterwards. Lucy served them with cups of tea, and then all again went merrily till it was time for Lucy to take Hugh off to bed. She did not require to apologise to these friends for leaving them together while she discharged her happy maternal duty.

Mr. Somerset stood on the middle of the rug with his back to the fire. Miss Latimer settled herself in the easy-chair to resume the knitting which she had thrown down during the games.

“Miss Latimer,” said Mr. Somerset rather abruptly, “I don’t think you are a nervous woman.”

The old lady laughed, deftly shifting her needles.

“I don’t think so,” she answered.

“Because if we are to believe what Clementina says, some evil attention is being directed to this house, which can have no other aim but to annoy and terrify, perhaps with hope of robbery at last,” he explained.

Miss Latimer was all interest.

“The servant says,” pursued Mr. Somerset, “that every morning, early, for more than a week past there have been heavy blows on the area door. They have always been struck while she was out of sight in the back kitchen. She has hastened to respond to them, but by the time she reached the door nobody was there. She says that for the first day or two, she thought that whoever had knocked must have hurried away, though she could not understand how they could get up the area steps so quickly. Afterwards she says she lingered longer in the front kitchen, so as to be there when the knocks came. But they never came while she was there—only at the moment when she turned her back. Next she ran to the window so quickly that she is sure there was no time for anybody to get away. Yet nobody was there.”

“Ran to the window!” echoed Miss Latimer. “Why didn’t she go to the door?”

“She says she was frightened,” answered Mr. Somerset.

“Does the window command every corner of the area?” asked the old lady. “Possibly some mischievous boy gave the knock and then stood back against the wall.”

“That’s what I said,” remarked Tom Black, “but Clementina made me go down into the kitchen and put my head where she said she had put hers, pressed against the window, and certainly nobody—not even a cat—could have been in the area without my seeing them.”

“Why didn’t Clementina tell us about this before?” asked Miss Latimer. “Why did she keep it back to tell us to-day?”

“She says she didn’t want to worry her mistress,” said Tom. “But after hearing what has gone wrong at Mr. Marvel’s house, and seeing the policemen come here making inquiries, she thought it might be best for some of us to know it at once. So when she saw me standing on the staircase, she took the opportunity of calling me downstairs and telling me the whole thing.”

“Very considerate indeed,” observed Miss Latimer. “So many servants take delight in rushing forward with bad news or worries. I was afraid the policemen’s visit alone would prove too much for Clementina. I do hope she won’t get flurried into leaving—for she seems a treasure in so many ways. Was she much disturbed?”

“No,” said Tom reflectively. “No, she took it quite sensibly.”

“Perhaps, as you say she is a superstitious woman, she accepts the mysterious as a natural factor in ordinary existence,” observed Mr. Somerset.

Tom was still meditative.

“Now I come to think of it,” he said, “there was something funny happened two or three weeks ago, though we didn’t think much of it at the time. Do you remember the blank letter, Miss Latimer?”

“Yes, indeed,” cried the old lady. “Mrs. Challoner received a very ill-written envelope, which we thought must contain a bill due to a bricklayer who had been lately employed. But there was nothing in the envelope save a sheet of blank paper. Still we thought the man must have put this in by mistake, till he presented his bill in person a few days afterwards, and then Lucy asked him if he had sent it in before, and he said no, he had made it up only that morning.”

“Is Mrs. Challoner to hear about these knocks?” asked Tom.

“Why not?” said Miss Latimer. “It was good of Clementina to keep silence about what she thought might annoy her mistress. But Lucy would not feel any worry over such a thing as this.”

“You see,” said Tom speaking with bated breath, “Clementina said now this had come out about the Marvels’ servant, it might be to do with them. But at first she had thought that it might be a sign that—that—something had happened to Mr. Challoner, and that was why she wouldn’t speak!”

“Oh, nonsense,” returned Miss Latimer. “We must not let her suggest this idea to Lucy—not till Charlie is here safe and sound. But we won’t have any mysteries or keepings back. A sensitive nature suffers more from those than from the sternest revelation. Even when there’s real trouble in question and somebody thinks to hide it out of kindness, he has to hide his true self at the same time, and that generally gives greater pain than anything else could.”

“We’ll tell Mrs. Challoner all about it the minute she comes back,” decided Mr. Somerset.

“That’s right,” said Miss Latimer. “If one’s bothers reach one through friendly hands two-thirds of their poison is drained off.”

“I say,” remarked Tom, “I don’t believe the dining-room waste-paper basket has been emptied lately. This morning I noticed it was very full. I shouldn’t wonder if the envelope in which that blank sheet came is still there. I’ll go down and look for it.”

Tom was still prosecuting this search when Lucy came back to the drawing-room. She heard the story of the knocks with interest rather than with alarm, and was rather inclined to think they might be due to Clementina’s “nerves.” When Tom appeared with the torn envelope they all discussed it quite cheerily, speculating whether the handwriting was that of a man or a woman. Lucy thought it was that of a man—possibly a man accustomed to use clumsier tools than a pen. She clung to her original suspicion of the tipsy young carpenter. Miss Latimer declared that one or two of the characters looked of feminine construction, while Mr. Somerset remarked that some of them seemed to him to be far too well formed to be in natural keeping with the wild distortion of the rest.

This envelope having been thus accidentally preserved, it was now decided, in view of the later developments, that it should be kept for a while longer. It was given into Tom’s charge, and he locked it away in his desk. Mr. Somerset advised that if the inspector should pay Mrs. Challoner another visit over the Jane-Smith-and-Marvel matter, she might do well to mention to him this strange blank missive and the mysterious knocks.

Also, before he went away, he and Mrs. Challoner together had a little conference with Clementina. They told her that there was nothing to be alarmed about, and while thanking her for her original consideration in the matter of the uncanny knocks, they urged her henceforth to tell promptly of any happening which might strike her as peculiar.

“It’s well I’m not a silly girl,” was Clementina’s remark. “I don’t like to be mixed up in strange ongoings, nor to see policemen coming to the door of the house where one lives. But what one’s born to, that one must go through. We all have our enemies, and if they don’t hurt us in one way, they will in another. I reckon those knocks ain’t meant to call for Clementina Gillespie.” There she paused, but glancing at Mr. Somerset, she read warning in his eye, and said no more.

The next morning brought two events. The first was an intimation by post of Mr. Bray’s death at Bath. The second was a call from Mrs. Marvel, who sent up her card, with an apology for intruding on her neighbour at an unconventionally early hour.

“Those who won’t make inquiries at the right season, naturally make them at last at the wrong time!” observed Tom.

“Yes,” said Miss Latimer, “as Goethe says—

Lucy knew Mrs. Marvel by sight, prim and stately. But this morning she was a very perturbed and dishevelled lady. She had called to thank Lucy for having been interviewed on her behalf by the policemen.

“So kind of you, Mrs. Challoner. After I had sent them across, it occurred to me how rude and selfish it was—on Christmas Day too! But really you will pardon me, considering the state I was in. Imagine our coming home from church to find the house not only deserted, but with all the silver I had put out for the Christmas feast carried off, with a salver which Mr. Marvel got as a testimonial, and the very brooches which we had left sticking in our pin-cushions! After that, what did it matter that not only was no dinner prepared, but the turkey itself was taken away. And we had friends coming, among them the gentleman who is engaged to our youngest daughter.”

“It was very trying indeed,” said Lucy gently. “I have never suffered quite so bitterly, but I have suffered enough to know how it must have felt.”

“I suppose you can’t give us any other clues about the wretched girl,” panted Mrs. Marvel. “The police have already been to her former mistress’s house, and it is empty. It is said the people are gone abroad. You didn’t know anything of this girl’s family, did you?”

“She said she came from the country. She said her father had been a blacksmith. She named the village to me, but I own it escapes my mind just now,” Lucy admitted.

“Of course, one can’t be expected to burden one’s mind with such things,” said Mrs. Marvel.

“If she had stayed with me, I meant to have given her a summer holiday to visit her friends, and then I should have heard more about them,” Lucy remarked. “It is not easy to press questions without grounds. One has to rest satisfied at first with getting a character.” She paused rather abruptly, seeing that her remarks seemed to reflect on her visitor. But Mrs. Marvel was undisturbed by them.

“You didn’t detect her in any dishonesty while she was with you?” she asked.

“No, not the slightest,” said Lucy.

Mrs. Marvel looked compassionately at her hostess. “Ah, poor dear,” she said, “you are young—and—and busy. I daresay she plucked you a little without your noticing it.”

“She may have done so,” said Lucy quietly; “I do not claim notability as a housewife. But I have my household lists, and when I went over them before she left, everything was right.”

“We hear that it is true she did dismiss herself,” Mrs. Marvel went on. “Did you really feel enough dissatisfaction and distrust to have dismissed her if she had not done so?”

“Certainly,” Lucy answered, “unless she could have given a full and satisfactory explanation—which I cannot imagine—of how, when I had given her permission to receive her sweetheart, I was left to find out that another man had suddenly appeared in his stead.”

“I doubt if it’s wise to let these girls’ sweethearts come near one’s house,” remarked Mrs. Marvel. “I never allow it. I never permit any visits but from relations.”

“I saw Jane Smith’s second lover go down your area steps many times,” said Lucy.

“I know he did. She told us he was her uncle, lately widowed, and that he came every week to bring and take away the mending she did for him.”

Lucy could not wholly restrain a smile as she thought of the shouts of laughter which announced this bereaved “relative’s” earliest appearances in her own kitchen.

“Now, my dear Mrs. Challoner,” said Mrs. Marvel, in her most unctuous manner, “don’t think I want to reproach you in the least; but when you felt this girl to be so untrustworthy, and when you saw her in a neighbour’s service, don’t you think you would have shown a neighbourly and Christian spirit if you had dropped us a word of warning about her?”

This was a little too much! Lucy rose and towered over her seated visitor.

“No, Mrs. Marvel,” she said, “certainly not. Any such interference of mine would have been most gratuitous and uncharitable. I should have deserved the soundest snub you could have given me. I had been the girl’s employer, and you had not chosen to use the proper method of communicating with me about her. That meant either that you did not value my opinion in the least, or that you had some other reason for your action. You might, for all I knew, have received a full confession from Jane Smith, and so have determined to give her another chance. Even then, of course, it would have been right and best for you to communicate with me. If I had retained her in my service after I distrusted her, and had sent her to your house on messages, and then she had robbed you, you might have good reason to complain. But certainty not now. You knew she had left my service and you never cared to inquire why or how!”

“She said she had dismissed herself, and you own that was true,” said Mrs. Marvel, also rising, and allowing the vinegar of her nature to overcome the oil in her tones. “And she said she had done so because she wanted to live where the mistress did not have to go out to work, but was able to pay proper attention to her housekeeping. That seemed reasonable enough. She said she wanted to get on, and girls can’t get on under such circumstances.”

Lucy walked to the door and opened it. Before her eyes, in that brief journey, there floated a phantasmagoria of the Marvel women daily starting for their afternoon calls, of the perpetual evening outings of the whole family, of their bed-chamber curtains often undrawn till near noon! And yet these women had their stone ready to fling at her, because in the power of all the womanliness in her, her duties had swerved aside from the narrower groove. But she commanded herself to perfection!

“I think I have told you all I can,” she said. “If the inspector finds any other questions, I will do my best to answer them. This is my holiday time, and from what you say, Mrs. Marvel, I am sure you realise how much I must appreciate holidays. Good morning.”

She had rebuked the vulgar woman without losing either dignity or temper. Yet she went back pale and trembling to Miss Latimer. Every glimpse of the world’s falseness and cruelty is itself cruel!

(To be continued.)

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