The Girl’s Own Paper

By RUTH LAMB.

THE LITTLE ONES OF THE FAMILY AND THE GLORY OF MOTHERHOOD.

“A joyful mother of children.”—Psa. cxiii. 9.

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I called the subject of our two last talks all-important, because I could hardly imagine one possessing wider interest for you. But when I introduced it, I alluded to you, my dear girl friends, not only as the wives, but as the mothers of the future. Marriage and motherhood are alike sacred subjects—the latter certainly not less so than the former.

Before the day arrives when the sweet but solemn responsibility of motherhood comes to the young wife, girls who are members of large families have mostly shared in the toil, anxiety, and, let us hope, also in the joy and brightness that the little ones bring into the world with them.

It makes me glad as I call to mind many beautiful pictures of sisters who have been second only to the real mother in their loving care of, and tender sympathy with, the younger members of the family.

Many a delicate ailing mother has been aided on the path to renewed health by the thought that the children, about whom she would otherwise be painfully anxious, are being lovingly watched over by an elder sister. As she has lain, so willing yet so unable to fulfil her maternal duties, her heart has been full of joy, and her thoughts have gone up in praise to God for the gift of the precious daughter who is cheerfully carrying the weight under which she, unaided, must have sunk.

There are, thank God, many girls who are little mothers almost from their cradles. We can find them in rich homes and poor ones. In courts and slums where the direst poverty prevails, the baby, often unwelcome to the elders, is passed over to the ceaseless care of one who is only a few years past babyhood herself.

From the very first the little deputy-mother deems it her baby, her choicest treasure, and finds beauties and charms in it which are invisible to other eyes. Its increasing size and weight may cause her greater weariness, but they are none the less sources of pride and joy, and make her forget her own aching back.

She would go hungry that it might be well fed; cold, that it might be warmly bundled up in the shawl that ought to do duty as covering for both of them. Her baby may be but a caricature of the pink and white loveliness of another infant clad in silk and lace and with two nurses to watch its every movement; but let a ragged dweller in the same court disparage the looks of her darling, and she would fight the slanderer as stubbornly as ever knight of old did in defence of the charms of his ladye love.

I must not dwell on this picture. Long ago when the “G. O. P.”[1] was itself a baby under two years old, I wrote with heartfelt respect of “Little Nurses.” I had studied them in many places, and the sight of their devotion had inspired my admiration and loving sympathy.

Turning from the baby devotee of the slums, and not for a moment forgetting sweet pictures of sisterly devotion which I have seen in other ranks of life, I am going to indulge in a little croak about the decay of the maternal spirit in many of the girls of to-day.

I was journeying northward some three years ago, and during part of the time I had only one companion. She was past girlhood, probably some years over thirty, and in the course of conversation she spoke of her old happy home and the gradual scattering of its inmates, until she found herself the last one left. Her parents had died not long after each other, and brothers’ and sisters’ homes were far apart. That there had been true family union and affection amongst them I felt sure, for my companion could not speak of the good father and mother without a trembling of the voice and tears which she turned away to hide.

Later the talk turned on children. I suppose, as an old mother, I must have expressed my deep love for them, and I was almost horrified when my companion exclaimed—

“I loathe children. I cannot bear even to touch a child.”

The expression on her face proved her sincerity.

Need I tell you, dear girls, that a barrier seemed to rise up between my companion and myself, as I heard these unwomanly, nay, I may say, inhuman words? Only a short time before, the girl had been moved to tears as she spoke of the loving devotion of which she had been an object, both as a child and from her youth up. Yet her memories of her own home life and of the parents she mourned, had not awakened in her cold heart one spark of tenderness for the helpless little creatures who are so dependent on those around them.

A truly feminine nature, with its motherly instincts fostered as they ought to be, instead of being crushed down and stifled, regards every child with tenderness, and would make the surroundings of all the little ones brighter, purer, and holier if it were possible to do so.

It happened on that same journey that a comely Scotchwoman got into our carriage at a country station. At the door she held out one of the loveliest year-old babies I ever saw, and addressing my companion, said, “Here, tak the bairn, please, whiles I lift in the others,” for there were two more youngsters on the platform just a step above each other in size.

My companion fairly shrank into her corner and kept her hands firmly clasped, whilst her face expressed disgust and vexation at the unceremonious request. The mother’s astonishment was almost ludicrous, but I promptly said, “Give me the bairn. I’m used to bairns, you see, and this lady is not.” It was a delight to hold the bonny smiling darling in my arms. Her beautiful clothing and the pretty neat garments of the elder children were eloquent of loving care. And the mother was eloquent too about the object of the half-hour’s journey which was to show the children to “my ain guid mither, who is just wearyin’ for a look at them,” I was told.

I heard about five older ones at home, and how they had to go, two at a time and the baby, to see the grandmother, with many particulars which brought this comparatively young mother into fullest sympathy with me, the old one.

I was quite sorry to give up my pretty charge when parting time came. Sorry, too, that my other travelling companion, who sat silent in her corner with averted eyes, could not appreciate the charms of childhood, or care to impress on her memory the beautiful picture of motherly self-devotion and industry furnished by that sample batch from the flock of eight. How each bright healthy face, each spotless tasteful garment would appeal to the grandmother! How glad and proud she would be to see the fruits of her own training, as she looked at her matronly daughter and those “bonny bairns” of another generation!

Yet how kind was my first companion to me, when the others had left us alone again! We parted at the next stopping-place, but during the waiting interval she was like a good daughter in her care of me. I think that in paying me sweet attentions she thought of the mother of her girlhood whom she had lost. The pity of it was that memory did not take her further back, so that, in thinking of the needs of infancy and her own childhood, she might have been stirred to sympathy with other helpless little ones of the human family.

Another girl, whom I know to be really warm-hearted and affectionate, said of her sister’s baby, “She’s a horrid little creature, more like a skinned rabbit than anything else. I cannot bear to look at her, and I would not touch her for the world.”

We know that newly-born babies are not always beautiful to look upon, but how soon the redness of their faces tones down to lovely pink and white, and the puckered skin fills out and becomes soft as satin to the touch. That girl’s heart must be unwomanly indeed for which a baby’s smile and outstretched arms have not an irresistible charm.

Putting aside the fascination of external beauty, we should bear in mind the great fact that the frailest, least attractive infant that comes into the world is the home of an immortal soul. It brings with it a burden of sweet but solemn responsibility to be borne, first of all by the parents, but shared in a less degree by all whose companionship must influence it for good or evil.

I am not going to imagine that amongst you, my dear girl friends and twilight companions, any can be found who have no warm comers in their hearts for helpless little ones, or who are insensible to the glory and responsibility of motherhood. So, having given vent to the little croak suggested by the sayings of sundry girls whom I have met elsewhere, let us talk about the children over whom we have, or may have in the future, the strongest influence of all. Strongest and best also; if we are only true to our divinely-given instincts, and alive to the vastness of the responsibilities of motherhood. I cannot help thinking that the study of child life and character should form part of every girl’s education. Surely no branch of natural history can be equally interesting.

There can hardly be a more fascinating subject than natural history in all its branches, and we can admire and sympathise with the earnest student who spends the best part of a lifetime in observing the ways of an insignificant insect. Every secret of structure or habit thus revealed is another proof of the goodness and power of God, and adds to His glory in the eyes of His believing children, who exclaim in the words of the Psalmist, “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast Thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.” The Revised Version gives the word “creatures,” instead of riches, and truly when you and I, my dear ones, call to mind the little we know about these wondrous minute organisms that scientific research has revealed of late, we are struck with the fitness of the change. It is hard to grasp the idea alike of the vastness and the minuteness of God’s works.

If I had time I could quote many passages of His Word which prove that some of the best men of old were close observers of nature, and to be such is quite in accordance with its teachings. I would plead with all nature students, but, above all, with girls, who will be the mothers of the future, to give the closest, most prayerful study to the young human beings on whose right training so much depends.

Lovers of horses, dogs or cats are generally eloquent about their pets, and can indicate every point of excellence in them, or allude regretfully to the smallest blemish. They spend money lavishly in order to acquire perfect specimens, and are careful to maintain them in health and more than comfort.

These costly pets are so much living capital, and it is safe to say that many a parent could tell more about the disposition and doings of a favourite horse or dog, than of the dispositions of the children who call them father or mother.

It is often said that the baby brings a vast heritage of love with it into the world, and I believe in the truth of this. But sometimes the love gets into the wrong heart, if I may use such an expression, instead of filling that of the mother, who, regarding the helpless creature as a hindrance to what she calls “pleasure,” is willing to relinquish the privilege of caring for her child to other hands. If these are truly womanly hands, and the nurse has in her a motherly heart, the child may lose little by the change during its first years. Later on, Nature asserts herself and only a mother’s love can satisfy a child’s yearnings.

On this subject of motherhood, as in all that you and I, my dear girl friends, have talked about together, we need to look into the Book of books for light and guidance.

Motherhood is part of Nature’s—or should I not rather say of God’s—plan for womanhood. Let us look back together at the earliest chapter of human history, and note how children were regarded then.

Eve, so named because she was “the mother of all living,” or “life,” as the Revised Version gives it, clasped her first-born to her breast and cried in her exultant joy, “I have gotten a man from the Lord.” She looked upon her babe as the direct gift of God. She, like many a mother in after days, could not foresee the sin and the sorrow that would shadow his manhood and her own heart. But in holding her infant treasure to her breast, she would have a present joy and sense of riches that words cannot describe. She, the only human mother, with the only human infant in the wondrous new world which was to be peopled by her children, must have had sensations which none of her descendants could possibly repeat.

And yet, believe me, every loving mother who is worthy of the name, has a like feeling of riches, when she can say, “This is my child, my very own. This wonderful little body is given me to feed, clothe and guard. It is my privilege to see that it is fed with food convenient for it, that the tender frame is shielded from too great heat or biting cold, that it is kept from places and things which might injure its health, or prevent its growth into sturdy boyhood or girlhood.” The true mother was proud of her name in the old days of Bible history, and to be childless was to be a sad and dissatisfied woman.

When Seth was born, after Abel had been slain by his brother, the joyful thought of Eve was that the vacant place in her motherly heart was filled again, and she cried, “God hath appointed me another seed instead of Abel whom Cain slew.”

She had sons and daughters, we know not how many, during the ages which followed, but there is no detailed history of them. Still it gladdens our hearts to know of the joy of that first mother, when Seth was given to her in place of the good son who “was not.”

Pass with me down the ages and look into the tent of Sarah, when she held in her arms the child of promise, so long hoped for, even against hope as it seemed. “And Sarah said, ‘God hath made me to laugh; everyone that heareth will laugh with me.’”

Childless Rachel bemoaned her hard fate and cried, “Give me children, or else I die.” Then when Joseph was born she gave him the name which meant “added,” and said, “The Lord add to me another son.”

Yet another picture for us to look at together, my dear ones. It is that of Jacob as he met his brother Esau. After the brothers had embraced and kissed each other, Esau “lifted up his eyes and saw the women and the children, and said, ‘Who are these with thee?’ And he said, ‘The children which God hath graciously given thy servant.’”

Why are we studying all these Bible pictures, and glancing at the domestic stories which they illustrate? Is it not that we may all realise more fully the glory of motherhood, the value set upon children by the mothers of old, and the universal acknowledgment that a child was a precious gift from God?

Ah, there was no talk of loathing children then! No shrinking from the touch of a fair, innocent, helpless babe! No talking lightly or contemptuously of the little ones. The Psalmist calls children “the heritage of the Lord—His reward,” and says that “He makes the barren women to keep house” (or to dwell in a house) “and to be a joyful mother of children.”

Motherhood conferred dignity and made the woman mistress of a home and the head of a household. Ever and always the presence of a child or children added to the sense of riches, being regarded as the special gift of God and a token of His favour.

It is not easy to exhaust Scripture on this beautiful subject, for one Bible mother seems to rise after another and claim our attention and admiration. We see Hannah appearing in the house of the Lord, first pleading that she too may know the glory and joy of motherhood, and then, taking her weaned child to dedicate him to the lifelong service of the Giver. “For this child I prayed, and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of Him, therefore also I have lent him to the Lord; as long as he liveth he shall be lent to the Lord.”

How self-sacrificing, how sublime was this act on the part of the mother! Just when her little Samuel had twined himself round her heart by the imperishable cords of love; as each day witnessed some new growth and charm in the boy; and the parting must have become almost too great a trial for the tender mother to contemplate, for “the child was young.” Hannah brought him to Shiloh and left him there.

Hers was no temporary sacrifice. She renewed it year by year, rejoicing that her son, God’s gift, was accepted by Him in turn as she gave him back, “and was in favour both with the Lord and with men.”

We have passed by the mother of Moses and her plan to save, if possible, the life of her infant, and other Bible mothers, around whom we might well pause. We must, however, glance for a moment at the Virgin Mother and her Babe lying in His lowly manger-bed, the infant Saviour, “Christ the Lord.”

Stretching across the years, we see Jesus in His manhood taking the little ones in His kind arms, blessing them and saying, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”

Now, my dear girl friends, what impression has this talk left on your minds? Has it not elevated your ideas of motherhood, and taught you how it was regarded amongst the men and women of the Bible? Is it not a sacred and glorious trust as well as a joyful one?

Are not the little ones, of whom some girls of to-day speak slightingly and worse, to be regarded as God’s good and precious gifts to be nursed for the Lord, fitted for and dedicated to His service?

(To be concluded.)

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The register of a bedroom fireplace should never be closed, but left open for free ventilation from above.

Fire-irons and fenders not in use in the summer should not be neglected, but kept constantly rubbed up and not allowed to rust.

Parsley is injurious to fowls, and should not be given to them.

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By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

THE WATER-PARTY.

“How did you enjoy yourself last evening, Marion?” asked Ada, on the morning after Marion had paid her promised visit to Mrs. Holden.

“Very much indeed.”

“Was it a regular dinner-party?”

“Oh, no, only just ourselves, you know—and Mr. Scott!”

Jane looked very wise.

“Madge made a delightful suggestion,” went on Marion quickly. “How should you like a water-party, Jenny?”

“The most delightful thing for this fine weather, but who would row?”

“Mr. Holden and Mr. Scott are both thoroughly accustomed to it.”

“Jenny and I can take turns,” said Ada; “we have always been accustomed to it, but you never went in for it, did you?”

“No, I can only steer,” said Marion, laughing. “I told Madge that we would bring half the lunch and half the crockery. We can get tea at a cottage that they know of.”

“But you have not told us yet where we are going,” said Jane.

“Oh, I forgot. Madge and her party will meet us at West End Lane Station, and we will take the 9.20 train to Richmond; catch the one that goes on to Twickenham, row to Teddington, land on the bank and have lunch, and have tea at the cottage I spoke of.”

“Just the very thing to brush the cobwebs out of our brains,” cried Ada enthusiastically, “is it not, Jenny? We all want a treat, and we are all rather fagged out. Is it to be this next Saturday?”

“Yes, if we can arrange it in time.”

“Well, there is very little to arrange, when one comes to think of it,” said Ada meditatively, “unless Mrs. Holden thinks of inviting a big party.”

“No, just themselves and ourselves.”

“Did she say what part of the lunch she would prefer to bring?”

“She suggested the meat and also the drinks.”

“Ah!” laughed Jane, “she thinks it wise to ensure something solid for her husband and brother! And we are to bring the sweets, and so on? Then do have a tomato salad; it is the most delightfully cooling thing you can have on a hot day.”

“My good girl, how in the world can we pack it? I suppose you mean to take the tomatoes and make it as it is wanted; but that is rather a nuisance. My experience of water-parties is that you never land for lunch until you are so famished that to make a salad is the last thing anyone wishes, and any materials of that sort are thankfully despatched in the raw!”

“But we can,” urged Jane. “How can an old person like you be supposed to understand the latest contrivances of the age? We can slice the tomatoes and put them in layers in a jam pot with the oil, vinegar, chopped parsley and onion, and tie the whole down. It will stand up quite well in a corner of the hamper, and will not upset.”

“Bravo, Jenny, we will certainly have one. Is that your own idea?”

“It is my own idea, and I intend to patent it,” said Jane, with dignity, “so please see that you do not infringe my rights. Now one of you can suggest a suitable sweet.”

“It is rather difficult,” said Marion. “Shapes pack so badly, and pastry is apt to crumble. Jelly has an unfortunate habit of turning into soup just when it is wanted.”

“Perhaps it will be better to stick to fresh fruit,” said Ada.

“We must have something else,” said Marion meditatively. “How would it be if we took the materials for a Cicely pudding? It only takes a few minutes to make.”

This suggestion met with warm approval from the two others, for the Cicely pudding was an old favourite, the brilliant invention of a mutual friend in the country; but for the recipe thereof the gentle reader must be content to wait awhile.

“Very well,” said Jenny, “Marion shall make the Cicely pudding, and I will make the tomato salad. What will Ada do?”

“Make the sandwiches,” said Ada promptly. “There must be sandwiches, some of anchovy and hard-boiled egg, and some of cucumber.”

“Shall I order a sandwich loaf?” asked Marion.

“No, I think not. I prefer ‘Florentines,’ they are handier in every way.”

“Florentines” are little long-shaped milk rolls, something the shape of sponge fingers, but rather larger, and as they only require to be split and spread, much time is saved, and so it was settled.

On Friday evening, whilst Ada was making the sandwiches, Marion made up and looked over the weekly accounts up to that evening. She knew there would be no time on Saturday, as they would be late back. A box of fresh eggs had been sent from her country home on the Monday previous, and this had served famously for the week’s breakfasts.

This is the dinner list:—

Sunday.

• Fried Mutton Cutlets.
• Potatoes.
• Green Peas.
• Gooseberry Shape.

Monday.

• Leek Soup.
• Veal Cutlets (cooked in the oven).
• Potatoes.
• Macaroni Cheese.

Tuesday.

• Veal and Ham Patties.
• Poached Eggs on Endive.

Wednesday.

• Boiled Neck of Mutton and Vegetables.
• Steamed Ground Rice Pudding and Jam.

Thursday.

• Potato Soup.
• Fried Cauliflower in Batter.
• Bread and Fruit Pudding (cold).

Friday.

• Cauliflower Soup.
• Grilled Mackerel.
• Stewed Gooseberries.

The food account was as follows:—

	£	s.	d.
1½ lb. neck of mutton (cutlets)	0	1	0
1 lb. veal cutlet	0	0	10
1½ qrts. gooseberries	0	0	9
1 lb. cheese	0	0	7
½ lb. macaroni	0	0	2
Leeks	0	0	2
Flavouring vegetables	0	0	3
Endive	0	0	2
Potatoes	0	0	8
1½ lb. neck of mutton (for boiling)	0	0	10½
2 cauliflowers	0	0	5
2 mackerel	0	0	10
8 loaves	0	2	4
Milk	0	1	9
½ lb. tea	0	0	10
1½ lb. Demerara	0	0	3
½ lb. loaf	0	0	1
Sponge cakes	0	0	6
Jug of thick cream	0	1	0
Small jar of greengage jam	0	0	6
2 punnets of strawberries	0	1	4
Tin of anchovy paste	0	0	3½
Florentines	0	3	0
1 lb. tomatoes	0	0	8
	£0	19	3

“Where are the strawberries?” asked Jane as she looked over Marion’s shoulder. “I have not seen them.”

“We are to call for them at the greengrocer’s the first thing, and have them directly they come from market. I was afraid to have them in overnight for fear of their getting too juicy.”

Early next morning the sunshine streamed into Marion’s room and awoke her with the promise of a happy day. She rose and dressed quickly and was down the first, looking delightfully cool and fresh in a white coat and skirt. She busied herself with packing the hamper, and as she set to work down came Jane, resplendent in blue. She got out the tomatoes, sliced them quickly and arranged them in layers in a large jam pot, sprinkling oil, vinegar, chopped parsley and onion in between. Then she tied a new jam cover over, and put her chef d’œuvre carefully in the hamper.

“You two busy bees make me feel so disgracefully lazy,” cried Ada as she ran in a few minutes later. “I quite intended to be the first to-day. I will get you some breakfast to make amends,” so saying she quickly laid the table in the sitting-room, and made the tea. As soon as the hamper was packed, they sat down to a hasty meal. As they were finishing there was a ring at the bell.

“I declare I had forgotten all about the post!” cried Jane. “A letter without a stamp, I suppose. I hear Abigail speaking to him.”

But it was not the post, for the door opened, and Mr. Tom Scott was shown in.

“I hope you will excuse me, Miss Thomas,” he said to Marion as he shook hands and was introduced to the other two. “I was so afraid that you might find the hamper with the crockery too heavy to carry, and my sister said she thought I might venture to call and see if I could be of any assistance.”

“We are just coming,” said Marion, smiling. “Thank you; I don’t think we should have found the hamper too heavy.”

Ada and Jane disappeared to make the final preparations; Marion picked up her hat from off the little side-table and pinned it on, listening to Mr. Scott as he discussed the day’s proceedings. Soon Jane came back bearing the hamper in triumph, of which Mr. Scott immediately took possession, and so the party set out.

On the way they called for the strawberries as arranged. They got to the station just in time to meet Mrs. Holden and her husband, who had just arrived, having taken the next train after Tom Scott. They had only a few minutes to wait for the Richmond train. Marion was just going to get the tickets for her party, but she was prevented by her friend Madge, who explained that the railway-tickets represented her husband’s share of the entertainment and the boat her brother’s, so it was no good protesting. So, as Jane afterwards described it (with a sigh of content at the recollection), “they went to Twickenham like dukes and duchesses in first-class carriages,” adding sagely, “Being a working woman has one great advantage, for one certainly knows how to appreciate the good things of existence when they fall to one’s share.”

The day was glorious; a deep blue sky scarcely flecked with clouds, brilliant sunshine, not a breath of wind. The train was very full, and there were many other merry parties besides their own. Everyone seemed taking a holiday. At Richmond they had to run quickly over the bridge for the Twickenham train, which they just managed to catch; as they caught a glimpse of the river and saw how crowded and covered with boats it was just there, they all felt glad that they had arranged to start a little higher up, where they would have more space. At Twickenham they got out and walked through the hot streets of the quaint old town to the water’s edge, where under the trees the boat was ready for them.

So they all got in—Mr. Holden and Tom Scott rowing, Jane and Ada comfortably reclining in the bow, Mrs. Holden and Marion in the stern. The boat glided gently along. Marion had never seen this part of the river before, as she had had little leisure for pleasure parties since she came to live in town, and she was delighted with the beauty of the scene. Tom Scott showed her Pope’s Villa and other places of interest. In spite of the heat, Jane seemed blessed with a superabundance of energy, and after a time she took Mr. Holden’s oar and rowed so well that he declared himself surpassed. Now they neared the towers of Hampton Court, and finding a suitable little island shaded by willows, they moored to a tree and prepared for lunch, for which they all had excellent appetites.

“We have to make our pudding, you know,” said Marion, laughing.

“Going to do cooking out of doors?” asked Mr. Scott. “Shall I make a field oven?”

“No, we don’t need to do any cooking, and it will all be ready in five minutes,” she answered, and set to work.

She brought out the sponge cakes, split them in half, and put half of them at the bottom of a large pie-dish that she had brought with her; this she spread with a thick layer of greengage jam, then she put another layer of sponge cake. “Now, Jenny, the strawberries,” she said; but Jenny had already got them out and was busy picking off the stalks. When this was done, she arranged them on the cake in a thick layer, sprinkled them thickly with castor sugar, and lastly spread thick cream, which she had brought in its own brown jar, over the whole. As a last touch, a few “hundreds and thousands” were quickly sprinkled over the top, and the dish was finished, amidst the admiring plaudits of Madge and her party.

Jane’s tomato salad went excellently with the cold lamb which Mrs. Holden had provided, and the whole repast went off well. Ada’s sandwiches kept perfectly fresh, as they were wrapped in a damp cloth before being packed, and they were much liked.

After lunch the indefatigable Jane washed up, Mrs. Holden and Ada helping her, and repacked the hamper. They then rowed across the river to the Palace. Marion suggested looking at the pictures, and Tom Scott offered to conduct her, with an alacrity that was quite surprising, considering that he had been expressing his absolute ignorance of the subject about five minutes before.

“Will you come, too, Madge?”

No; Madge preferred to be lazy and sit out of doors, admiring the orange trees—Mr. Holden also, and Ada. Jane thought she would like to go, and so the three started off. The cool shade of the great rooms was a delightful change after the glare of the gardens, and they sauntered through, admiring the pictures and carving and the beautiful views seen through the open windows. Jane was very much amused with an old Dutch picture representing a street scene with no sky; the perspective was so odd that she declared the people were walking on the wall like flies. She ran back to the other two to tell them to come and look at it, but they seemed so deeply engaged in conversation that she did not disturb them.

“You can’t think how delightful it all is after the lonely life I have been leading for three years,” she heard.

When they went out again to the others, the afternoon was growing cooler. They all went back to the boat, for they were now to row a little way in the direction of Twickenham and to land at a cottage, where tea was ordered beforehand.

Jane rowed again, and by the time the cottage was reached was quite willing to let the old woman in charge make the tea as she was getting just a little tired. She did justice, however, as they all did, to the good things provided—the honey, which the old woman’s bees had made, the strawberries from the cottage garden, the home-made bread and delicious country butter.

In the cool of the evening our merry party started to row back to Twickenham, Marion steering under Mr. Scott’s direction, who was rowing just in front of her. They just caught the train at Twickenham, and so ended a very happy day.

(To be continued.)

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A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

BROTHERLY COUNSEL.

scar, now that we are alone, now that nobody can interrupt us, I want to talk to you about my plan.”

Sheila’s face was flushed, her big eyes were sparkling. She looked less the child, Oscar thought, and more the woman than when he had seen her last. He had been struck by this when he first saw her on board the boat. He had thought the same thing many times that day as the thundering express bore them from Plymouth to London. Now they were alone in Sheila’s room in the hotel where they were to spend the night. A big fire blazed on the hearth. The curtains were drawn, and brother and sister were alone together. The rumble in the streets below made a ceaseless murmur, but it was different from the rattle and roar of the train. They could talk at their ease now.

On the way up to town Sheila had poured her whole history into Oscar’s ears, and had heard the story of his own trouble at home, and the shadow which rested upon him. She had not said much, there had been no excited outburst such as he had expected. Perhaps the presence of other people in the carriage was a check upon her, or perhaps she had learned something of the lesson of self-control and reticence.

Anyway she had been unwontedly quiet during the last hours of the journey, and Oscar, who had felt very weary after his long hasty night journey down to Plymouth, had dozed in his corner. But now, after their arrival here, after their substantial meal below, they had come upstairs for a confidential talk which had been impossible before.

“Oscar, I have thought it all out. It came to me first on ship-board, even before I knew anything about you and what had happened in the office. (Why didn’t you tell me in your letters?) I made up my mind then and there that I would never, never, never live at Cossart Place again. Aunt Cossart has behaved infamously to me. She has tried to spoil my life and make me always wretched and miserable. I will never forgive her. I will never see her again!”

Oscar looked straight at his sister, but said nothing, for Sheila was proceeding with her old impetuosity.

“You can’t understand what it was like there. Even Mrs. Reid understood and was indignant. Oh, yes, I know she was, by the little things she said, though, of course, she would not say much. Everybody knew. I feel as though I could never bear to see any of them again. She is a hateful woman. The Barretts told me how furious people were with her when they knew she was going to send me home. Everybody guessed why—that was the horridest part of it. And I had been so happy. Everybody was so kind, and I had to go without even saying good-bye, but I felt I couldn’t—I couldn’t! The Barrett girls declared they believed everybody would cut them for it. I’m sure I hope they will! Oh, I can’t help being angry—I can’t indeed!”

“Sheila dear, don’t get excited,” said Oscar soothingly. “I can understand that it was very hard. It is very hard to be misunderstood, and to have things put down to us that we know we have not done, but we have talked over all that before. Tell me about this plan of yours.”

“Oh, yes. Oscar, you will be twenty-one soon, won’t you?”

“Yes. What has that to do with it?”

“Everything, for you will have command over our money then.”

“Yes; at least over my half, anyway, perhaps over it all. But it is not much, Sheila.”

“I know it is not; but it is enough to make us a little home. Now listen, Oscar, for I have it all planned out. You shall go on at the office if you must, because it’s something to do, and Uncle Tom has been kind in a way, though if he suspects you—however, we won’t talk any more about that. But we won’t go on living with the Cossarts any more, I’m quite determined on that. We shall have enough to have a little home of our own, even if it’s only a lodging; and you will go to the office, and I’ll try and get some music pupils, or little children to teach in the mornings, or something to help. And I’ll keep our home as nice as possible, and we’ll have cosy evenings together, and we’ll have nothing to do with the people who have behaved so badly to us. Oh, I don’t mean that we’ll cut them or anything, but we won’t go on living with them and eating their bread. I couldn’t possibly dream of going back to Cossart Place ever; and they don’t want me at Uncle Tom’s, and besides, how could I go on living in the same house with that Cyril? I can’t think how you can do it, Oscar, I really can’t.”

Sheila leant forward with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. Oscar was leaning back in his chair, his face a little in the shadow. Sheila had been struck on first seeing him with the sharpened look of his features, and the tired expression in his eyes; the same thing struck her again more forcibly at this moment, although she spoke no word of it.

“Say you think it a nice plan, Oscar, for I’m sure you do!” she cried eagerly.

“No, Sheila, I don’t think it would do,” he said slowly.

“Oh, Oscar, what do you mean? I’m sure it would. We should be so happy together, you and I. And it’s often so horrid being with people who misunderstand us. I think we’ve had enough of that. Oh, don’t say you won’t think of it!”

“I am thinking of it, Sheila, I’m thinking hard, for I hate to thwart you; but I don’t think it would do, and you would find that living in a very small way, and trying to earn something yourself, are two very difficult matters for people brought up as we have been.”

“But, Oscar, we should belong to ourselves and each other. We should be free from those horrid things that happen in other people’s houses.”

“But we should have other troubles and worries to face, Sheila. And do you know, I think it would not only be very ungrateful to our relations to take ourselves off like that, but I think it would be very bad for us ourselves.”

“Bad for us? I don’t understand.”

“I think it is always bad for people to rebel too much against the life which—well—which God seems to have arranged for them. Sheila, don’t you think that in the old days you and I had rather too much of our own way?”

“I never thought about it—did we?”

“I think so. Everything was made so smooth for us, and we had so few battles to fight. I sometimes think it might have been better for us if we had had more. Sheila, take my case; it is true I know nothing about this lost money, but in one sense the fault is mine. I always did the thing that was the easiest and pleasantest at the moment, though North warned me again and again that my easy-going ways were slovenly, and might lead to confusion and worse. I never quite believed him, and never seriously tried to conquer my tendencies, and you see what has happened. Whoever is to blame, the thing could not have been but for my fault.”

“Well, I think that’s a very hard way of looking at it; but what then?”

“I have not quite finished, Sheila; I want to talk about your case. It has been something the same with you, little sister. You have always liked to drift along easily with the current, doing what was pleasantest at the moment. If people were kind and made you welcome, you responded to all their overtures, without always stopping to think what Aunt Cossart would like, or if it were quite considerate to Effie. They were quite small things, but little by little they made trouble; and then came this great storm which has made you so miserable. You were not to blame, as I was; I don’t think you were ever warned, and it was difficult for you to see from day to day how things were going; but I think perhaps, Sheila, we have both been selfish in our own way, and have not thought enough——”

“You’re not selfish, you’re not careless,” cried Sheila interrupting excitedly. “I only wish I were one quarter as good. Oh, Oscar, I do believe I have been selfish, though I never meant it. I never thought of such a thing. We have always been used to being happy—to have people like us. It seemed so natural. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“No, Sheila, I am sure you didn’t; but you know life is not given to us just to enjoy for ourselves. We must try and think of other people too, to put them first. It is harder for you than for some, because father always spoiled you; and everybody likes you, and you are so pretty and fascinating.”

But Sheila jumped up and put her hand upon his lips.

“Don’t, Oscar! I don’t want to be praised; I begin to feel that I have been rather naughty and selfish, though I wouldn’t believe it when my conscience pricked now and then. I was wrong to be so furious with Aunt Cossart. Sometimes it made me a little frightened—when I wanted to say my prayers—and didn’t know how to get out ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive—’ Oh, Oscar, I don’t think I’ve forgiven Aunt Cossart yet. Suppose there had been a storm, and the vessel had sunk! How dreadful that would have been!”

“You will forgive everything, Sheila, when you think about it a little more. When we begin to understand how many faults we have ourselves, we see that we must forgive, we can’t help it. Everything seems to sink out of sight except the thought of His forgiveness of us, and what it cost to win it.”

Sheila suddenly fell upon her knees before Oscar, and looked anxiously into his face. It was seldom indeed he had spoken to her quite so openly. A quick thrill of anxiety ran through her.

“Oscar, have you forgiven Cyril?”

“Yes,” he answered in a low voice. “Indeed, sometimes I think it is he who has to forgive me more than I him. For remember, Sheila, it was my carelessness that put in his way the opportunity—suggested, perhaps, the temptation. When I think of that, I feel that it is I who need the forgiveness.”

Sheila looked awed at the thought suggested—that terrible thought so often overlooked and set aside, that not alone to ourselves do we sin and do amiss; but that in some way or other our comrades and friends may become involved in our wrong-doing.

“‘Sic vos non vobis,’” quoted Oscar in a dreamy fashion. “I begin to understand those words, Sheila, as I never did before.”

“But it is rather dreadful, Oscar; it makes it seem as though our sins went on and on so!”

“Yes, that is what I want to understand better. Our sins are forgiven, but the effects of them so often go on and on. We must think of that, too, Sheila; it will help to make our faults hateful to us. It will make us more patient when we have to bear blame that we do not quite merit; for how much more blame do we deserve than we ever get!”

Sheila was silent a long time, looking up into Oscar’s face.

“And my plan?” she asked tentatively.

“Would be a selfish one,” answered Oscar quickly, “for it would hurt the feelings of our relations; and I think it would be a shirking of the discipline of life, which we both stand in so much need of, Sheila!”

“You don’t.”

“Yes, I do. It would be very much pleasanter for us to have a little independent crib of our own, where we should be able to indulge ourselves and each other, and get away from all the little frictions of life in a family where things are not done quite in the way we have been used to. But it would be like running away from what seems to have been given us to bear; and I expect we should find we soon had a big new crop of worries and bothers, quite as big as the old ones. So I think, Sheila, we will not force things ourselves. We will go back to Uncle Tom’s, and wait and see what turns up. We will both try and be patient, and do what is right, never minding whether or not it is what we like best ourselves. We must try and learn the lesson of not pleasing ourselves always. You know Who set us the example of that?”

Sheila subsided upon the floor, and laid her head on Oscar’s knee, taking his hand between hers.

“You are getting so good, Oscar,” she said, “I am almost afraid of you. You are not ill, are you?”

“Ill? No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you don’t look well, and when people are so very very good, one sometimes fancies they are——”

Sheila paused, and Oscar said with a little tone of mirth in his quiet voice—

“I am not going to die of goodness yet, Sheila! You need not be afraid on that score.”

It was with a good deal of shrinking that Sheila prepared to face the Cossarts on the morrow. She knew that they would by this time have received the letter her aunt must have written, and that Mrs. Cossart would not have drawn her picture with a very strict regard to truth. She would have thought more of justifying her precipitate action than of anything else; and Sheila was terribly sensitive where Ronald Dumaresq was concerned, and felt as though any mention of his name would be worse than the cut of a whip. And her cousins were not sensitive on these points. They would be almost certain to cross-question her and make a joke of everything.

It needed all her courage and resolution to face the meeting; but when they drew up at the door and were met by Ray in the passage, it was not of Sheila’s sudden return that the whole house was thinking. Indeed Ray only gave her a rather hurried kiss, warm and sisterly, but distinctly hasty, and then turned to Oscar and took him by the shoulders, bringing him into the strong light of the window.

“Oscar, how are you? Are you sure you feel well?”

“Y—yes, all right, just a little tired with all the travelling, you know. But what do you ask for?”

“Oh, we are in such a fright. Typhoid fever has broken out in the town. The little office-boy you have been visiting so often has it; and everybody was saying that you were looking ill. Five cases are reported to-day, and they say there will be more. You are quite sure you are well, Oscar? Sheila, did he eat his breakfast this morning?”

“He hardly ate anything either last night or to-day,” cried Sheila, in sudden anxiety. “He has a bad headache. We thought it was from the long journey.”

The girls stood looking at each other in dismay. The same fear was in both hearts. Oscar turned from them and began climbing the stairs with a strange languor in his movements.

“I think I’ll go to my room,” he said, “but don’t bother, I shall be all right there.”

“He’s got it!” cried Ray, under her breath; and Sheila turned white to the lips.

(To be continued.)

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Training in Housewifery.—“As a regular and appreciative reader of The Girl’s Own Paper, I have become much interested in the question of higher grade housekeeping. I have obtained the consent of my parents to enter a home to be trained. Would you kindly furnish me with the addresses of some establishments where training is given?—Kate.”

“Kate’s” determination to equip herself thoroughly for the duties of housekeeping, is a most wise one. The girl who is trained in all departments of domestic work can turn her knowledge to account in every situation in life in which she may be placed, and is never likely to find the problem of earning her bread a difficult one. “Kate,” doubtless, knows already the National Training School of Cookery and Domestic Economy, Buckingham Palace Road. This institution is principally intended for the training of teachers, and we judge from “Kate’s” letter that in her case a school would be preferred that trains girls specifically for domestic employment. A School of Housewifery and Domestic Science of this kind has lately been established in connection with the North Hackney High School for Girls, at 101, Stamford Hill, N. “Kate” would be well advised to visit this school and see the classes at work. In the country are many excellent schools. Good housewifery training can be obtained at several institutions in the country. The following are all well recommended: Belsize House, Brunswick Square, Gloucester, in connection with the Gloucestershire School of Cookery and Domestic Economy, principal, Miss Florence Baddeley; Camp End School for Household Training, near Malvern, conducted by Miss Buck and Miss Brander; Fryerne School of Household Management, Fryerne, Caterham, principal, Miss Mitchell; and the Wiltshire School of Cookery and Domestic Economy, Trowbridge, secretary, Miss A. Bridgman. At each of these institutions, resident pupils are received, and the course of training consists not only of cookery, but of household work generally.

Book Illustration.—“I have taken lessons in drawing and painting for five years, and except for holding a second-class certificate instead of a first in one subject, I have gained the art class teacher’s certificate. Just lately I have been taking lessons in black and white work, and should like to become a book-illustrator.—J. L. R.”

We do not wish to damp the hopes of “J. L. R.,” but it takes much more than lessons in the technique of black and white drawing to make a book-illustrator. Girls who become successful illustrators show early a real talent for drawing. They can not only copy an object before them, but they can express in a few strokes certain clever, effective, or humorous ideas, which are born within their own brain. Without the possession of this rare gift, we could not advise a girl to turn her thoughts towards book-illustration or even towards drawing of any kind, if it is necessary for her to earn money by it. All the best illustrators, fashion artists, designers of covers, etc., seem to be agreed that an artist cannot be taught much more than the principles of drawing, but that everything else must be acquired by the individual through constant study and thought. No doubt the beginner is much helped by observing good illustrative work, and even by trying to copy it. It is also a good plan to enter for some of the competitions which are held by the editors of the art magazines. We would, however, seek to dissuade “J. L. R.” from becoming a teacher of art, as it is most difficult for all but the most gifted women to obtain permanent employment as teachers of drawing and painting alone.

A correspondent, E. A. E., asks the association connected with the words “Quo vadis?”

When the persecution under Nero first broke out in Rome, the tradition runs that St. Peter was persuaded by his friends to flee from the city. He was hurrying along the Appian Way, when suddenly he was encountered face to face by his risen Lord. In amazement he asked, “Domine, quo vadis?” (Master, whither goest Thou?) “I go to Rome,” was the answer, “to be crucified afresh.” “But, Lord, wast Thou not crucified once for all?” “I saw thee fleeing from death,” replied the Master, “and I go to be crucified in thy stead.” Abashed at the implied rebuke, St. Peter turned again, cheered by the Divine utterance, “Fear not, for I am with thee.” A little church now marks the legendary site of the interview. This beautiful story is given by Origen, and is also found in the “Acts of Peter and Paul” in Apocryphal Writings (Ante-Nicene fathers).

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⁂ Prizes to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved for competitors living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of the above Puzzle Poem. The following conditions must be observed:—

1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.

2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.

3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.

4. Send by post to Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London. “Puzzle Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.

5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be October 16, 1899; from Abroad, December 16, 1899.

The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age.

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

Page 767: county to country—“country to select”.]