The Girl’s Own Paper, Vol. VIII. No. 363

CHRISTMAS IN A FRENCH BOARDING-SCHOOL.

 Christmas morning of more than twenty years ago is breaking over a picturesque old town of fair France. The cold wintry sun touches upon the masts of the ships in her harbour and upon the crowded houses of the Lower Town, creeps up to the leafless trees upon the ramparts, and glints upon the steep roofs and stately cathedral of the Upper Town.

From the dormitory windows of a large boarding-school some dozen or more of girlish heads are peering into the feeble light, in the hope of seeing across the narrow “silver streak” the white cliffs of their English home. In vain. A cold, grey fog is rising from the sea, and baffles even their strong young eyes. The casements are closed, and as the big school-bell sends forth its summons, the English boarders hasten into the class-room below. It does not look very inviting at this early hour; there is no fire and little light, while the empty benches and the absence of the usual chattering throng of schoolgirls serve only to make those of them who remain the more depressed. They gather, from force of habit, round the fireless stove, and wish one another a “Merry Christmas”; but they neither look nor feel as if a merry Christmas could be theirs. With hands swollen with chilblains and faces blue with cold, they stand, a shivering group, comparing this with former anniversaries, and increasing their discomfort by reminding one another of the warm firesides, the ample Christmas cheer, and the lavish gifts with which the day is being ushered in at home.

At length the welcome sound of the breakfast-bell is heard, and our small party descends to the réfectoire. Here excellent hot coffee and omelettes, with the best of bread and butter, somewhat reconcile us to our hard lot, while the different mistresses are really very kind to les petites désolées, and do their best to enliven the meal. We are told that during the ten days’ holiday now begun we shall be entirely exempted from the necessity of talking French, and shall be allowed to get up and go to bed an hour later than during the school terms; moreover, that after service in our own church that morning (for, to their credit be it said, these ladies, devout Catholics themselves, never tampered with our belief), we should have a good fire lighted in the small class-room, where we could amuse ourselves as we pleased for the rest of the day.

After such good news we set off, under the escort of the English governess, in revived spirits for church. It was a plain little building, but we always liked to go; it seemed a bit of old England transplanted into this foreign town; and to-day the holly and flowers, the familiar hymns, and our pastor’s short and telling address, made the service particularly bright and cheery.

We were very fond of our good, gentle little clergyman, and always lingered a while after the services in the hope that he would speak to us, as he often did, especially upon any Church festivals; and to-day we had quite a long talk with him before, with many and hearty good wishes, we parted in the church porch.

As usual, after service, we went for a walk on the ramparts which encircle the Upper Town. The view was very fine, comprising on one side the Lower Town, the shining waters of the Channel, and, on very clear days, the houses as well as the cliffs of Dover; on the other, the hills and valleys, watered by the Liane; if we went further still, and passed the gloomy old château—now a prison—we could trace the roads leading to Calais and St. Omer; while on a bleak hill to the left rose Napoleon’s Column.

This rampart walk was a great favourite with us all, and we generally liked to make two or three turns. To-day, however, we were to have an early luncheon, and, besides, were yearning for our letters; so we contented ourselves with le petit tour, and hurried home. Here we found an ample mail awaiting us, whilst among the pile each girl found a neat little French billet from mademoiselle, inviting us formally to dinner and a little dance that evening. Of course we sat down at once to write our acceptances, then, with a cheer for mademoiselle, turned our thoughts to the absorbing topic of what we should wear. Dinner was fixed for 5 p.m., so that after luncheon there was really not very much time left, especially as each girl, besides the difficulty of choosing and arranging her most becoming costume, had also to have her hair “done.”

Hair-dressing was an elaborate science in those days, puffs and frisettes, curls and plaits, being all brought into requisition on state occasions, and if this—a dinner and a dance given by mademoiselle, the rather awe-inspiring though extremely kind mademoiselle, who reigned an undisputed autocrat in our little school-world—if this, I say, was not a state occasion, I appeal to every schoolgirl throughout the kingdom to tell me what was.

The dortoir was a gay and animated scene as we English girls repaired thither after luncheon to “lay out” (rather a dismal phrase, but one we always used) our best frocks and sashes, our open-worked stockings and evening shoes, and our black or white silk mittens. One of the girls was a capital hairdresser, as everyone else allowed, and as her services were eagerly entreated by the less skilful in the art, I can tell you her powers and her patience were put to the test that afternoon.

Oh, the plaiting and waving, the padding and puffing, the crimping and curling, that we gladly underwent on that memorable occasion! How openly we admired one another, and—more secretly—ourselves; and then how very funny it seemed to be walking into the drawing-room as mademoiselle’s visitors!

Kind mademoiselle! how handsome she looked in her dark satin dress, with a little old French lace at her throat and wrists! How pleasantly she welcomed us all, while she gave extra care to the one child amongst us, who could only wear black ribbons even for Christmas Day.

Of course, all the under-mistresses were there, and one or two of the non-resident ones. I particularly remember the pretty singing mistress, and the head music mistress, whose brother I hear of nowadays as the first organist of Europe; whilst last of all to arrive was Monsieur l’Abbé, who was a frequent and honoured guest, and for whose coming we had all been waiting.

The dinner bell rang a few minutes after this important arrival, and we all descended to the réfectoire. How good that dinner was! A soup such as one never tastes anywhere but in France; the bouilli, which we were too English to care for; the turkey stuffed with chestnuts—delicious, but so unlike an English turkey; the plum pudding, very good again, but still with a foreign element about it somehow; and, as a winding up delicacy, the delicious tourte à la crême, a real triumph of gastronomy.

Then our glasses were filled with claret, and we drank the “health of parents and relations,” a rather perilous toast for some of us, whose hearts were still tender from a recent parting; and finally coffee was served—not the coffee of everyday life, but the real café noir, which we girls drank with an extra dose of sugar, but which to seniors was served with a little cognac. Then, as we sat over our fruit and galette, mademoiselle and her mother, a charming old lady, with bright, dark eyes, and soft, silver hair, combined with Monsieur l’Abbé to keep us merry with a succession of amusing stories of French life and adventure, until the repeated ringing of the hall bell announced the arrival of some of the old pupils, who had been asked to join our dance. Tables were quickly cleared, superfluous chairs and benches removed, violin and piano set up a gay tune, and then we danced and danced away until nearly midnight, when the appearance of eau sucrée and lemonade, with a tray of tempting cakes, concluded the fun, and gave the signal for retiring.

LACE-MAKING IN THE ERZGEBIRGE; [3] OR, THE RESULT OF A WOMAN’S HOSPITALITY.

By EMMA BREWER.

Annaberg is a bright, thriving little town in Saxony, and, from its pleasant situation, is known to the people round about as the Queen of the Erz Mountains.

Its attractions are enhanced by the character of its population, whose kindness, cleanliness, and industry are known to all.

Like many another old town, it has a history, and boasts of chronicles which record many memorable facts concerning it, one of which is peculiarly interesting to us, viz., that a great service was rendered by a woman, in return for which a great benefit was received, and in its turn given out again to women, among whom it brought forth fruit a hundredfold; but this we will explain presently.

This cheery little town is surrounded by pine forests, to which many of the poor inhabitants of the upper mountains come in the hot summer months to pick berries and gather mushrooms, and so add to their scant means. The highest point of the Erzgebirge is only two hours distant, or about six miles, and it is quite worth while to climb to it, for from it you get a view which does your heart good. Not that the character of these mountains is either romantic or wild, like that of the rugged rocks in the Bavarian Highlands; on the contrary, it is soft and gently undulating, conveying rest and peace to the heart.

And what of the inhabitants? Are they as attractive as the mountains? I cannot be quite sure. Of one thing, however, I am certain, that they would interest you. They are simple-hearted and good tempered. By incessant industry they manage, as a rule, to gain a scant livelihood, although there are bad times when, in spite of constant toil, many suffer hunger.

Potatoes, and a suspicious kind of drink which these people call by the name of coffee, form the chief means of support. Those dwelling high up in the mountains consider themselves quite happy if they are able to place a dish of steaming potatoes on their well-scrubbed pinewood table. If, however, night frosts and long rains spoil these, they have little else to live on than the clear water from the spring and the fresh air of the mountains. The result of this is that about Christmas, which should be a happy time, the ghost of Typhus may be seen stalking abroad over the mountains, pausing here and there to knock at one or other of the little snowed-up huts of the weaver, the toy-maker, or the lace-worker, and the gravedigger finds more than enough to do digging graves down through the ice and snow.

Necessity has taught these simple people not only to live sparingly and to exercise self-denial, but it has given them a wonderful cleverness and readiness in taking up any new industry.

Just as in great towns the fashions are continually changing, so the demands of the markets of the world create new trades, and give a variety to the occupations of even these remote dwellers of the mountains. In the very poor huts, with shingle roofs scattered about in out-of-the-way corners of this mountain district, you would scarcely expect to see the inhabitants working a thousand various and tasteful patterns of glistening, sparkling pearl articles, which, when finished, go forth out of those poor huts to adorn the dresses of grand ladies in Berlin, Paris, and London; yet this is the fact.

In like manner and in like houses you may see the inhabitants busy with the beautiful art-industry of pillow lace-making, which brings us to the interesting fact recorded in the chronicles of Annaberg—interesting to us because it refers to woman and woman’s work.

The middle of the sixteenth century was a hard time for the people of the Erz Mountains. Yearly the population increased, and yearly the means of support grew less; for the productiveness of the mines, which up to that time had been great, fell off to such an extent that even the new tin industry failed to make up the loss.

It was just when the need was greatest that the good Frau Barbara Uttman, a rich patrician lady of Annaberg, came to the rescue of the inhabitants by teaching the poor women and girls[4] an entirely new industry—one that had never been known in Germany. It was the rare art of making exquisitely soft and costly texture with the hand by means of dexterously intertwining and knotting single threads of silk or cotton; in fact, to make what is known as bobbin or pillow lace.

Barbara Uttman (born in 1514, died in 1575), as the story goes, learnt it from a fugitive Brabantine whom she hospitably received into her house. If this be so, then was her hospitality rich in good fruit.

Although pillow lace does not hold so high a place in fashion at the present time as in the good old days, yet the memory of Frau Barbara is kept in affectionate and pious remembrance by the good and simple people of the Erz Mountains.

A venerable avenue of lime-trees leads to her tomb in the “Gottesacre” of Annaberg. It is one of the most simple in style and execution. It points her out as the founder of the bobbin art, seated at a lace cushion.

A good action is the most beautiful memorial, just as gratitude is the highest of virtues.

Past neglect has been in a manner atoned for by erecting a worthy memorial of her exactly opposite the ancient grey town-hall in the market-place of Annaberg.

There is a possibility that this memorial may be the means of reviving the industry which has been so good a friend to the inhabitants; and yet it is scarcely possible that it can ever compete with the machine-made lace of Nottingham, which is comparatively cheap, and, to the uneducated eye, scarcely to be distinguished from the hand-made cushion lace. During the last thirty years the poor bobbin villages would have starved on the ever-decreasing profits had not other industries sprung up to give them work.

Many attempts have been made to give the pillow lace a fresh start, a new life; but without any permanent good result. Standing out from among many noble ladies who have made the attempt, is the Queen Carola of Saxony, who has done her utmost to keep it going.

She maintains model bobbin schools, wherein children are taught the industry under skilful supervision. It was she who gave the order to the poor lace-makers for the bridal veil of the Princess Maria Josepha, as well as for the lace dress.

It is the object in all the schools to ward off the threatened downfall of the hand-made lace industry, by the production of patterns full of taste and style; but this only goes a short way, the markets of the world must do the rest.

Ladies might do much for the industry if they resolved to wear real lace instead of cheap machine lace.

A committee of ladies in Vienna have already determined to do this, which may be the beginning of better things.

Quite apart from its practical purpose of maintaining for the poor mountaineers a branch of business peculiarly theirs, we must remember that, should the cushion lace-making fail, an ancient and noble house industry will have its fall—an industry which is even now able to turn out beautiful works of art, worthy of high praise, one for whose success three centuries have laboured.

The effect of this industry among the people who earn their bread by it is to make them scrupulously clean; their huts have, as a rule, but one floor, but the boards are always freshly scrubbed, the walls are spotlessly whitewashed. The kitchen utensils, which are hung on the walls, are like looking-glasses, so bright are they, and you would look in vain for dust on the poor furniture of the little room.

The costly lace requires the most particular cleanliness, as well in the lace-maker herself as in her surroundings.

The manners of these people are those bequeathed them by their forefathers, and their work is carried on as in former days.

Even little children of four years old earn a few pence weekly at the cushion towards the housekeeping, by making common wool lace. To produce tasteful hand lace requires not only great patience, but also such a high perfection in the art that it must be regularly practised from childhood, and this explains the reason of such young children being placed at the cushion.

The bobbin lace-making industry has never brought even a moderate competency to the cleverest and most industrious worker. How could it, when, if she work from early morning till late at night, the highest she can possibly earn is 5s. a week, and in less busy times not more than two to three shillings?

In the hard winter days no morsel of meat is seen on the table; and if the potatoes are all consumed, then dry bread, and not much of it, is all the nourishment they get.

How does it happen that such valuable work fails to give a fair return? This, with a little knowledge, is easy to answer. It takes a very long time indeed to produce the most simple lace, and as to costly patterns of rich and tasteful designs, such as we give here as a cover to a lady’s sunshade—well, it would require for its production six to twelve months, or even longer, according to the pattern and the ability of the worker. This lace-cover is bought in the shops of our great towns for the ridiculously cheap sum of £5—perhaps £7 10s.—or, at the very highest, £15.

If you take into consideration the high duty on these articles, the worth of the raw material, which is generally the best silk, and the fee to the middle-man, you will see how much remains for the industrious artist at her cushion—never more than 2s. 1d. a day.

Supposing that a yard of pillow lace cost 7½d. in the shops, you must take off quite 2½d. for the purchase of material and the fee for the middle-man, which leaves the worker 5d. as the price of a day’s hard work, for she cannot make more than a yard a day.

The poverty of the pillow lace-maker is no doubt due also to the low market price of the lace, and this cannot be remedied, for lace being not an article of necessity, but only of luxury, the desire to buy will decrease with every rise in price, especially as the machine-made lace is produced so easily and in such perfection that it is difficult often to tell the true from the false.

For the last ten years it has seemed useless to think of bettering the position of the lace-maker, male or female. Any effort made is rather to prevent an excellent and artistic industry from dying out. The population has turned itself to other industries which pay somewhat better, merely taking up the lace-work when others fail.

For example, men who in summer seek their bread on the plains, either as bricklayers, labourers, or artisans, join the family circle in the winter in making lace, and it is wonderful to see what soft and delicate work is turned out by those hard hands. It is pleasant to see the wooden stools drawn round the table behind the glass globe filled with water, through which the lamplight falls sharp and clear on the spotless work, and watch the family, from the aged grandmother down to the toddling grandchild, take their places at their cushions or pillows. For those who have never seen pillow lace made, we will give a few words.

The pillow or cushion is of cylindrical form, and tightly stuffed. On this a number of pins are stuck, according to the pattern to be worked. The threads, fastened to small bobbins, are thrown across the cushion and placed round these pins; the threads, traversing from left to right, or vice versâ, often weave at once the pattern and the ground. There is a line in one of the Volkslied which runs—

We echo the wish, but fear it will never be realised.

“NO.” — CHAPTER II.

By MARY E. HULLAH.

o you like this part of London?” asked Horace, by-and-by.

Embrance had taken off her bonnet and ulster, and was sitting by the side of the fire. It was one of her characteristics, owing, perhaps, to the need of rest after long hours’ work, that she could remain perfectly still for a considerable length of time. She had no desire to busy herself with fancy work or to twirl her watch-chain; she did not throw herself into picturesque attitudes, but sat with clasped hands, listening to her visitor’s easy flow of conversation. A curl of her dark hair had escaped from the stiff plait, and her lips were parted with a smile.

“Not half so alarming as I imagined she would be,” was Horace Meade’s thought, as he pursued his inquiries as to her liking for Bloomsbury, “but why, in the name of all that’s wonderful, does she wear such a frightful garment? It requires beauty to carry off a Cinderella garb of that kind.”

“I find it convenient to live here,” explained Embrance, while her visitor’s fancy had soared far away, and was drawing her hair high on the top of her head, putting pearls in her ears, and a mass of crimson roses in the lace round her throat. “She would make a good study for the ‘ugly princess,’” he thought.

“I know that you are one of the busy folk,” he said, “Joan has told me about you and your hard work. I only hope—” with a certain kindliness that went straight to her heart—“that you are not overdoing it. Joan ought to look after you.”

Just for a second, Embrance’s dark eyes looked up at him with a flash of inquiry: could it be that this polite, soft-voiced man was making fun of Joan and of her? As if ashamed of her suspicion, she replied gently—

“It is a great pleasure to me to have Joan’s company; we have been friends for a great many years, ever since we were little schoolgirls.”

“And you helped her with her sums after hours,” said Horace, twisting the end of his moustache. “I have heard a great deal about you and your doings, Miss Clemon, but seriously, I should be glad to talk to you about my cousin, if you will let me.”

“Please do; she has been so looking forward to your coming; will you be able to suggest any line for her to take up? She doesn’t much like teaching; she was not very happy at home, and (with a slight hesitation) her grandfather makes her no allowance while she is here.”

“Poor girl!” exclaimed Mr. Meade, “I expected how it would be; he is a regular old miser. As for Joan, with all her talent, she’s had no proper teaching herself, and hasn’t an idea what real work means. What has she been doing lately?”

Embrance, conscious that Joan had been spending the last fortnight in making herself a charming terra-cotta walking dress, looked towards the window, and said that there had been so many fogs, it was bad weather for artists. Mr. Meade nodded, then marched up to the easel, and examined the drawing—a study of roses, white and pink—that Joan had begun a month ago; but even before the roses (which had cost as much as a week’s rent) withered, she had got tired of the drawing, and had put it on one side for a copy of a landscape, intended for the good of her pupil, and also left unfinished.

For some minutes he stood there in silence, took the drawings nearer to the light, and carefully replaced them on the easel.

“Well?” asked Embrance, anxiously.

“What do you think of them?”

“I am not a judge; I know so little about it.”

“Very likely, but look here” (she came closer to the easel), “you are accustomed to observe. Do you see the grouping of the roses is pretty enough, but there, look, that is quite out of drawing, and the stalk is an absurdity.”

Embrance could not stay there any longer in mute acquiescence: “But she is so quick,” she remonstrated, “and has a real love”—for painting, she was about to say, but her sense of truth turned the sentence into: “for anything that is beautiful!”

He turned away from the window with a sigh. “As an amateur, it is all very well, but otherwise, I don’t see what is to be done. Poor little Joan! It’s a bad business; how is she looking, Miss Clemon?”

“Prettier than ever, I think.”

“I am glad to hear it. She is a charming companion, and I am very glad that you like her. It is a comfort to know that she has got such a good friend in you.”

Embrance blushed, feeling very uncomfortable, and half inclined to resent his remarks. It was rather late in the day for a complete stranger to interfere in such an old friendship as hers and Joan’s. “However,” she reflected, “I am sure he is very fond of her; I wish she would come in.”

“Perhaps,” continued Horace Meade, “you think that I have no business to say this; but the fact is, that I had expected to find, at least I had not expected to find—that is to say——”

He stopped abruptly, and Embrance could not refrain from laughing: “You had imagined that Joan had set up housekeeping with a strong-minded woman of the most extreme type, who didn’t care what became of her.”

“No, no, indeed!” began Horace, but she would go on.

“Please let me explain to you that I would do anything, anything in the world to make Joan happy. I have been looking forward to your visit; I hoped that between us we could find some way of helping her.”

It occurred to Horace that this would be an advantageous moment to say something complimentary, and get himself out of an awkward predicament, but he did not avail himself of the opportunity. He was a person who believed in his own insight of character, and Miss Clemon (who was so widely different from his preconceived notion of Joan’s learned friend) interested him very much; he was quite sure that she was open and honest as the day. Better be straightforward, too.

“Thank you very much,” he said, almost as if she had conferred a favour on him personally, “I will think over what you have said; we will try and help her; and may I come again soon?”

Embrance answered that she would be very glad to see him, and when, after a little more chat, he took his leave, she went singing into the next room, feeling lighter of heart than she had done for days. She liked Horace Meade very much, and how pleased Joan would be to hear of his arrival!

Joan was, indeed, delighted to welcome her cousin; Mrs. Rakely invited him to the hotel, and there were many happy days spent in his society. His own rooms and studio were in a distant suburb, but he found time to make himself very agreeable to the ladies, and to show them the sights of London. Joan was in her element, but too soon there came a period of reaction. Mrs. Rakely went back to the country, and Horace began to work regularly; he was slowly making his way as a portrait painter. Joan fell into low spirits again, she wrote a great many letters, and received bulky communications from Mrs. Rakely, about which she maintained a silence, strangely unlike her usual talkativeness. Now and then she would turn wistful glances on Embrance, as if longing for sympathy, but she made no confidences. And Embrance treated her with great tenderness, believing that some slight squabble with Horace was the cause of her despondency. “Better not to worry her with too many questions,” she thought, “she will tell me in her own good time.”

Horace came to the little second floor parlour, generally timing his visits so as to arrive about seven o’clock. He had dined at his club. If he might be allowed, it suited him best to drop in at this time. He hoped he wasn’t in the way. Embrance bade him heartily welcome, while Joan would forget her melancholy, and brighten into fresh beauty under the influence of her cousin’s pleasant talk. More than once Embrance, busy as she was, had attempted to leave the cousins to themselves, while she laboured at a side table; but Horace had a knack of coaxing her back to the fireside, asking her opinion on some interesting topic, or referring to her laughingly as a competent authority. And she had been enticed away to listen to his account of his travels, or description of his housekeeping failures in his own rooms. He set Joan hard at work painting menu cards and photograph frames, saying that he knew a man who would dispose of them at a fair price, and now and then he brought a drawing for her to copy, but he showed no sign of being impressed with the progress that she made.

“Do you expect your cousin this evening?” asked Embrance, one afternoon, about a month after Christmas; “he has not been to see you for some time.”

“No,” said Joan, wearily. She was lying full length on the hearthrug, with her head on a pillow, while Embrance arranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece to her better satisfaction; “but I have heard from him.”

“What did he say?” asked Embrance, fancying that in Joan’s manner she could trace a desire to be further questioned; “is it a secret, Joan, or may I know all about it?”

Joan fixed her great eyes upon Embrance, and raised herself from the ground with one arm: “I have got a secret, but I am not to tell you. Did you guess that I had?”

Embrance nodded. She had finished putting the ornaments to rights, and now came and sat on a low chair by the fire. “You would rather not tell me about it just yet, Joan?”

“Not yet,” said Joan, excitedly. “You will know soon. Mrs. Rakely knows. But, but”—she hesitated, “I don’t know when Horace will come here again; he is very inconsiderate sometimes. What do you think he proposed I should do? I met him one day and asked his advice—you are so busy, Embrance, there seems to be no time to talk to you. He says that I had better go back to Doveton!”

“He wants to take her away from me,” thought Embrance, with a pang; “perhaps he is right, and I ought never to have kept her.” She took Joan’s hand and patted it softly. “There is no occasion to fret about it,” she said. “Would you like to go back, Joan?”

“I don’t know,” said Joan, half crying. “I’m sorry I quarrelled with Horace. I was very disagreeable to him. He doesn’t think I ought to stay with you much longer.”

“I am sorry,” began Embrance, humbly; but Joan was too much taken up with her own grievance to listen. She went on: “He offered to speak to the head of a firm he knows where they make furniture and employ people (artists, Horace calls them) to decorate rooms and paint panels. He said I should have to be taught to do it; and, oh! Embrance, I should hate to be shut up all day; I should feel as if I were in a prison; so I said I wouldn’t go and see his friend—that I would rather go on the stage. And then he advised me to go back to Doveton.” Joan was sitting bolt upright now, and her eyes were sparkling. “Do you think I behaved badly?”

“It was very hard for you, my poor dear; but I dare say you were not so disagreeable as you imagine. He would make allowance for your not being accustomed to keep such regular hours.”

“It’s you who make allowance,” cried Joan. “You are very good, Embrance; and I am keeping so much back from you. But don’t think hardly of me; promise me you won’t. Have patience with me, whatever I do.”

A sharp east wind was blowing across the park; the chestnut-trees stretched their bare branches grimly towards the sky. Embrance Clemon was walking home after her day’s work; the dead leaves swept rustling and dancing towards her. A party of noisy children were racing after their hoops a few yards in front of her. She had just been told by the mother of a pupil, with many expressions of regret, that her services would not be required any more after Easter. Her head was full of plans, by which she could contrive to manage her slender resources, so that Joan should not be made to feel that she was in any way increasing the household difficulties. In truth, she could ill afford to lose a lesson just now. She had heard no more of Joan’s quarrel with Horace Meade; she imagined that that was made up long ago; the two had met more than once, she knew, at a friend’s house, but he had left off coming to call. Embrance missed his visits; it was clear to her now, looking back to the last few months, that Horace Meade had brought a great deal of happiness into their quiet lives—hers as well as Joan’s. And yet, try as she would, she could not but feel hurt that he should be so anxious to remove Joan from her influence. “It doesn’t matter, after all,” she reflected, walking faster and faster in the grey twilight, “what he thinks of me.” Nevertheless, it mattered so much, that Embrance grew sad at heart; there came over her a great longing to throw up the present occupation and go away, anywhere, and begin again; to shut up her past life tight and firm and to start afresh. And Joan? She almost smiled at her own folly, as she recollected how impossible it would be to leave Joan in such an unceremonious fashion.

(To be continued.)

---

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY. —

If it had not been for his anxiety about Fairy, this would have been an excursion quite after Jack’s own heart. He delighted in anything unusual which varied the monotony of his daily life, and if it partook of the nature of an adventure he was all the better pleased. As he and his father tramped along the Oatham-road, one walking on the extreme right, the other on the left hand side, it was natural that John should beguile the way with reminiscences of other fogs.

“The worst fog I ever remember was when I was courting your mother, Jack. It was just after Lewes sheep fair, and a Saturday night, and it came on quite suddenly, so that I saw it was impossible to attempt to get the sheep home that night, for I was on Mount Caburn, and I did not know the mount so well then as I do now. But I always spent Saturday evening and the best part of Sunday with your mother, and I did not feel inclined to be done out of my weekly treat by the fog, so, though I could not get the sheep into fold, I thought I would leave them to take their chance till the fog lifted, and then come after them; I knew I should soon find them by the help of the bell-wethers and Rover, so I left the sheep, and set off to try and find my way home through the fog. I knew there were one or two nasty places where I might fall and break my neck, so I went pretty carefully, you may be sure. I had no lantern with me, and it was a darker night than to-night, and I think I must have wandered round and round the top of Mount Caburn for three or four hours before I even began to descend. At last I found I was actually on a downward track, though I had not the least idea which side of the hill I was, and I think if I had not been in love I should have remained where I was till the morning, or at least till the fog cleared. As it was, I determined, at all hazards, to go on, though I guessed I should get a scolding from your mother for my pains; so on I went, on my hands and knees, feeling my way before me, for I was afraid to walk upright lest I should step over a precipice, and at last I reached the bottom in safety. Then I had no idea where I was till, luckily for me, I met a man with a lantern, and he put me in the road, but it was too late to go to your mother’s that night, and the greater part of Sunday was spent in looking after the sheep, who had wandered for miles. But this fog won’t last much longer, Jack; the wind is rising,” said the shepherd.

“Yes,” said Jack. “I wish it would blow those children home safely. I do hope nothing has happened to them; but Charlie is so careless, he leads Fairy into danger without thinking.”

“She does not want much leading into danger; she is apt enough at running into that, I am thinking, Jack. But what is become of Rover?” said the shepherd, stopping and whistling.

“Bow-wow-wow,” replied Rover, in an excited tone, from the depths of the fog.

“Where are you, sir? Come here,” cried the shepherd.

“Bow-wow-wow-wow,” answered Rover, in a still sharper key.

“Come here, sir; what are you at?” cried John Shelley.

“I hope he has not found the children in that chalk-pit. See, we are near the first one,” said Jack, crossing over to his father, and moving with him to the chalk-pit, which was at the side of the road.

“I trust not, Jack. Here is Rover; he has found something, that is clear. All right, I am coming, good dog,” said the shepherd, as Rover now emerged from the fog, and, by dint of many barks and wagging of his tail, gave his master to understand that he had discovered something.

The shepherd throwing the light of the lantern in the direction the dog indicated, followed him, while Jack, with his heart in his throat, dreading at every step that the next would bring him face to face with Fairy stretched lifeless at his feet—a picture his quick imagination had but little difficulty in conjuring up—brought up the rear.

They were at the mouth of a large chalk-pit, but, owing to the density of the fog, the lantern did not enable them to see more than a yard before them; moreover, they were obliged to go very carefully, as huge pieces of chalk were scattered over the centre of the pit. Suddenly Jack kicked against something, and stooping, picked up a large gingham umbrella, which, to his joy, he saw at a glance did not belong to Fairy.

“See, father, an umbrella; can this be what Rover is making all this fuss about?” asked Jack, handing the huge thing to his father to examine.

“I doubt not; I am afraid we shall find the owner of the umbrella next, Jack, by Rover’s ways. But look, there is a name cut on the handle, and it looks as if it had been cut quite recently, too. See if you can make it out, I can’t; seems a foreign name to me,” said John Shelley, holding the umbrella close to his lantern for Jack to read.

“D-e-t—No, it is a capital t; De Thorens, that is the name, plain enough. A foreign one, too, as you said. It must belong to some stranger, then; perhaps someone has lost his or her way and taken shelter in this pit. Let us shout, father, they may hear us,” and Jack shouted, but in vain.

Rover now became more excited than ever, and seizing John Shelley by the skirts of his smock-frock, dragged him forward, until suddenly he came to a standstill, and loosing his hold of his master, sniffed round and round something which was lying a step or two further on. John Shelley stooped, and, lowering his lantern, turned the light on the object, and saw to his horror the apparently lifeless body of an old woman, which was lying huddled together in a shapeless mass. Gently and reverently the shepherd straightened the limbs, which were already getting cold and stiff, and then looking at the face, which was not disfigured by the fall, the old woman having fallen on her back, he recognised his old acquaintance Dame Hursey.

“Is she dead, father?” asked Jack, in an awe-stricken voice, as he clutched his father’s arm, for it was a ghastly sight these two were gazing on in the cold, dark, foggy night, by the weird gleams of their lanterns.

“Yes, Jack, yes; do you see who it is? Poor old Dame Hursey, the last person I ever thought to find here, for if anyone knew the Downs it was she. She is dressed in her best, too; she was not out wool-gathering, that is clear,” said the shepherd, slowly.

“But what are we to do, father? We can’t leave her here, and we have not found Fairy and Charlie yet.”

“We must leave her here for the present, Jack; she is dead, and must have been killed on the spot; I expect Rover will watch by her till we come back. We must separate; you go back to the police station for a stretcher and some men, while I go on and look for these children. I hope and trust they won’t come across this sight; it would give Fairy a terrible fright. Be as quick as you can, Jack, for if the children are not on the Race Hill we shall have to go in another direction. I’ll meet you at the police-station; I shall be back there by the time you have got the poor old dame carried there. Rover, stay here till Jack comes back.”

No need to tell Rover twice; he laid down by the body at once, and there he would have remained till doomsday if Jack or his master had not returned before; and Jack, though he by no means liked his task, and would far rather have gone on to look for Fairy, obeyed as promptly as Rover.

And where were Fairy and Charlie on this cold, dark November evening in this thick fog? They had not gone to Mount Harry after all, though they had set out with that intention, for as soon as they reached the Brighton-road Fairy had suggested they should go to Brighton instead, and though Charlie, who was rather lazily disposed, hesitated and raised objections, Fairy overthrew them all, and finally succeeded in persuading him to take her.

The object of their walk was to pay a visit to a bird-stuffer in Brighton, and find out the price of an eared-grebe which had lately been shot in the neighbourhood, and which this man, as Jack, who had been over two or three times to look at the bird, had told Fairy, was stuffing and mounting. If only the price were reasonable, a better Christmas present for Jack could not be thought of. He would be wild with joy at possessing this bird, which Fairy described to Charlie from a picture Mr. Leslie had of it. Charlie did not care much what the price was, but he was curious to see this wonderful grebe with the ruff round its neck, so he consented to take Fairy.

“How much do you think it will be, Charlie?” asked Fairy, as they trudged along the muddy road in the mist.

“I don’t know; Gibbons will let us have it ever so much cheaper than anyone else, because Jack so often gives him birds and eggs, and all manner of curiosities. How much can you afford, that is the question?”

“Well, mother will give me something, and John and Mr. Leslie will give me five or ten shillings, and I have got seven myself; I think I can afford a sovereign altogether. You must give something, too, Charlie, you know.”

“That’s all the money I have,” said Charlie, putting his hands into his pockets and producing twopence halfpenny. “That won’t go far,” he added, ruefully.

“Never mind, it will help. I do hope Gibbons will let us have it for a pound,” answered Fairy; and buoyed up with this hope, she walked into Brighton, a good eight miles, without once complaining of being tired.

The bird-stuffer, who knew Charlie well, showed them the grebe with pride; but, alas! Fairy soon learnt that the price was far beyond her means, and feeling very much disappointed, for Jack’s sake, she half repented having taken such a long walk, especially as by the time they left the shop the fog had come on very thick, and the short November day was coming to a close. In spite of this, Charlie insisted on going to the beach to look at the sea for a few minutes, though it was quite out of their way, and Fairy, tired as she was, could not refuse to oblige him when he had come so far to oblige her. Happily a very brief peep at the dull, grey sea in this deepening fog satisfied Charlie, but, nevertheless, it was five o’clock before they started on their eight miles walk back to Lewes, and by the time they were quite clear of the town, which in those days was very much smaller than at present, and on the Lewes-road it was so dark they could not see the road before them, and were obliged to walk slowly in consequence; moreover, Fairy was so tired she hardly knew how to drag one leg before the other.

“There is one comfort,” said Charlie, “it is a straight road; we can’t lose our way, and perhaps we shall meet someone who will give us a lift.”

“I wish we could. How dark it is, Charlie. Are we half way yet, do you think?” asked poor Fairy, whose little feet were so sore she could not keep up with Charlie.

“Half-way? No, not a quarter yet. You are tired, I know, though you won’t own it. I told you it was too far for you; here, take hold of my arm, and I’ll help you along,” said Charlie.

Thus encouraged, Fairy plodded on for another mile or so, during which time one or two carts passed them, but either could not or would not hear their requests for a lift, and one so nearly ran over them in the darkness that they ceased to wish for any more to pass. But before they were half-way home Fairy declared she must stop and rest a little, and Charlie, who knew if anything happened to her he would get all the blame, began to get frightened lest she should faint or be taken ill on the road, far away as they were from any village.

“Will you let me try and carry you, Fairy?” he asked.

“You?” laughed Fairy, in spite of her fatigue; “you carry me? Why, I doubt if Jack could, even. No, thank you; let me rest a little on this tree I nearly fell over, and then I’ll go on again.”

“Very well, but you must not rest long, or you’ll catch cold; besides, we shan’t get home to-night at this rate. Now, when I have counted up to a hundred, I shall haul you up,” said Charlie, beginning to assert a little gentle authority under the circumstances.

Thus they went on, Fairy walking about half-a-mile at first, and then stopping to rest, but each rest grew longer and each walk shorter, and Charlie, who had never had a very high opinion of girls in general, much as he admired Fairy in particular, came to the conclusion that they were all pretty much alike, and that there was not much to choose between them. Poor, weak things, they got tired directly, and could not even walk sixteen miles without making a fuss!

At last, when they were about a mile and a half from the shepherd’s house, and Fairy now could only walk if Charlie supported and led her, they saw a lantern coming towards them, and to their joy found it was John Shelley.

“Oh, John, I am so glad,” cried Fairy, as the shepherd turned the lantern full on her.

“Fairy! Why, my pretty one, where have you been?” cried John.

“To Brighton; and, oh! John, I am so tired; I shall never get home.”

“To Brighton? Charlie, what do you mean by taking her to Brighton? But we will get home first, and talk about that afterwards. Take the lantern, Charlie, and lead the way. The child is dead beat; I must carry her.” And without another word the shepherd took Fairy up in his strong arms and carried her home, stopping now and then to rest, but declaring he was not tired, as she was so light, and he was used to carrying lambs; and was not she his pet lamb?

This was one of his names for Fairy, and finding he did not seem to mind carrying her, she submitted gratefully, for she was so tired she did not care how she got home, as long as she got there somehow.

Mrs. Shelley was at the gate wrapped up in a shawl, and feeling dreadfully nervous about them, although John had not told her of Dame Hursey’s terrible end when he came in an hour ago to say, just as Jack had started off to Mount Caburn to look for the children, he had heard they had been seen in Brighton that afternoon.

“Here they are, Polly, quite safe, only Fairy is tired out,” said John, as he carried Fairy into the house, and placed her in his own chair before the fire.

“Thank God! Children, children, where have you been? But I must tell Jack first; he has just come in, and was going to have some supper and then start off after you, John. Jack, where are you? They are safe,” cried Mrs. Shelley to Jack, who was upstairs.

Down rushed Jack to see for himself that it was true. He looked pale and anxious, for besides the shock of Dame Hursey’s death, he was tired out with his search for Fairy after his day’s work on the downs.

“Well, a pretty chase you have given father and me, Mr. Charlie, dragging Fairy to Brighton in this cheerful weather. If you are not ashamed of yourself, you ought to be.”

“I did not drag her there; I dragged her home, and a pretty tough job it was, I can tell you,” said Charlie.

“It was my fault, Jack, not Charlie’s; I won’t have him scolded; and we had all our walk for nothing, and as John is not angry, I don’t mean to be scolded either,” said Fairy.

“No, John never is angry with you; if he were sometimes you would not be half so much trouble; but come, it is no use making a fuss about it; they are home safely, thank God, so let us have supper,” said Mrs. Shelley.

But somehow, in spite of their fatigue and long fast, no one was hungry except Charlie, whose appetite seldom failed him. Fairy was much too tired to eat, and Mrs. Shelley too glad and thankful to have them all safe around her, while the shepherd and Jack could not forget poor Dame Hursey’s fate, which they were only waiting till Fairy and Charlie were gone to bed to discuss with Mrs. Shelley.

Fairy soon asked to be excused, as she was so tired, and Charlie, having been sent off with a huge piece of bread and cheese to consume at his leisure, John and Jack told Mrs. Shelley of the accident.

“Oh dear! oh dear! and to think it might have been that child, Fairy, or Charlie, instead of poor old Dame Hursey! I shall tell them both to-morrow, and I hope it will be a lesson to them to be more careful in the future. Poor old woman! there will have to be an inquest, of course,” said Mrs. Shelley.

“Yes, the inquest is to-morrow, but there is no one to give evidence except father and me,” said Jack.

However, when Fairy was told the next morning what had happened, it was found she was able to throw a little light on the matter, knowing, as she did, that Dame Hursey had gone to meet her son George the day her death occurred. She had evidently lost her way in the fog after leaving him, and the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of accidental death without any hesitation. Some little discussion was raised as to the umbrella with the name De Thorens cut on the handle, but as it was remembered the last time George Hursey was heard of in Lewes he was living in France, the coroner suggested the umbrella was his, and that he had perhaps given it to his mother to help her home. This theory satisfied everyone but Jack, and he, for reasons of his own, kept his ideas on the subject to himself. He always had thought Dame Hursey knew more about Fairy than anyone, and somehow he could not help thinking this word De Thorens had something to do with the child. He was certain the coroner’s theory was untrue, because he had seen Dame Hursey with this identical umbrella over and over again; moreover, the name was recently cut, and as he knew the old woman could not have done it herself, he guessed her son George did, but why or wherefore he could not determine; only he suspected it had something to do with Fairy. But though he turned the subject over in his own mind again and again as he followed his sheep on the lonely downs, he could make nothing of it, though he felt sure he held the key to the solution of the mystery of Fairy’s origin in his hand, if he only knew how to use it. On the whole, curious as he was about it, he was not sorry to be unable to solve the puzzle since he feared its solution would lead to his separation from Fairy.

If he could have known how that one false step of poor old Dame Hursey’s prevented Fairy from being restored to her parents, shocked as he had been at her terrible death, it is doubtful if he could have regretted her sad end as sincerely as he did.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. — EDUCATIONAL. — MUSIC. — MISCELLANEOUS.

Macaco and F. S. D.—“Macaco” recommends a correspondence class, conducted by a Miss Macarthur, 4, Buckingham-street, Hillhead, Glasgow. We have before drawn attention to a little useful shilling manual called “A Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” chiefly educational, and including religious studies and unions for prayer (Messrs. Griffith and Farran, St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.). By procuring this a choice can be made, as the rules and terms of most of them are given. “F. S. D.” had better try again, by all means, when we give another competition. It will be found, as you say, to do good, even to those who do not prove winners.

Ella.—You might find the first instruction books in history, geography, and grammar at a secondhand bookstall for a mere trifle. Later on, you may have the means to obtain the more advanced.

Alta.—See our answers under the above heading, so continually repeated in reference to your questions. You are too young to be received as a nurse. See our reply to “L. N.,” page 31, vol. vi. (part for October, 1884).

Iciple.—We do not recommend teachers and Board-school mistresses to look for engagements in the colonies, however well supplied with certificates. Nevertheless, to render the matter more certain you had better obtain information and advice at the Women’s Emigration office, in Dorset-street, Portman-square, W.

Jemima.—1. We can only say to you what we have had to say to many—you must accept what terms you can get as a governess, your youth being against you: a “fault that will mend.” The trainer and caretaker, morally and physically, of children and young people under age is paid for her experience and extensive knowledge of many kinds, not merely for her acquirements in science and art. 2. “The Flowers of the Field,” by the Rev. C. A. Johns, is a nice book of the kind you require (43, Piccadilly, W.).

S. B. O. F. W.—We think your writing would pass for the examination you name; but if rounded a little it would be prettier. If you wish to know how you may serve Christ, read His own words (in the four gospels) and those of His apostles. Be much in prayer for the aid of the Holy Spirit, and try to perform the daily duties of life as in His sight. Deny yourself for others, control your temper, and set a good example.

Dinah begs us to give her “a great ‘hunch’ of advice” as to the kind of instrument she may purchase for ten shillings, because, having rather limited means, amounting to “tenpence per week,” she “could not give a high price.” She thinks “a bango would suit her, because much like a nigger,” etc. We advise her to go to a musical instrument shop and see what she can get for the price she names.

Rob Roy.—One of the largest organs in the world is, we believe, that which you may see in the Royal Albert Hall, South Kensington. It is by Willis. It contains 111 sounding stops, and nearly 8,000 pipes. Next to it is the organ in St. George’s Hall, Liverpool, which has 5,739 pipes; and the Crystal Palace organ has 4,568 pipes. The organ may be splendidly played by a woman, but, on account of the foot pedals, it is by no means suitable for her. The strain upon the back and lower part of the frame is very apt to result in physical injury.

Mary Bird.—There is no reason why you should not play the flute, if you have one, excepting that it distorts the shape of the mouth—at least, for the time—and it is, we suppose, on this account unusual as an instrument for female culture. The clarionette would be equally objectionable for some faces, yet it is not unfrequently adopted by women. The oldest tune or piece of music in existence is of Hebrew origin—i.e., the “Blessing of the Priests,” which is used in the Spanish and Portuguese synagogues, and was sung in the Temple at Jerusalem from very remote times.

Sister to “Caged Beauty.”—Your request will be considered. We have a special interest in our girls and other readers scattered over our far-off colonies. Your letter is well expressed, and your handwriting is legible and fairly good.

“A Bothering Girl.”—The books of Esdras are in the collection called the “Apocrypha,” and this may be had from any library. These books are not inspired, though much that is good is to be found in them, together with curious fables and traditions. The books of the Maccabees are much thought of as historical works of great antiquity. A list of the canonical books of both the Old and the New Testaments is to be found in all Bibles, and that of the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah is included amongst them.

Emma.—The reason that some words are printed in italics in the Bible is simply this: that there are no corresponding words in the original language from which the translation was made; but the English words supplied were necessary to give the meaning, which could not be understood without them. Perhaps when we give the following example you will understand what we mean. We all know what is meant when people say, “How do you do?” but translate it into French, word for word, and the meaning would be lost.

Dearie should learn to spell better. She speaks of the word “desert,” which denotes a barren, uncultivated waste of arid sandy land, but by which she says she means the last course at dinner, that of fruit, ice, and sweetmeats. Now this course is called “dessert,” and the emphasis in its pronunciation is placed on the second syllable, and as if spelt with a “z” (“de-zert”), whereas in the word “desert” it is on the first, as “dez-ert.” “Bivouac” is pronounced as “biv-oo-ak.” Her writing is very pretty, and we thank her for her kind letter.

Anglican Catholic.—We do not give private addresses. St. Augustine was sent over to this country by Pope Gregory the Great as a missionary, Christianity having been nearly exterminated by the invasions with which it was so terribly harassed. He found a Christian church at Canterbury (St. Martin’s), where Queen Bertha worshipped, having Luithard as her priest and director. She was a French princess, and brought him over with her. At that early time the Roman Church had not evolved nor promulgated many of her modern dogmas.

Mary M.—It is not essential that you should send your address in writing to the Editor, as in many cases it might hinder the expression, feelings, and difficulties with the full freedom necessary to ensure satisfactory advice.

Edmunda Yorke.—You had better write and tell him that, having so forgotten himself and taken undue advantage of the intimacy involved in the relations between a doctor and his patient on the occasion of your last visit, your self-respect compelled you, with much regret, to forego the benefit of his treatment, and you would be obliged if he would return your book and send in his account.

E. M. Trill.—You will receive what you require by attending to the directions given at the end of every article by the “Lady Dressmaker.” The Editor cannot attend to that department.

One Seeking Light.—1. We recommend you to join the Odd Minutes Society, of which the secretary is Miss Powell, of Luctons, Buckhurst-hill, Essex. She will send you all particulars about it, and we think it is exactly the useful work that you require. 2. Read Isaiah i. 16, 17, 18, lv. 7, and Ezekiel xxxiii. compared with St. John vi. 37, and Hebrews vii. 25.

Violet.—1. Place the steel ornaments in oil, and leave them there for some time to soak off the rust, and then rub well with a soft toothbrush and chamois-leather. 2. Your handwriting is not formed. Spell “truly” without the “e.” Final “e’s” in adjectives are dropped when they are formed into adverbs.

Allegro, Mab, Gipsy.—There is Miss Mason’s Home of Rest for Christian Workers, 7 and 8, Cambridge-gardens, Kilburn, N.W.; seaside branch, Burlington-place, Eastbourne. Terms, from 7s. to £1 per week. There is also The Cottage Home of Rest, 2, Tilsey Villas, King’s-road, Norbiton (close to Richmond Park). Apply for form of admission to Mrs. J. M. Pearson, The Grange, Kingston-hill. Also see our answer to “Daisy.” We think that Cobham, Surrey, would suit you.

Idalia (Demerara).—We read your nice letter with interest, and tried to realise the sketch you give of your surroundings. How we wish we could see the “pink and red morning glory,” the “Hushfalia,” “Waxplant,” and Stephanotis “running all up to the banisters on both sides,” etc. Accept our thanks for the kind wish expressed to send us some of them. We do “take the will for the deed.” By some means your silver bracelet has become oxidised, and your only plan will be to send it to a silversmith. Your writing, if sloped a little from right to left, would be excellent.

Omnia Vincit Amor.—The form of speech, in such common use, to which you refer, is perfectly understood (in the real meaning assigned to it) by the visitors to whom it is addressed. Thus it is not a deception. There are “at home days,” and “not at home days.” On the former your mistress will be found in her reception-room; on the latter, she will not be found awaiting visitors there. If persons in society agree together to adopt a certain phrase to signify a certain thing, and not as a deception, you may use that phrase, at the orders of your mistress, in the sense in which she meant, and her visitors will receive it. Your letter and the verses, though incorrect in composition, do you credit, and we wish you God-speed!

Hope.—We recommend you to get a small sixpenny manual on canaries and their treatment. Your bird has probably been in a draught. See our article at page 775, vol. iii. Our correspondents are as numerous as ever, and the difficulty is to find space for all the answers written. Your handwriting is not formed.

Marian.—The Jewish year begins with Tisri, which month follows immediately after the new moon following the autumnal equinox; but the ecclesiastical year begins with the seventh month—viz., Nizan or Abib. The following is the entire list:—Tisri, Marchesvan, Chislev, Thebet, Sebat, Adar, Nisan, Tjar, Givan, Thammuz, Ab, and Elal.

Miscel.—When reading or reciting to a public audience, it is usual to stand, unless the piece to be read be very long. You should (or might) hold the letter. “If you were to see So-and-so painted by so poor a painter, and bad at that” (bad event for a bad attempt). This is the meaning of the Americanism.

Inquirer.—Chemists have signs of their trade like other tradesmen. The hairdresser has a striped pole, the publican chequers, or a bush, etc. Divide your ancient from your modern coins, and let each of these be sub-divided according to size and age. Have little trays with a succession of shallow circular cells lined with coloured paper to receive them, deep enough to preserve them from any touch of the tray that lies on it.

Ignoramus.—You could clean the large white skin hearthrug by means of powdered plaster of Paris. There is no difficulty in making a small copy of a large picture; the difficulty would be in enlarging.

SHE STRETCHETH OUT HER HAND TO THE POOR;
YEA, SHE REACHETH FORTH HER HANDS TO THE NEEDY.

PROV. XXXI, 20.

M. W. A.—On a liberal computation, the cost of keeping a pony varies from £10 to £20 per annum. The grazing will cost less than that of a cow, and £4 or £5 would cover it. You may give him turnips and carrots, and scraps from the house of vegetables and bread. Oats would cost about 10s. a month; but they are really quite unnecessary. A cartload of hay at a corn-merchant’s price would be about £5, more or less, and this should last one pony from the end of a summer’s grass (about the end of October) till the beginning of May next year, when grass would be resumed. But unless the animal were groomed and harnessed by yourself, you must also take the expense of a groom into your account, and the cost and repair of a trap.

Kathleen.—Rest your foot for a couple of days, and if inflamed poultice it a few times; then cut the nail quite straight at the top, and scrape (with a penknife or scrap of glass) down the centre to thin the nail in the middle, and so dispose the sides to rise up instead of bending downwards and inwards, from the convex (or rounded) shape of the nail. It might be best at first to cut the nail rather in a “u” or “v” shape in the middle, instead of quite straight across, as you may do afterwards.

Perplexed One.—The only wrong we see about the whole matter is that you did not confide all to your mother. A girl should keep no secret of her own from her. She is the adviser and the protector of her daughter, and if desirable that you should renew your acquaintance with him, she will know best what steps to take. Never let her find out by chance what concerns you so seriously, more especially when anyone else has been made a confidant.

Guinevere.—1. The term “furniture” is too vague to enable us to give you advice. You do not even say whether it be wood, stuff, or leather. It is very hard to remove inkstains, but if you refer to our indexes you will find more than one recipe for removing them. The probability is that in taking them out you extract the dye of the material likewise. 2. Break up a small stick of chocolate into a cup, and pour the least drop of boiling water upon it. When dissolved, pour boiling milk upon it, stirring all the time.

Lange.—Sponge the oil-cloths with milk and water, and rub them dry; then rub over with beeswax, dissolved in a little linseed oil. We “thing” your handwriting is not formed, but promises well. We think little girls ought to be “shy.” It will wear off quite as much and as soon as it will be desirable for you to get rid of it.

Christabel.—Probably the letter may be returned to your friend through the Dead Letter Office. You write a curious hand, but it is very legible, which is the great object to be gained.

Sharp does not always merit her nickname. She says: “A gentleman said I have dreamy Southern eyes. I am as a rule treated kindly. Perhaps it is because I have such pure blue orbs.” Now, little lady, you have made a blunder—sharp as you may be—for Southern eyes are black, not blue. 2. Weymouth is a very nice place, and while there we advise you to write copies and learn the correct spelling of what you call “Wensday.” For all particulars respecting clerkships in the Telegraph Department, you must apply to the Civil Service Commissioners, in Cannon-row, W.C.

A. M. H.—Gainsborough’s “Duchess” was at Agnew’s when it disappeared.

R. S. V. P.—Clean your white wool shawl with flour, or rinse it in a lather of soft tepid water and curd-soap, or in bran and water. We are glad that you found our recipe for apple pickle so satisfactory. We congratulate you on your writing.

T. C. S.—Have you consulted your mother’s wishes respecting your leaving home to be a missionary? Remember that however excellent a profession may be, your first duty is to your parents. You are only in your teens, and, even were you of age, God’s providence might have other work for you to do. Your prayer should be “Lord, what wouldst Thou have me to do?” and He will probably answer you through the voice of your parents. “Requite” them; and if they approve of your desire, write to Miss Lloyd, 143, Clapham-road, S.W., secretary of the Mission Training House for Ladies, The Poplars, Addlestone, Surrey.

Clarrie.—The author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” is Mrs. Craik, née Muloch.

Deeply Anxious.—Be at peace. You have confessed to God and a sister, and have truly repented and made restitution. There is no occasion for your telling anyone else, nor of doing more than making the little present you propose to give. Sin under all these circumstances is sin forgiven.

Possie.—The edelweiss is an Alpine flower. It resembles a star, with irregular rays, cut out of frosted velvet, of a cream colour, and there is a pretty centre to it. So many travellers have carried away the roots of this plant, that the Swiss Government has issued an order prohibiting it under a penalty.

Star.—We have many times warned inquirers that those who advertise for used English postage stamps do so for nefarious purposes—that is to say, they obliterate the postmarks and defraud the Government by selling them for use a second time. For felony like this the severest punishment is due. Do not lend yourself to such evil doings.

Gwen.—The little roll or piece of bread used at dinner is generally placed within the folds of the napkin or at the right of the plate.

Ventnor Lassie.—You should take the prescription to a good chemist. He will understand all about it, and give further directions; but our advice is, leave nature alone, and do not mind the quizzing. If they saw you were quite indifferent to it they would desist.

Margaret.—There is a swimming club held in the Queen’s-road, Bayswater, just beyond Whiteley’s, besides at 309, Regent-street, W., and elsewhere.

Mayfly.—There is a Home of Rest at Malvern, where girls in business, ladies of small means, and servants may be received at from 7s. to £1 per week. Members of the Girls’ Friendly Society are taken at the lowest rate named, and any respectable girls recommended by two members or two associates of that society will be eligible and received, room permitting.

Grandpapa’s Worry.—1. We must refer you to advice already given in our pages respecting the constitutionally damp condition of either hands or feet. There is no such thing as “fate.” 2. There is a Divine Providence, and we are told that evils threatened, and even prophesied by God’s command, may be averted through repentance and prayer. Nothing happens by chance, and not only this world, but the whole universe, is ruled and sustained with a regularity and method like that of the most perfect clockwork.

Smike.—The 29th of February, 1865, was a Wednesday.

Scotch Nell.—We should prefer the Shetland pony, if well trained and sure-footed, for our own use.

Lucy must take the pebbles to a lapidary and have them drilled.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Born by Lake Tritonis.

[2] Chrysos: gold. Elephantus: ivory.

[3] Mountains between Saxony and Bohemia.

[4] These wives and daughters of the miners had always worked at point lace, but this was a quieter and easier work which Frau Barbara taught them.

---

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

Page 176: Dittograph “not” corrected—“does not always merit”.]