The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 1021

n after-life, when Catherine tried to review the events of that strange summer, although every detail of her stay in Switzerland stood out in startling distinctness, she could never remember anything about the journey home. It seemed to pass in a dream, and she saw, as in a vision, the flitting crowds at the railway stations, the swarms of strange, unknown faces, the gleams of sunlight on field and stream as the train rushed by them, and at last the sea and the white cliffs of England again. Ten days had changed her from an eager, impulsive girl to a mature woman, self-reliant, not only in intention, but in fact. The well-known approach to her old rooms convinced her of the reality of things. “And now,” she thought, “for the old life, with its ordinary cares and business. Well, it has to be endured.”

But her anticipations were destined to be falsified. Her landlady met her with mingled relief and surprise. A letter had come that morning marked “Immediate.” She had not known where to send it, but now Miss West had come it would be off her mind.

“A letter for me!” cried Catherine, her thoughts at once rushing to Granville and Margaret, and then immediately reduced to order by a little common sense. “I so seldom have any letters, surely you must be mistaken.”

But no, the letter was there, a large square envelope, sealed with a heavy crest. She opened it with a good deal of curiosity, and read:—

The arrival of this letter was a positive relief to Catherine. It gave her something to do and something to occupy her mind, and she had so much dreaded those quiet days spent alone in her rooms before the school opened again. Now there was no time for regret. With feverish energy she looked out her train in Bradshaw, despatched her trunks, had some lunch, and started out again on her travels. The journey took some time. St. John’s is a little watering-place on the south coast, almost suburban in character, so accessible is it from London, and with that peculiarly uninteresting and unfinished look distinctive of places that have been developed as a speculation. A bran new promenade and a flaunting “Kursaal” are its chief attractions, and at each end of the bay the giant scaffolding prophetic of some immense hotel or terrace projects its hideous outline between the sky and sea. Catherine, fresh from the magnificence of the Alps, shuddered as the train ran into the overcrowded little station.

She collected her belongings and was about to call a cab when a man in livery touched his hat, and, asking her if she were not for Frampton House, opened the door of a brougham that stood waiting. Catherine got in, and realised for the first time how tired she was; but she did not have much time for reflection, for in a very few minutes the carriage drew up at a large house facing the sea.

She was ushered into a dimly-lighted hall, up a broad flight of stairs, and soon found herself in a bedroom looking out over the promenade. She was slowly unfastening her jacket, trying to become accustomed to the sudden change in her surroundings, when the door opened and a little old lady walked in.

She was decidedly below middle height, but her carriage and dress gave her a dignity that would hardly belong by right to one so small of stature. Her fine delicate features were framed in a mist of lace, and underneath the neatly-parted bands of silver hair her dark eyes flashed with a brilliance undimmed by age or suffering. But her face was lined and worn, and the tiny hand that she extended to her visitor was almost transparent. Catherine was surprised to find how firm was the grasp in which her own was taken; but she soon found that this mingled frailty and dignity were but an index to the woman’s whole character. An iron will within a tender frame, resolution fighting with femininity, this had been the tragedy of her life; even now the fatal disease with which she was struggling was kept at bay by sheer force of will.

“So you are Catherine West,” she said, after the first greeting, standing at a little distance that she might have a better view of the girl. She crossed to the window and drew up the blind before Catherine guessed her intention, and then continued her inspection. “Ah, not much like your mother, much more like what I was in my young days, but taller—it is the fashion to be tall now. Brown hair, blue eyes, fair complexion—but you are tired now. Yes, certainly you are a West, and that is satisfactory.”

Aunt Cicely retired, and Catherine, shaking out her one evening gown, tried to make herself as presentable as possible. She feared the disapproval of this daintily-attired old lady, though the large pier-glass beneath the electric light flashed back to her a defiance of criticism. Then she found her way down to the immense drawing-room, like a conservatory in its wealth of glass, but somewhat inferior as regards warmth. She found out afterwards that her aunt had been ordered to St. John’s for her health, and had taken this large, new-fashioned house on the recommendation of a land agent without having seen it.

Aunt Cicely was not such a terrible person after all. The fact was, she was agreeably surprised by this relation, whom she had summoned in tardy reparation for the injury she had done her nephew. Catherine’s father had chosen his wife from an inferior class, and his aunt had concluded that their daughter would be bourgeoise in the extreme. She had expected a short, dumpy girl, with big wrists and red hands, and saw instead a reflection, as it were, from the days of her own girlhood. A storm of grief and regret swept through the passionate heart that years of worldliness had been unable to entirely chill, and a resolution to make Catherine’s life as full and happy as her own had been empty and desolate filled her mind. But her manner was still distant and repellant; she could not easily throw aside her reserve or give play at once to the instincts of tenderness that had been distorted and diverted all her life.

But as the days wore on the two grew nearer and nearer to one another. Catherine’s sore and wounded heart, still bleeding from the effort of her great sacrifice, found wonderful solace in the care and attention she lavished on her aunt. The absolute necessity of some object of solicitude and tenderness is more obvious to most women than the desire for a particular lover. If Catherine had felt that Granville had any need of her she would not have run away from him; the liberty to love was far more to her than the desire for his devotion to herself. But that brief experience had wonderfully deepened and expanded her character. Before that, she would have viewed her aunt’s idiosyncrasies with some contempt and treated them with impatient forbearance. Now a great flood of pity filled her soul for this unhappy woman, who had wrecked her life by her own self-will, and yet bore the result with such unexampled fortitude. And Cicely, on the other hand, found that after all she had not forgotten how to love. After the tragedy of her youth she had made the repression of her emotions her great end; naturally ardent, she had striven to show the world an impassive and indifferent countenance: now, on the brink of dissolution, the long-suppressed fire burst forth. She was more like the Cicely of her youth than she had been for forty years.

Her tenderness manifested itself in a hundred ways. She had made Catherine, immediately after her arrival, send in the resignation of her post; and though the girl remonstrated with her, and lamented her loss of independence, she only replied that she could not possibly do without her, and that it was her plain duty to remain where she was. But the head mistress was travelling in Norway, so that the letter did not reach her at once, and was forwarded from place to place in pursuit of her. Catherine knew that if Granville or Margaret should wish to find her, they would at once apply at the address on the visiting card that she had given the latter—the address of her rooms. She was, therefore, careful to avoid telling the landlady where she had gone, sending directions to have her few belongings forwarded to the cloak-room at Victoria, whence they were afterwards despatched to her. In this way she thought she had concealed her retreat, at least for the present. For the discovery of a rich aunt had not at all altered Catherine’s sentiments or caused her to regret her resolution. She was quite as sure as Margaret that Granville’s interests could best be advanced by a marriage with Lady Blanche, and, in spite of his note, was by no means convinced of his attachment to herself. The idea that in the event of her aunt’s death she would be the probable heiress had not occurred to her, nor did she realise what this might mean, till one evening about a fortnight after her arrival, when the two women were sitting together in the twilight.

Catherine had been playing softly on the piano, and now she sat at the window, gazing over the darkening sea with eyes that obviously saw nothing. She did not know that her aunt’s keen glance was fixed upon her face, and suddenly she gave a little sigh.

“What are you thinking of, my dear?” said the old lady.

Catherine crimsoned, for, to tell the truth, she had been reviewing for the thousandth time that episode on the mountain-side. She hesitated, and then answered—

“Oh, about a great many things.”

“Catherine,” asked her aunt again, “have you ever had a lover?”

“Oh, what makes you ask?” said the girl, swift waves of colour chasing each other from her white forehead to her slender neck.

“That means, I suppose, that you have. I thought that sigh could not be for nothing.”

“No, indeed,” stammered the girl, “really I haven’t—at least, I suppose—I don’t think——”

“My dear, I am sure there is somebody. You must not think me very prying and inquisitive, but I insist on knowing the particulars.”

Catherine grew indignant.

“You have no right; and besides, there is nothing to tell.”

“Pardon me, I have a right,” said her aunt. “Do you not understand that I have left all my property to you, that you will be a very rich woman, and that I have some interest in knowing on whom the responsibility of the management will devolve? Come, my dear, imagine that I am your mother, and that no one cares more for your happiness than I. Did it happen in Switzerland?”

And so at last, by dint of many questions and suggestions, she drew out Catherine’s little story.

“Well, my dear,” she said, when it was finished, and Catherine’s shoulders were shaking in a storm of sobs on her lap, “I must say that I think you have behaved very foolishly, although I appreciate your motives. You should at least have given him the opportunity of a definite declaration.”

“But I don’t believe that he really cares; it was only a momentary impulse, perhaps, and besides, how could I help him? And Margaret, at any rate, suspected that he cared for someone else.”

“But his letter afterwards—you say he was a gentleman?”

“Of course!” cried Catherine, indignant at the insinuation.

“Then it is most probable that he was in earnest. How absurd girls are! To risk the happiness of your whole life for a sentimental idea! Now what you must do, and at once, is to write to his sister, and enclose your address.”

“Aunt Cicely!” exclaimed Catherine angrily.

“Yes, why not?”

“Don’t you see that it would undo all that I have already accomplished? He would be sure to hear, and it would be like asking him to come to me!”

“And what of that? He would probably be only too glad. And remember that you are a better match now. If he cared for you when you were a little insignificant governess, without any connexions as far as he knew, he would care much more now you are my acknowledged heiress.”

“It is too bad to say that! He is not at all that kind of man. Why, Margaret told me that it was only her money that stood between him and Lord Mayne’s sister.”

Aunt Cicely smiled wisely. Catherine’s warmth was merely a further revelation of the state of her feelings. “At least, you must do as I wish in this matter. You must certainly write to Miss Gray,” she said decidedly.

“I cannot—I dare not—I will not!” returned the girl with equal emphasis.

Aunt Cicely grew angry. Her will had been so long dominant that she could not brook opposition. And in proportion to her increased determination, Catherine’s defiance became more and more resolute. It was the battle of two wills, and the girl had herself scarcely realised till then how strong her own could be.

At last her aunt moved away, her whole frame shaking with indignation, and tottered towards the door; but as she reached it, she turned, and, lifting her hand, exclaimed—

“Remember! From this time you are disinherited! Not a penny of my money shall ever reach you!”

Catherine drew herself up with girlish dignity. “I have given you no right to speak like that,” she said. “I have never shown any desire for your money. I was independent of your favour before, and I can be independent again.”

The door closed, and Catherine sank exhausted into an arm-chair. But when the first impulse of resentment had subsided, she began to have regrets. After all, her aunt was an old woman, and however irritating she might be, her age entitled her to forbearance. And she was ill and suffering, and any excitement was bad for her. Catherine dried her eyes, and ran lightly upstairs to the old lady’s room. She tapped at the door, but received no response: and after waiting a long time she concluded that her aunt’s resentment was still unabated, and crept miserably to bed.

Aunt Cicely, tossing uneasily to and fro, was not less remorseful. But she was still convinced that her advice was sound, and that the girl should have taken it. After all, had she not the experience of a lifetime to guide her? Reviewing her brilliant girlhood and the long years of desolation and loneliness that had resulted from her own foolish pride, she resolved emphatically that another life should not be sacrificed in the same manner. If Catherine would not take the necessary steps to bring about an understanding, she would take them herself. She had known Lord Mayne’s father, and had followed the son’s career with much interest. She could use her knowledge of the family and introduce herself to the latter, from whom she would, no doubt, be able to learn all that was necessary about his secretary. And if she approved of him, she did not doubt that she would be able to bring the match about. She waited impatiently for the morning, and at six o’clock rang for her maid.

“I must go to London by the 7.30 train,” she said. “Tell Wilkins to have the brougham ready in an hour. And don’t disturb Miss Catherine. She was up late last night, so you might take some breakfast to her at nine o’clock. Now help me to dress.”

(To be concluded.)

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A STORY FOR GIRLS.

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

UNDER A CLOUD.

t comes to this, Oscar. I myself believe in you. You have been careless, easy-going, lax, but I have full faith in your integrity. Yet it comes to this: you will have to make up your mind to be under a cloud for the present. Without some sort of proof it would be useless to drag in Cyril’s name. With pain I say to you that I myself greatly fear the sin does lie at Cyril’s door. But with your memory uncertain, and his absolute denial of being concerned in the matter, it seems hopeless to seek to bring it home. It would be a source of bitterness at home, and would almost break my mother’s heart.”

“I would much rather bear the blame myself than that that should happen,” said Oscar in a broken voice; but North made a little impatient gesture.

“Don’t take it like that,” he said. “I have no patience with one person bearing blame for another—the innocent for the guilty, letting the scamp go off free—when he could be caught. But in this case there seems at present no way of getting at him. I don’t want to say harsh things of my own brother, but I have had one or two shocks with regard to him during these past six months, and that is why I do not find it difficult to regard him as the culprit. But you are not without blame, Oscar. I cannot acquit you, though I shall never believe that you had any hand in the abduction of the money. You haven’t it in you. But you ought to take your duties to yourself and others more seriously; and when money is entrusted to you, nothing should ever induce you to place it in any hands but those for whom it was given you. It is a breach of trust, whether you think of it in that light or not.”

Oscar was very humble; he had talked the whole matter out with North, and had kept back nothing. It had been an immense relief to him, and he was deeply grateful for the faith reposed in him by his cousin. North believed in him; he shared his fear that Cyril was the real defaulter, yet he did not see, as things now stood, how it could be brought home to him; and for Oscar to seem to try and shelter himself behind a vague accusation brought against his own kinsman seemed a most undesirable line of action. Oscar was almost relieved not to be forced to take it. With his temperament it seemed easier to bear odium and suspicion than to try and fasten them upon others.

“You must leave the matter in my hands,” said North, after a long silence. “I will see my father and make the best I can out of the case. It’s a serious bit of business, look at it as you will. And if he acquits you of any embezzlement, he must perforce know that there is somebody else not to be trusted in his employ. It will be hard on you all, Oscar; and it will be a part of your punishment to know that this difficulty could not have arisen but for your easy-going ways, of which I have warned you before.”

“Yes,” answered Oscar, “I can see now how wrong I have been. I deserve to suffer. But I hope nobody else will fall under suspicion. The other fellows in the office have really nothing to do with it. I am as certain as possible that——”

“Yes, yes, I know; and, Oscar, I shall not let the matter rest without trying to get at the real truth. And my father is too just a man to believe any person guilty without proof. But his confidence in your trustworthiness must be in some sort shaken. I do not believe he will think you have robbed him, but he must think that by your carelessness you have allowed him to be robbed, and, indeed, Oscar, whether Cyril be the defaulter or not, it is in a way the truth.”

Oscar winced, but he accepted the rebuke humbly. North sat silent awhile staring into the fire, and then said thoughtfully and rather gravely—

“But I shall not let the matter rest there. I shall do my utmost to unravel the mystery. We have one possible chance. My father has the numbers of the bank-notes. They may be difficult to trace after this lapse of time, but it is possible we may be able to hear something of them.”

“And you will try—even though—it might be—Cyril?”

“Of course I shall try,” answered North. “Do you think I want others to bear the blame, even though the real defaulter may be a brother? Besides, Oscar, if it is true, as I sometimes fear, that Cyril is getting into dangerous company and dangerous ways, do you believe that it is true kindness to seek to shelter him at the expense of truth? Discovery and exposure at the outset have been the saving of many a young man in like circumstances. I don’t know whether you know anything about Cyril’s goings on just now, but I have an impression that he is getting amongst a set of betting and racing men, and that these frequent journeys to London, ostensibly to read at the British Museum, have in reality a very different object.”

“I know very little about Cyril now,” answered Oscar. “He was friendly at first, and used to invite me to go about with him, but latterly I have been busy; and I found too much card-playing among his friends for my taste—or my pocket. For several months I have seen very little of him.”

North’s mouth looked set and grim.

“If he is taking to play, and attending race meetings, as I fear, it would easily account for his desire for money, although my father has been liberal to him; and I know he has given him extra help latterly, believing it to go in fees or something for this law reading. I hope I do not wrong Cyril when I express strong doubts whether the bulk of it is used for such purposes at all.”

Oscar saw by all this that North was seriously disturbed about his brother, and he was able to understand then why it was that he had from the first been disposed to think Cyril might have had a hand in the abduction of the money. It was a comfort to him to feel that North’s trust in him was not shaken, but he knew that he had a bad time before him both at home and in the office.

Nor was he mistaken. That a sum of forty pounds and over had been made away with, and a counterfeit receipt given for it, were facts there was no blinking. And it was known that Oscar had received the money, and could give no satisfactory account of what he had done with it.

His fellow-clerks, with whom he was popular, did not suspect him of theft, but concluded he had been swindled by some fellow at Jones and Wright’s.

“He is so easy-going, he’d never notice or care so long as he got any sort of receipt,” they said one to the other; but Oscar knew he had never paid the money over, and disliked the thought that blame should attach to anybody through him.

His uncle said very little to him, but his manner became more cold and formal; and before long a new confidential clerk was introduced in the place of Curtis, Mr. Tom remarking in the hearing of the junior clerks—

“I had hoped not to fill that place, but to let the younger men already here have the chance of working up to it; but I find it does not do to be without an experienced and trustworthy head.”

Of Cyril Oscar saw almost nothing for a whole week. He went off to London, with the excuse of his law studies, and did not return till the talk about the lost money had pretty well blown over.

Oscar begged his uncle to take the forty pounds from his own small fortune, held in trust till his majority, now quickly approaching, but he had only received an ambiguous reply to his request. His aunt continued to treat him kindly, but he could feel the difference in her manner, and Raby was rather inclined to ignore him altogether.

“It is so very disagreeable to have to talk about one’s family,” she said. “Of course everybody knows something unpleasant has happened, and I have had to tell the Bensons all about it. Lionel thinks Oscar had much better be shipped off to the Colonies; I almost wish father would get him away from here. It’s so disagreeable having him always about. One does not like to be unkind, but one can’t trust him or like him.”

That was how Raby felt, and showed it in her manner. She was of course much influenced by what the Bensons thought, and they naturally concluded that Oscar was guilty.

“Lots of young fellows get into hobbles, and then make a grand fiasco getting out,” Lionel had said. “I know Oscar got amongst some card-playing fellows once. Cyril does too, for that matter; but Cyril can afford it, he has plenty of money. Most likely Oscar got into a hole, and was tempted to get out of it by hook or by crook as he could. But I think it’s a mistake his staying on here. He’d be happier and do better in a fresh place. That’s my opinion, if you want it.”

Nobody but Raby did particularly want it. She, however, took her cue from Lionel, and she somewhat influenced her mother, and altogether Oscar’s present life was not a very happy one. He did his best to be patient and cheerful, and strove hard to conquer the tendency in his temperament which had been the indirect cause of all this trouble.

North was uniformly kind and encouraging, and showed him that his efforts were not unobserved, and he had his brighter days also in between the dark ones; as when Ray once asked him to drive her across to spend Saturday afternoon with May Lawrence, and talked to him quite pleasantly and freely the whole way.

It was a delightful change to him to get right away from the town and its associations, and May was pleased to see them, asked innumerable questions about Sheila, and wished she could be out in such a beautiful place and climate.

Rather to the surprise of Ray and Oscar, though apparently not to that of their young hostess herself, North walked in about tea-time, and was very cordially received by May.

From their talk they were evidently on excellent terms, and it was plain that it was no unusual thing for North to spend his free afternoon here, though his family knew nothing of his movements except that he always took a long walk on Saturday afternoons.

He left before his sister, as he preferred walking to the back seat of the little phaeton; and when he was gone May said with something rather like enthusiasm—

“I do think there is something very fine about your brother, Ray; he is so different from most of the young men one sees. He has such a lot to do and think of. Life is all work with him and not play. I don’t mean just money-getting. He wants to make things thrive, of course; but he wants just as much to do good to the work-people and teach them to live better lives and care for higher things. I’m so tremendously interested in it all. I suppose you do a lot to help him?”

Ray rather stared and then laughed.

“I think North must talk more to you than he does at home. I know he has some hobbies of his own, and spends a lot of evenings at the club and lecture-room; but I don’t know much about the details. North isn’t much of a one to talk.”

“He talks a good bit to me,” said May. “It’s awfully interesting. If I were his sister I should want to do a lot. He always speaks of you as his favourite sister, Ray.”

Ray coloured with pleasure, for North was decidedly her hero, although she did not know so very much about the way in which his spare time was spent. Like many men who work hard in one groove, North was reticent at home of his doings, and even to Ray he only spoke rather vaguely of the plans and projects in his mind. Working, not talking, was distinctly North’s forte, and Ray wondered how it had come to pass that May had broken down his reserve and won his confidence.

“I thought it was Cyril who came here to talk—not North,” she said. “Cyril always speaks as though he were very intimate here.”

May slightly tossed her head, and her lip curled; she seemed about to speak rather scornfully, but recollecting herself she answered quietly—

“Cyril does not come very often now, and I think his talk is more interesting to himself than to other people, for it is mostly about himself. I hope you don’t mind my saying that much, Ray; but indeed it is true.”

“Oh, I know!” answered Ray, laughing good-temperedly. “We all know that Cyril is a bit of a poser, or whatever you call it. But I think our confidence in him as a hero got rather a shock on one occasion. It’s not the fashion at home to poke fun at Cyril; but I’m sure other people must laugh at him often!”

Ray laughed as she spoke, and May joined in; the two girls were very fairly intimate by this time, for May had never dropped her friends in the town since those summer days when the friendship had grown and flourished.

“She is a nice girl,” said Ray, as she and Oscar drove away. “I once began to think I might have her for a sister-in-law, but I don’t think that is going to come off. Indeed, I almost hope not! Cyril is not half good enough for her!”

Oscar was silent; the subject of Cyril was painful to him. Ray glanced at him, and then said suddenly—

“Oscar, North has told me something about how things stand; he has told me more than the rest know. I have an awful fear that Cyril is worse than any of us have ever thought! Sometimes I am quite miserable about it, and you getting the blame in a way. It is too bad!”

“I think people have been very kind to me,” said Oscar slowly, “and we do not know anything against Cyril.”

“We know he was a coward once, and told a lie to screen himself! That was quite bad enough. Oscar, I sometimes feel that a man who could do all that could do much worse if the temptation were strong enough. North says the same.”

“North is a very generous fellow—a very fine fellow!” cried Oscar, with sudden enthusiasm; “and I hope he is going to get his reward—some day!”

“His reward? What do you mean?” asked Ray quickly.

“Didn’t it come into your head to-day? It did into mine. I think Miss Lawrence may be, perhaps, your sister-in-law still!”

“Oh,” cried Ray, with wide-open eyes, “do you really think so? I never thought of such a thing! Yet really it might be. But what would Cyril say?”

(To be continued.)

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By “THE NEW DOCTOR.”

THE BREAKFAST.

The subject of “diet and digestion” is a well-worn theme, and more books and papers are written upon this than upon any other medical subject.

But though the tale is old, there are variations and embellishments which are quite new; and it is in an original manner that we wish to speak to you on this old but oft-forgotten subject of physiological diet.

We are going to teach you health from the kitchen and dining-room, two of the most important sources of human suffering, and the chief sources of income of the physician.

For it is in the kitchen that indigestion begins, and if your cook is faultless, and rightly understands her business, you will not get indigestion, save through your own indiscretions in the dining-room.

It is commonly supposed that the chief fault in diet is eating to excess, that is, violation of the laws of moderation. But this is not the commonest mistake, for in most cases where too much food is eaten, it is from faulty methods of eating, and from taking unsuitable food.

The Americans suffer from indigestion more than do any other people in the world; the French suffer perhaps the least. Yet the average Frenchman eats more than the Yankee, but he has made a science of feeding, and notwithstanding that he eats more than the American, he eats it better and more rationally, and therefore his organs digest it more rapidly.

You think it is disgusting to make a science of feeding—pandering to one of the lowest of pleasures? No, you are mistaken; the science is not only just, it is necessary for health. Of course, if your science consists in elaborating dishes to tickle your appetite, to enable you to eat more than you need, it is very wrong. But here it is not science which is to blame, but the person who abuses science.

As soon as we are down in the morning we think of our stomachs, of our breakfast. It is no good telling us that it is irrational to eat breakfast; that as we have done no work yet we need no nourishment; for we thoroughly disbelieve in this argument. It is much better for everyone to take something at breakfast-time, but whether she should make a good square meal at breakfast, and take but a small luncheon, or just pick a little something at breakfast, and make a good meal at midday, depends entirely upon what she is used to.

Many persons take a little fruit before breakfast, and it is not at all a bad plan, for fruit is the natural and best aperient. Because of the difficulty of obtaining fruit and vegetables many of us Londoners eat too much meat, which is very wrong, for excessive meat-eating brings many diseases in its train.

All fruits are not equally digestible, and some kinds are so difficult to digest that they should only be taken by those who are in robust health. All stone-fruit, especially cherries, and all nuts are very indigestible. Fruit is always best when it is picked just before it is eaten, and those who possess the luxury of an orchard or country garden of their own should eat a little fruit from the trees, in the season, every morning before breakfast, when the combination of the fresh fruit and the crisp morning air will do much to brace up the system for the day.

Unripe fruit is no favourite with the stomach, and it may produce severe griping and colic. Much more injurious is over-ripe or decomposing fruit, a very common cause of so-called English cholera.

Certain persons have peculiar idiosyncrasies for certain fruits, especially for strawberries, and at the beginning of the strawberry season attacks of nettle-rash accompanied with severe indigestion, due to eating the fruit, are extremely common.

Now let us go to breakfast. There are plenty of things to choose from; only think a little beforehand, and have some reason for your choice.

Here is the menu:—

Tea, Coffee, Cocoa, Milk.
Rolls and Butter.
Oatmeal Porridge.
Eggs and Bacon.
Fried Fish.
Bloaters.
Marmalade.

What will you take to drink? “Oh, tea is so indigestible, coffee is so bitter, cocoa is so unrefreshing, and milk swarms with tubercle germs! So give me any that you like.” Why? Is this the science of dieting? Who has prepared this meal, that she serves up tea that is indigestible, coffee that is bitter, and milk that swarms with tubercle bacilli? Give her notice at once, and prepare the drinks for yourself; or rather, bring us the necessary implements, and we will show you how to prepare tea that is not indigestible, and milk that is quite free from germs.

There is a great deal of nonsense talked about the indigestibility of tea. That tea as it is usually served is an indigestible and highly nauseating decoction we readily admit; and also that if it is indulged in to excess at all hours of the day, as it is by so many poor seamstresses, it is injurious to the “nerves.” But in moderation, properly made tea is as digestible as any hot liquid can be, and is infinitely more readily digested than any of the numerous substitutes which have been introduced to supersede it.

This is the way to make tea. What is this? A silver tea-pot! Take it away and sell it, and buy a brown earthenware one for fivepence-halfpenny. No good tea was ever made in a silver pot. Which tea shall we have—Indian, Ceylon, or China? China undoubtedly, for though it is much weaker than Indian tea it contains very much less tannin, which is the indigestible ingredient of tea.

We are afraid that you must take the kettle back to the fire and boil the water again, for while we have been talking the water has got cooled, and tea must never be made with water that is not boiling, because it readily dissolves the tannin but leaves the caffeine—to which the stimulating property of tea is due—behind.

Now we will pour the boiling water over the tea and leave it to draw for one minute only before pouring it into the cups.

“But it is so weak, I can see the bottom of the cup through it.” Quite right; so you should. The caffeine and the flavour of the leaves are instantly diffused into the boiling water. If you leave the tea to draw for some minutes, excess of the tannin is dissolved, which precipitates the caffeine and renders the tea indigestible and unrefreshing.

And the deepening of the colour. What do you think causes that? Dirt and extractives, materials far better left behind with the leaves with which to sweep the carpet.

Milk must be boiled the moment it enters the house. Infected milk is so common and so readily infects those that drink it, that it is a serious mistake not to sterilise it at once.

No milk should be put upon the table which has not been boiled. Boiling kills all bacteria; it therefore kills the germs of typhoid fever and tuberculosis which are very commonly found in milk. Indeed, milk is one of the commonest agents by which these two diseases are spread. There are numerous milk boilers in the market, notably those of earthenware with holes in the lid, through which the milk can flow to and fro when in the act of boiling.

What will you take to eat? But in the first place it is no good sitting down to eat solids unless you have good teeth. Bad teeth and absence of teeth are two of the commonest causes of indigestion.

Decayed teeth cause indigestion, because they swarm with germs which secrete poisons which are swallowed with the food and irritate the stomach.

Absence of teeth is the commonest of all causes of lifelong dyspepsia, and the first step in the treatment of any form of long-continued indigestion should be a visit to the dentist.

Also it is no good having sound teeth unless you use them. Teeth were given to you to chew with, and you must chew every morsel of food, and chew it well, giving at least twenty “grinds” to each mouthful.

It is bolting food which causes so much indigestion. It is bolting which causes so many persons to eat too much, and it is bolting which has rendered the go-ahead Yankee the proverbial martyr to dyspepsia.

If you eat slowly, and thoroughly masticate your food, you will lose your appetite when you have eaten enough, and so you will not eat too much without knowing it. But if you shovel in your food like pitching bricks into a cart, the stomach is nonplussed, and you may go on eating and still be hungry long after you have taken sufficient food; and you will not know that you have eaten too much until your unfortunate stomach attempts to digest its contents.

Now back again to our menu. Eggs and bacon is perhaps the commonest breakfast dish in England. And a thoroughly good and wholesome dish it is, too, if properly cooked. Of course if the eggs are stale and the bacon is half raw and swimming in grease, it is indigestible; but properly cooked fresh eggs—preferably poached and underdone—and crisp grilled bacon is a very digestible food. It is curious that although pork is one of the most indigestible of meats, bacon is tolerated by the most delicate and disordered stomachs.

Fried fish is another excellent breakfast dish. Whiting, soles and plaice are the three most digestible of fried fish. Herrings and eels are bilious and difficult to digest.

Hot rolls and butter are proverbially indigestible. But our close wool-like bread is far more difficult to digest than the light, more glutinous bâtons of the French breakfast. Indeed, these light rolls, consisting of little more than holes stuck together, are not so very indigestible. Why we cannot get them in England we do not know.

Oatmeal is the national breakfast dish of the Scotch. The Highlander makes his meal of oatmeal before his long day in the open air. The English lord, when he goes deer-stalking in the Grampians, also takes oatmeal for his breakfast, and finds it a wholesome and sustaining food. But when he returns to Mayfair, he would no more think of eating oatmeal for breakfast than he would dine off sawdust.

The Scotch brag greatly about the value of oatmeal as a diet, and they would persuade us Londoners that oatmeal is the best breakfast dish we can take. But when we say that it makes us heavy, and gives us indigestion, they always answer, “That is because you do not make it properly.” But that is not the reason. Oatmeal is a very nutritious food, but it is not easily digested; and so, although the Scotch peasant likes it, and can digest it because of his outdoor life and laborious occupation, the Londoner, with his sedentary life in a smoky city, cannot digest it. And for him it is an unsuitable diet.

Last and least as regards expense, but most important from the numbers who eat it, is the homely bloater.

Dried fish is not very easy to digest, but is highly nutritious and is cheap. And when you can get nutritious food at a cheap rate, you must expect to give a little extra trouble to digest it. Smoked salmon is far and away the worst form of dried fish. It is much the most indigestible, it is very expensive, and it is not really half so tasty as a kipper.

A little bread and marmalade forms a pleasant end to the breakfast. But what does this mean—“Good-bye, I am so glad to have had breakfast with you, but I must rush off to catch my train, as I have to be in the City by 9.30 A.M.” What! Running to catch a train immediately after a meal? Then in future you had better belong to that class that eats no breakfast. Better have an empty stomach than a full one which you will not allow yourself to digest.

(To be continued.)

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By MARGARET INNES.

MORE ABOUT THE CHINAMEN.

One man I remember especially among these, who led us a fine dance! He was a tall, thin, intellectual-looking fellow, with a handsome but most cruel face. Some friends from a distance had sent us word that they were coming over for the day, and I had provided a turkey for dinner. All that I could prepare beforehand had been done. Dinner was to be at one o’clock, and I began to be uneasy as the time passed, and I knew the turkey to be lying white and cold and unstuffed upon the kitchen table. It was dangerous ground to seem to interfere, or advise much, and I had already twice said, and the last time with emphasis, that the dinner must be punctual and the turkey well done. After anxious and secret family consultations, however, as the time grew very late, and I knew the great white thing to be still lying on the kitchen table, I went in and told him that he must get the turkey into the oven at once. He made no reply, and went on perfectly quietly with some unimportant job; I waited a moment, and still getting no reply, I repeated my order, adding, “Do you hear, Wong?”

Then he looked round at me, with a leer on his handsome face, and still gave no answer. “Dinner is at one,” I said, trying to keep quiet. “When will that turkey be ready?”

After a moment of silent laughter, when I could see his back shaking, he said, “Turkey leady allie lightie to-mollow, not cookie him to-day—no time!” Then his back shook again, as he bent over his bit of work.

I confess I did not know how to deal with this. Nowadays, in such a plight, I should storm and get very angry, and try to frighten him, for they are all cowards. But I was too uncertain then, and our friends were due directly, and I did not dare risk anything.

However, the end of it was, dinner was just a little late, but to our amazement everything was beautifully cooked and served, and there was no sign of that alarming mood in the grave alert man who waited on us.

I had not then realised how marvellously quick they are; what seeming impossibilities they can accomplish without effort, slip-slopping about in their loose, heelless little shoes with apparently tireless steps. They are very methodical and orderly, and no doubt this is the secret of their quickness. They certainly get through a great deal of work, and with ease too, and have plenty of leisure besides.

One man we had always spent his leisure in sleep. He disappeared regularly after the washing-up of the midday dinner. It was only by chance that we discovered where he took his siesta. One of us went to fetch something from the “cool” cellar we had dug for ourselves, and of which we were very proud, and were startled to find a white figure lying prostrate, stretched across three empty lemon boxes, in the middle of the floor.

So that was where Quong disappeared to, and that was why at times the cellar was locked and the key gone, as we had noticed once or twice. I did not tell the rest of the family so, but I believe he also made his Chinese toilet there, combing his pigtail, and generally setting himself in order all among the milk-pans, and the butter, and the tarts!

He explained, smiling and unmoved, that it was “welly cool, welly nice for rest there.” However, we said he must not sleep there any more.

Most Chinamen are wonderfully clever gardeners, especially delighting in growing vegetables; and when once that nimble white figure is seen busy at work in the kitchen garden, one may pick up some hope that the new cook will quietly settle down in his new place, for some months at least, and that the charms of the gambling houses and opium dens of Chinatown will fade from his mind for a little while. Our present man, who is a capital servant, has rejoiced our hearts lately by making himself very busy in the kitchen garden. Knowing what contrary creatures they are, always doing the opposite of what one expects, we try to “rejoice with moderation,” as an old friend used to advise; but, after all, why not enjoy one’s pleasure with a free heart, and to the full, while it lasts?

We have never done admiring and wondering at the way our present cook, Yung, does his gardening, accomplishing so much, and in such a curiously casual way, popping out between-whiles in his little embroidered velvet shoes, and finishing each time some fresh piece of work in a masterly fashion.

Then besides the hope in one’s mind that this interest will bind him to his place for a time, there is the thrilling expectation of some day eating these same vegetables. One has to live on a ranch, out of reach of Chinese vegetable carts, to know how pleasant that prospect seems.

The first years of a ranch demand so much work for the trees, and all the business connected with the ranch itself is so pressing, that even if a kitchen garden is made at once, as in our case, the vegetables get such poor attention that they are of very little use. Nothing grows here without the closest tending; but with constant care the growth is like a fairy tale. However, very few ranchers find time for vegetables in the first years, at any rate.

Some Chinamen, too, are great readers, and bring with them quite a library of small paper-backed Chinese books. I asked one of these studious ones if they were the books of Confucius that he was reading so diligently, at which he seemed much amused, grinning and shaking his head.

After our fatiguing time of domestic troubles, when the winter season was over, and San Miguel was once more the half empty, easy-going little town, and good Chinamen were ready to take even a place in the country, we got quite a passable cook, bad tempered, however, and very rough in his ways at such times. But we were thankful to have the work done fairly well, on any terms, and we pretended not to notice his almost brutal manner.

I had been warned again and again by friends who had long experience in dealing with Chinamen, not to interfere at all, but to leave things entirely to them. So long as the work is fairly well done and things are clean, what does the rest matter? Most of them are by no means extravagant or wasteful, as servants go; but if such a one should fall to your lot, you may as well dismiss him at once, for you will never persuade him to make the least change. They are so exceedingly stubborn that interference, if it does no harm, is little likely to do any good. In most cases where a change is demanded, they will say “allie lightie,” and go on doing their own way.

As I myself do the choosing and buying of the meat, I also go through the form of ordering how it shall be cooked and prepared for each meal. If my orders accord with his Celestial ideas, they are carried out, and if not, they are not. And that is the end of it. He always serves up something nice, and does not waste, which is surely good enough for any reasonable being.

I confess I do resent a little the half covert smile with which I am received in the morning when I go into the kitchen to give these bogus orders; but I brazen it out, and struggle through the form with the best dignity I can.

One lady friend, when advising me never to interfere about the work, told me of a striking experience she had before she learnt her lesson.

She kept a large boarding-school for girls, and employed a number of Chinamen. The cook, being a very capable and respectable fellow, was the acknowledged head over the others, engaging them and dismissing them on his own responsibility. That was the plan which she had found the best, and as long as he was satisfied, all worked as smoothly as a machine, for he belonged, as most of them do, to some secret society, and whether he was a “high binder,” as seemed likely, or not, they feared and obeyed him as they would never have feared or obeyed her.

One unlucky day, however, she took it into her head to go into the kitchen and prepare some small thing which he had cooked once or twice in a manner that did not please her. She had told him that she did not like it so, but next time it was served in just the same fashion, and she was annoyed. She went bravely into her own kitchen, and prepared it as she liked, leaving him in quiet possession as soon as this was finished.

A large school is a busy place, and no one had time to notice anything unusual or strange till the hour for dinner drew near. Then suddenly it struck all the little community that the house was very still; there was no smell of dinner, and in the dining-room, when the door was hastily flung open, there were no preparations for the meal.

Our friend, startled and uneasy, hurried to the kitchen, to find everything in perfect order, but no sign of Chinese activity, and the fires of the range all grey and cold. A quick search convinced her that they were alone in the house, and in a great state of wonder and excitement she and her friends got together a cold, picnic sort of meal, and ate it up, discussing meanwhile what they should do. As the Chinese chef had been exceedingly well treated, and had also been some years with them, they felt very indignant that he should have played them such a trick for so slight an offence, for my friend recognised that she had committed an offence.

They determined in their wrath that they would have no more Chinamen; they would employ nice, decent women, with whom they could reason, and who would understand one’s point of view. They telephoned at once to an employment agency in the nearest town, asking for the best girls that could be had, at such short notice, to be sent out to them at once.

Soon they arrived, and were spreading confusion and discomfort all over the house—a wretchedly incompetent set. They were all dismissed, and a fresh batch sent out—but, alas! no better than the first.

Then the girls and their teachers, in desperation, determined to do their own work until they had time to make some better plans. All this had taken up three or four days, and one morning our friend was hard at work sweeping her own drawing-room carpet, and making a great noise over it, when the brush was taken out of her hands by a quiet firm grasp, and glancing up, she saw her Chinese chef, looking particularly neat and business-like, after all the tawdry finery of the women servants. He said quietly, “Me do lis; you no do such sing,” and went on with the sweeping as though there had been no break whatsoever in his regular work. Being both breathless with her sweeping, and very glad to hand it over to someone else, naturally also a good deal taken aback, she murmured something or other and went quietly out of the room, and then discovered that all about the house were quiet, quick-moving figures, clad in the familiar white jackets, busy about their separate duties, just as though they had been there all the time. The lesson was very effectual in her case, for never again did she attempt the least interference.

This seems to be an exceedingly long account of domestic affairs, but being so unlike our English edition of such troubles, it may be of interest, or, at least, it may serve to enhance the feelings of comfort and luxury of those at home who can command a well-trained cook, and housemaid, and parlour-maid, not to mention the useful charwoman, and all for less money than we pay our one Chinaman.

(To be continued.)

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By LA PETITE.

CHAIRS!

It so chanced that I did not see Belinda Ann for some long time after the launch.

Illness and a trip to Switzerland came between us, and when I returned to England the Club had not yet resumed its winter meetings.

The moment it did so, however, I took an early opportunity of visiting it, and to my joy Belinda Ann arrived shortly after me.

I pounced on her at once and drew her into a secluded corner, where we could talk unobserved.

“Belinda,” I began eagerly, “I want you to take me to your Feather Club one day. Will you?”

She put her head on one side and glanced at me sideways, as was her way when in doubt, and remarked—

“There ain’t nothink ter see, yer know. We just pys in our money every week, an’ the one who draws the winnin’ number gits the feather that week, an’ then we begins all over agyne, but I’ve left that an’ jined a furniture club now,” and she gave me another sidelong look.

I was so full of my own ideas that I did not particularly notice her evident desire to be asked why, but exclaimed—

“I did not know you had other sorts of clubs.”

“Bless yer, yuss!” retorted Belinda Ann, with all her old contempt for my lamentable ignorance. “There’s furniture clubs, an’ crockery clubs, an’ photergraph clubs, an’ draperies an’ boot clubs, an’ I dun know what all!”

“And how much do you pay?” I asked.

“Well, it depends,” she replied cautiously. “It runs from anythink from thruppence to five bob, accordin’ ter succumstances, but I’ll tyke yer ter one ef yer like, though there ain’t nothink whatever ter see.”

I closed with the offer at once, and then asked what she had been doing all this time.

“’Eaps!” she answered laconically; and then remarked in a would-be off-hand manner, “I’m a-walkin’ hout with a young feller down our court.”

“Oh!” I replied, not specially impressed, as this was a very everyday affair.

“An’ ’e’s sed ‘Chairs’ ter me!” she added, with an elaborate assumption of indifference and an unsuccessful attempt not to look triumphant.

“Oh, Belinda!” I exclaimed, grasping at once what this meant, “I am glad. That is why you joined the furniture club?”

She nodded, pleased at my intelligence, and added complacently—

“An’ I’ve jined the sewin’ class, so’s I ken myke my own trossax.”

I fully approved of this, and inquired as to when the marriage was to take place.

She pursed up her lips and shook her head solemnly, as she replied—

“Not yet awhile. I’ve no fancy fer startin’ too soon an’ bein’ brought up with a jerk, an’ I wants ter myke sure of a comferble plyce ter begin with,” which showed me what I had always known, namely, that Belinda Ann was in many ways above her class.

“I means ter ’ave a room ter myself any’ow,” she went on. “Why, ef you’ll berlieve me”—warming with her subject—“down Spitalfields wy there was once four families as ’ad one room atween ’em. They each ’ad one corner, an’ one man lived in the middle, but dear, they didn’t mind, an’ got on well enough till the man in the middle took in a lodger, an’ then there was a row ’cos they sed that was jest a little too much.”

I heartily agreed, though the story was not new to me any more than it will be to you.

We parted, having made an appointment for the following week, so a few days afterwards found me under her guidance, trying to find out something about the clubs.

As we walked she showed me notices in various shop-windows of “Clubs held here,” but the one we finally entered was of a very humble description, and the proprietress, a wizened little hunchback, looked suspiciously at me and was most reluctant, even at Belinda Ann’s request, to explain the mode of procedure.

There was not much to tell, she said stiffly, and nothing to see.

The girls just paid their sixpence a week, and the number of members, of course, had to tally with the value of what they wanted.

Hers was a boot-club, and, as coster girls are notoriously fastidious about the quality of their boots, seven-and-six and eight-and-six is the price aimed at, so she had fifteen members just now, and a friend of hers had seventeen.

They were strictly honourable, and always “stood up” to what they had undertaken, even though they might find it a tax to produce the weekly subscription regularly; and when a girl had secured the article for which she had joined the club, she never by any chance “cried off,” but went on paying till all the members were supplied.

Of course it was not everyone who could be admitted to these privileges, and, as a rule, strangers were not particularly welcomed unless well vouched for by an old member, as there was always the chance of their being winners early and then “crying off” the rest of their subscription.

The club was mainly composed of friends who rarely met at the “club-holder’s,” except on the occasion of the weekly draw.

Of course, if a girl could spare the money, there was no objection to her buying two tickets, thus enjoying two chances and also helping to hasten matters, and there had been cases where the members, hearing that one of their old “chums” (or “pals,” as they call it) was in sore want, voluntarily kept the club going another week, and then handed it all over to her, with the club-holder’s consent, of course.

The usual method was to put fifteen pieces of paper in a bag, on one being written the number of weeks the club was old, and the member who drew out the marked paper was able to buy the boots that week, and so on.

“Then it really is a lottery!” I remarked meditatively.

“No, t’ain’t,” she snapped sharply; “it’s a club!” And after that I could not get another word out of her, but I gathered later on that she derived her profit from the draper or bootshop visited, who allowed her so much for every “ticket” presented to him, and that she often had more than one club running at a time.

Belinda Ann was so obviously crestfallen at the poor result of our excursion that I hastened to inquire after her “young man,” upon which she brightened up, informed me his name was Joe, that he was in the coster line and owned a “barrer an’ moke” of his own. He sold anything that was in season, and Belinda Ann had grave thoughts of giving up her present occupation and accompanying him on his rounds.

I privately thought this would be a “come-down” for her, remembering the draggle-tailed, slatternly women who usually pursue this line of business, but she was so visibly elated over the whole business that I could not bear to be a wet blanket.

She was dying to introduce Joe to me, and as I was no less curious to see him, I agreed to attend the sewing-class one night, as she proudly remarked, “’E allus fetches me ’ome ’isself, which is more nor what most blokes ’ud do,” and indeed I found this to be the case, as courtship in the East End is a very prosaic and matter-of-fact affair, conducted on both sides with scant romance and without any of those little amenities usual in the West End.

Accordingly I attended the next sewing meeting, at which Belinda Ann showed me with pride the neat nightgowns she was making, with little tucks and a frill of embroidery down the front, having already completed a serviceable stout petticoat or two.

She was the best worker in the class and the others readily acknowledged her superiority, coming to her for assistance or advice, and admiring her skill with a whole-hearted generosity which had not a trace of jealousy or envy about it.

I was sure Belinda Ann was not sorry to let me see her in a new light, and as I sat apart and watched her I saw and appreciated the subtle change that her new prospects had wrought in her. She was sobered and softened, more womanly and more responsible. She had perhaps lost the bizarre and picturesque charm which had been hers, but she had gained in qualities which would be more useful to her in the battle of life, and of which she might have dire need. There had always been the makings of a noble woman in the rough undisciplined factory-girl, and no true friend of hers could regret the disappearance of characteristics which, while making her more interesting and less commonplace, were not likely to help her much in her struggle for existence.

Not that she was less ready than of yore with “chaff,” and I heard her joining more than once in the shrieks of laughter called forth by an oddly-shaped pattern or an ill-cut garment.

The ladies at the head of the class were wise enough to join in, even when the joke was against themselves, and to take in good part the various disrespectful and scornful remarks about their knowledge of needlework made in stage-whispers all round them.

I do not think any of the girls really cared about sewing, and some of them were frightfully slow workers. One girl had been at work on the same garment for over a year, and as she came late and left early, it seemed likely to last another twelve months at least.

The nominal hours were from eight to ten, but they dropped in at all times, and some only stayed a few minutes.

One girl put in about three stitches and then rolled her work up in an untidy bundle, crammed it into her bag (a lady had presented each girl with a bag in which to keep her work clean), and remarking, “I carn’t sew with coarse cotton like that,” disappeared with not another word of explanation or apology. They could bring their own materials if they liked, but long-cloth and flannelette were provided, and they could then purchase the garments they made at cost price.

There was a piano in the room, but music as a rule was impossible, the girls’ healthy lungs preventing anything short of a drum being heard. One started a song and the others joined in, which was all right as long as they all sang the same, but when half-a-dozen different tunes were all being shouted out at once, the noise was rather appalling.

By degrees the room emptied till only Belinda Ann and myself were left, even the founders having retired to a neighbouring class-room to put on capes and bonnets. I ought to have mentioned before that the meeting was held in a Board School which the authorities kindly lent for the one night in the week.

Well, the clock began to strike ten, and I felt really sorry for Belinda Ann, whose anxious glances at the door were getting more and more frequent.

The tardy arrival of the swain, whose devotion she had been extolling, was doubly vexing to a proud girl of her calibre, since it would, she considered, make me think that she had been “gassing” unduly about him, besides which she was not at all likely to put up with neglect in any shape or form.

The slow minutes dragged inexorably on, and she was just rolling up her work with a great show of nonchalance, when a lumpy and by no means fairy footfall sounded on the flagged yard outside, and a healthy whistle (in which, however, a nice ear might have detected some trepidation) gave us to understand that the owner had “knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road.”

I glanced at Belinda, who stopped folding as if she had been shot, hastily unrolled everything and started sewing again with her nose in the air and the light of battle in her eye.

I was not at all sure that even my presence would save the unlucky Joe from a sound rating, but when the whistling and the footsteps abruptly ceased together, and an apologetic double-shuffle at the door forced her to look round, she evidently considered that the scolding had better wait, and merely said haughtily—

“Ow, there y’are at larst! Come on an’ show yerself ter ther lydy an’ mind yer manners!”

This was scarcely calculated to set him entirely at his ease, and as I could plainly see he was already suffering agonies of bashfulness I met him half-way (literally as well as metaphorically) and, having said how pleased I was to see him, held out my hand.

He was evidently unprepared for this, and having wiped his own elaborately on his corduroys, he gave it a final polish with his cap before venturing to respond.

A rather awkward pause ensued, which was happily broken by the ladies, who now returned to the room ready to go home, and who all seemed to know Joe very well. While he was answering their questions, I was able to have a good look at him, and I must admit I was disappointed in his appearance.

I had not expected anything heroic or romantic, of course, but, really, Belinda Ann’s betrothed was distressingly plain.

His hair was an unmistakable red, and cropped so short as to suggest his having lately lodged at Her Majesty’s expense. His eyes were a watery grey, with very pink rims and no eyelashes to speak of, and his mouth was so capacious it really quite alarmed you when he yawned, as he did presently with engaging frankness.

He was obviously a good bit younger than the bride-elect, but this is not unusual, and besides Belinda Ann would always have been the leading spirit anyhow.

He was physically smaller, too, being so stunted in growth as to make her look like a young giantess, and a stubbly attempt at a moustache made him seem even more boyish.

By the time I had completed my survey we were all ready to go, and as the other ladies were returning by the Underground, Joe and Belinda offered to escort me to the omnibus.

“Joe’s got two tickets for the Vic. to-morrer night,” Belinda remarked presently.

It seemed to me a pity that Joe should spend his hard-earned and much-needed money on so questionable an amusement, and I ventured to say so, in very delicate language of course.

“Ow, ’e ain’t pyd fer ’em!” returned Belinda Ann reassuringly, “a friend o’ ’is goes on in the crowd, an’ ken pass in two friends when ’e likes. Thet’s ’ow it is.”

The next time I attended the sewing-class I asked her how she liked it, and nearly had my nose snapped off in return. For some reason (I shrewdly suspected that Joe and she had had a “tiff”) she was in a grievously bad temper, and had already quarrelled with everyone in the room except me. Now it was my turn, and as she turned on me with a gloomy frown I felt sorry I had spoken.

“Like it?” she remarked, viciously biting off her cotton with her strong white teeth. “I never seed anythink more morotonous in all my born days! Call thet a ply? I calls it a reglar ’owlin’ swindle!”

“Why? What was the matter with it?” I inquired mildly. “What was it called?”

“Fust!” she retorted ferociously, and for a minute I wondered what she meant, till it dawned on me that she probably meant Faust.

“Well, what happened?” I coaxed. “You might just tell me, Belinda.”

“Ow, I dun know,” she answered sulkily. “There was a sort of a cellar plyce, kinder prison, with a old cove a-reading in a book, an’ then ’e began ter jaw, and ’e could do it too. I thought ’e’d never leave off, an’ I’d jest said ter my Joe, ‘What’s thet there old cove a-doing of?’ when there comes fireworks, an’ someone in red ’ops out of ’em, an’ if ’e don’t bergin ter jaw! My word, it was sick’nin’!” and she relapsed into gloomy silence.

“But, Belinda,” I put in, “they are obliged to talk to let you know what the story is about. If they did it all without speaking, you might not understand it.”

“An’ small loss,” she retorted uncompromisingly. “I didn’t understand it as it was. In one part three or four people went into a church, an’ I says, sarcastick-like, ‘It must be a weddin’, sech lots o’ people agoin’ to church,’ but Joe says it was meant there was a service agoin’ on, an’ all I ken say is it was a werry poor congregeration.”

“Oh, of course, it is all make-believe,” I said soothingly. “They had not really got a church there, you know, and the people were not attending a service inside but only pretending to.”

“Well, I ’aven’t got the time nor the money ter spend on lookin’ at things wot ain’t true,” she replied with decision, “an’ wot’s more, I sha’n’t let my Joe go neither. It ain’t wuth it,” which was astonishingly sensible of her, I thought.

While heartily approving of her decision, I could not resist asking her whether what she called “fireworks” had not pleased her.

“Purty well,” she replied reflectively, “I’ve seen better ones, but at leastes they was real. There was one scene with a founting where the gals shunted that cove in red, an’ then the founting ran fire, but I spose that was make-believe too,” and, alas, I was unable to deny it.

I was rather relieved to find that her first visit to the theatre was likely to be her last, and had certainly not given her a taste for that sort of amusement (which I had been half afraid it might), and, by dint of great exertion on my part, I managed to restore her wonted good-humour before we parted.

(To be continued.)

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

Page 677: Autologia to Antologia—“Nuova Antologia”.

National to Nationale—“Révue Nationale”.]