The Girl’s Own Paper

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

hen Jack was gone, Mrs. Shelley insisted on Fairy’s going to bed, for the child was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and she and John watched by Charlie’s couch in turns through the short summer night, which, short as it was, seemed all too long when spent in anxiously watching for a change which did not come. Once, and once only during the night, did Charlie open his eyes and murmur, “Where am I?” but before the shepherd, who was sitting by him, had time to answer, he had again relapsed into unconsciousness.

From the first John Shelley had taken a hopeful view, and even this momentary return to consciousness filled him with hope; the next interval might be longer perhaps; at any rate, it was a favourable sign in the shepherd’s opinion. At four o’clock Mrs. Shelley came to take her husband’s place, and then, to her surprise, he told her he was going to walk to the nearest point where the London coach passed and give Jack the latest bulletin before he started.

And so, to Jack’s joy and amazement, the first time the coach paused to take up the Lewes letters, there stood his father by the inn door, waiting to speak to him. In a moment Jack, who, with Mr. Leslie, was occupying the boxseat, was down on the ground grasping his father’s hand and eagerly asking what news.

“No worse, Jack; if anything, a trifle better; he was conscious for a few moments last night; just opened his eyes and said ‘Where am I?’ but I knew you would like to hear the latest news, as you can’t have a letter till you get to New York, and I don’t know how long that will be after you arrive there.”

“Oh, I’ll let you know all about the mails, shepherd, when I come back. Come, Jack,” called out Mr. Leslie, from the box.

“God bless you, my boy, and grant we may meet again someday,” said the shepherd, wringing Jack’s hand, and then the lad, with tears in his eyes, jumped back to his place, the coachman cracked his whip, and in a few minutes nothing remained but a cloud of dust, through which John Shelley was straining his eyes to catch a last glimpse of his eldest son.

The next day or two were passed in such a whirl of excitement, what with the exhilarating feeling of travelling on the top of a coach for the first time in his life, and being whirled up to London by four horses in a few hours, and then the wonderful things which, even in his brief visit, he saw there, and then the long journey to Liverpool, and the sight of the docks and the ship he was to sail in, for in those early days of the nineteenth century no steamer had as yet crossed the Atlantic. All this so occupied Jack’s time and thoughts that though that vision of Charlie stretched pale and insensible at home haunted him from time to time, still he had no leisure to dwell on it. But when on Monday Mr. Leslie, having seen him on board, took leave of him, and Jack was left alone among a crowd of strangers, with nothing to do for five or six weeks but watch the sea and sky, then the thought of Charlie would not be banished, and his anxiety to know how he was became intense. Luckily Jack turned out at first a bad sailor, and the physical tortures of sea-sickness counteracted the mental suffering he was enduring, which, with so little to divert his mind, might have ended in an attack of brain fever. When he was well enough to leave his berth, he made friends with the captain and one or two of the passengers, who took a fancy to this fine, good-looking young man, who certainly looked exceedingly unlike a shepherd in the suit Mr. Leslie had bought him at a London tailor’s. His new friends lent him books, and he derived both pleasure and benefit from conversing with them, but yet, though he read and studied hard during the voyage, it was a terrible time to him, and no landsman ever rejoiced more at the sight of land than Jack did when they sighted the American coast. He always looked back on that voyage as a dreadful nightmare, for all through he had been haunted by the terrible fear, almost too terrible to put into words, lest he should be guilty of the sin of Cain.

His first act on landing was to inquire when he could have a letter from England, and finding three weeks hence was the earliest time he could hope to receive one, for the ship he had come by had just brought a mail, he made up his mind to dismiss the subject as much as possible, and wait as patiently as he could for the letter which would colour his whole life.

His new occupation, upon which he entered at once, was far more congenial than sheep-washing or shearing, and the entirely new life he led and the new country he was living in, with its strange customs and foreign people, all helped to give a fresh stimulus to Jack’s mind, and if it had not been for the shadow cast over his life by the memory of the events which had been the immediate cause of his coming hither, his first few weeks in New York would have ranked among some of the happiest in his life. As it was, they slipped by far more quickly than he had thought possible, and at last he heard the news that the English mail had arrived, and he bent his steps to the post-office to ask if there were any letters for him.

How Jack’s heart thumped as he stood watching the clerk diving into some pigeon-holes in search of his letters; he fancied the people in the office must have heard its wild beatings.

Yes, there were two letters; the first Jack saw at a glance was from Mr. Leslie, the other was directed by Fairy. The paper on which the letter was written—there were no envelopes in those days—was not black-edged, and that, though he dare not lay much stress upon it, was, perhaps, a hopeful sign, but yet, as he broke the wafer, he was still in such fear and trembling lest its contents should be unfavourable, that he dared not open it until he was safe in his own lodgings, where no curious eyes could watch his behaviour as he read his fate.

It was indeed well no curious eyes were able to pry into Jack’s humble room, his castle as he liked to call it, for, poor as it was, it was his own, paid for out of his earnings, for when he came to the end of the long crossed sheet he buried his face in his hands, and his great strong frame shook with his sobs.

The letter, though directed by Fairy, was from Mrs. Shelley, and ran as follows:—

And then followed a few lines in the shepherd’s handwriting, written with elaborate pains and much effort, as Jack knew, for John Shelley was much more accustomed to wield his crook than his pen, which was certainly not that of a ready writer. His preparations were as elaborate as the writing itself. First he rolled up the sleeves of his smock; then he ran his hands through his hair, and rubbed the back of his head; then he wetted his fingers; finally he fixed the pen in his right hand, after a fashion of his own; and Jack, as he read the postscript of his mother’s letter, pictured to himself his father’s attitude as he wrote it, leaning half across the kitchen table, and moving his whole body, as if every stroke was the greatest exertion, as it was to him. But if the manner of his writing was eccentric, the matter was excellent, in spite of the spelling, which was original, and Jack treasured up his father’s words carefully, and vowed never to forget how gently and kindly the shepherd had dealt with him in his trouble.

So the tears Jack shed over his letter were tears of joy and gratitude.

(To be continued.)

By LOUISA MENZIES.

hat this world is only a very small part of the universe, and that the life of man upon this globe is but a very small part of that eternity to which he is heir, is indicated by a thousand circumstances in the life of every day, and by none more strikingly than by the failures, the disappointments, the total eclipses which sweep from our sight into the undiscovered country many a soul resplendent in promise, leaving no record of them but in the faithful memories of the few who knew and loved them.

“He whom God loveth, dieth early,” said the thoughtful heathen, and it must be confessed that we are all disposed to hang garlands on our tombstones and to make heroes of our dead. Flaws of temper and other foibles which marred the perfection of those who were most familiar to us while they were tossed to and fro on the billows of this troublesome world, are forgotten for ever when the lines of care and thought are smoothed from the brow on which Death has laid his finger.

No young soldier left the Crimea with greater distinction or greater promise than Michael Fenner, the son of a house which traced back its ancestors to the reign of Elizabeth, and to which honour and piety had always been dearer than riches. He had entered the army with the true chivalrous desire to fight for the right, to help the weak, and confound the tyrant, and, a Christian in heart and soul, he had maintained the simplicity and purity of his life alike in the battlefield, in weary marches, and in seasons of sickness and depression.

Self-denying, gracious, and cheery, he was welcome as the sun in springtime, and many a groan was stifled and many a muttered curse was turned into a blessing at the sight of his kindly blue eyes, at the sound of his brotherly voice, so that no one grumbled when he was gazetted captain in his eight and twentieth year.

Captain Michael Fenner in active service, and with the modest fortune which he had inherited from his parents, thought it no indiscretion to marry the lady of his love, Margaret Echlin, the daughter of the Rector of Oldborough, a village in Warwickshire, which his family had lived in for many years, and people called her a lucky woman; for what distinction was impossible to a man who had already done so much and done it so well? Nor was the promise of happiness altogether belied. Eight years of happy wedded life followed the happy marriage; two healthy children, Mark and Eveline, brightened their home; and as those were years of peace, Michael was seldom long absent from his family.

The Fenners were not rich; but as they neither of them desired riches, and both had the happy knack of enjoying what they had without pining for what they had not, they took their lives as the gift of the Good Father, and so all was good to them.

But there came a day of sore trial, of bitter sorrow to Margaret, of trial and sorrow which Michael could not share. It was a day of a great review, and Michael and his regiment were to take part in it. His children will remember to their dying day the bright face that kissed them, the gay plumes, the flash of gold and steel, and all the brilliant show that rode forth from the barrack yard.

Half an hour, and the accident had happened which made them orphans and their mother a widow. Captain Fenner was riding a young horse unaccustomed to the London streets; he had ridden it in the country for some months, and being a perfect horseman, mounted without apprehension, but, unhappily, the nervous creature took fright, and, after a wild rush of some two or three hundred yards, flung his rider heavily on the pavement. To the amazement and horror of everyone he was taken up lifeless. Without a word, without a look, he was gone for ever from among men.

The event was too solemn to be mourned in the ordinary way. Men gazed at each other with white, awestruck faces, and spoke beneath their breath, as he was borne back to the home which he had just quitted in full health and strength. How many weak-hearted, weak-willed men, who lived for their own pleasure, with scarce a consciousness of the higher life, might have been taken and the world not palpably the worse; but this strong-hearted, strongwilled man, on the very threshold of a noble career, lay slain by what seemed the merest accident in the heart of his native country, almost within sound of his children’s voices. “Truly the Lord’s ways are not our ways, and they are wonderful in our eyes.”

Margaret sat stunned in her sorrow. Deep in her smitten heart lay the consciousness that with him all was well; softly in the sleepless night she whispered his name, softly her cold hands lingered on the heads and hair of her children; but her eyes were dry, her voice dead within her, until her friends, in a mistaken hope of helping her, consulted together in her hearing about taking away the children. Then the strong chill gave way, the blood rushed into her pale cheeks, she stood up, and, holding each child by the shoulder, she looked into the faces of her amazed friends.

“Bear with me,” she said; and her voice was dry and hard, but it became more natural as she proceeded. “Bear with me for awhile; I am weak, but I shall be strong in time. These are Michael’s children; you must not take them from me.” Then bending down to her children she kissed them, praying them also to be patient with her, and said they would help each other, and, from that day forward she was first in their thoughts, they in hers. With patient care she devoted herself to all the duties of that sad time, and when Michael Fenner was laid to rest in the country churchyard, where many of his forefathers slept, she set herself to master all the circumstances of her position, and to ascertain the means at her disposal for her own maintenance and the maintenance and education of her children. Friends shook their heads and pitied “those poor Fenners,” but there was not one with whom Margaret would have changed lots; for had she not the memory of her love and the care of those little children who were his as well as hers?

A careful consideration of her circumstances convinced Mrs. Fenner that it would not be desirable for her to inhabit the house at Oldborough, for though it was a modest house enough for a family to live in, she felt herself unequal to manage the farm which belonged to it, and she knew that her pension would not enable her to keep it up comfortably, besides, before long it would be necessary for Mark at least to go to school, and the nearest town was ten miles from Oldborough. So Oldborough Lodge was let to an Indian family who were in search of just such a home, and the farm was retained by the farmer, who had held it ever since Michael’s father had died, some fifteen years before; while Mrs. Fenner and her children moved to a pretty little cottage, which was fortunately to let, near the ancient city of Sunbridge, in the parish adjacent to which her brother was rector, because she was deeply attached to her brother, and because both he and his wife were of opinion that it would be a great advantage to Mark to study with their son Gilbert, until the boys should be old enough to go to school.

The Rev. James Echlin, Rector of Rosenhurst, near Sunbridge, was one of those amiable and accomplished men, to whom, in their curate period, everything seems possible, everything probable; and when it was announced that Lady Elgitha Manners, aunt to the young Earl of Seven Beeches, had determined to bestow her inestimable self and all the weight of her aristocratic connections upon him, it was accepted as an event quite within the range of the proprieties, and the favoured few among his congregation to whom the great news was first communicated, assured each other that it was no wonder, and that they should see him a bishop before many years were over their heads. The Reverend James, who, like his sister, was disposed to think rather too humbly of himself, was amazed at his own good fortune, and meekly submitted himself to it; but his wise father shook his head, and his mother, though rather dazzled by the brilliancy of the connection, felt that it would have been more comfortable if James had married a woman more in their own rank. Indeed, the man who marries a wife, who condescends to his alliance, is seldom to be envied, and, though James Echlin’s sweet nature prevented his chafing under it, it was by no means good for him or for his children that the Lady Elgitha, in right of her superior knowledge of the world, and of her family connections, exercised the summum imperium in all household arrangements.

Of their eight children only two, Gilbert Manners, the eldest, and Elgitha Manners, the youngest, lived past infancy. Gilbert was a handsome boy, well grown and vigorous enough, but Elgitha was long a frail, little maid, who seemed likely to be added to the row of tiny mounds under the chancel window, which were all that remained to tell of the six infant Manners Echlins who had spread their wings and joined the innumerable throng of infant angels.

Like most ruling ladies, the Lady Elgitha had her favourite, and this favourite was—as was but natural—her son: for had he not paid her the initiatory compliment of inheriting her aquiline features? and as he grew up were not his tastes and feelings in charming harmony with her own? While a child in the nursery he eschewed fairy tales “as rubbish,” and when he became a boy, and went to school, learning as learning was a bore; and he early adopted it as a maxim to give his attention to nothing that “didn’t pay”—an expression which charmed his mother by its shrewdness, but strangely chilled his father, who, in all his life, had never taken such a consideration into account.

With a sense of the vital importance of modern languages which is impressed on the brain of our female aristocracy, Lady Elgitha had imported to Sunbridge first a Parisian bonne, then a German; and Gilbert, Mark, and Eveline had the opportunity of acquiring a patois which familiarised them with the names of ordinary things, and, it may be, facilitated their subsequent studies in both languages; but little Elgitha was too delicate in the early years of her life to be trusted either to bonne or fräulein, and she was permitted to repose on the ample bosom of a comfortable Englishwoman, who was as sweet as a clover-field and about as intelligent; and while she nursed and tended the frail little body, had not the remotest notion of in any way disturbing the little brain, but was more than satisfied to see repeated in his little daughter the features and the sweetness of her father.

When Gilbert had attained his seventh year, Lady Elgitha decreed that an erudite curate should be sought out, who, in addition to his clerical duties, should instruct both boys in the mysteries of the Latin grammar, and should prepare Gilbert for Eton, and Mark for the local grammar school, which had a very good reputation; and so, for three years, the boys worked together under the guidance of the Rev. Theophilus Wilkins, who, having rather overtaxed his brain by taking a “double first” at Oxford, was not sorry to rest a little by going back to first principles with the cousins, the elder of whom was interesting as the grandson of an earl, while the orphanage of the younger could hardly fail to awaken his sympathy.

As was natural, Gilbert took the lead, and was always the person most considered, but Mark had an innate love of learning, which made him accept with eagerness whatever was offered to him. From the day when a six years’ child he spelt out the mysteries of “haec musa” to that when he gave proof of accomplished scholarship by carrying off the first honours of his school, it never occurred to Mark to clip his studies by a careful selection of what would carry him through an examination, too much engrossed by learning to count personal profit or want of profit in the matter; while Gilbert from his tenderest years showed a precocious esteem for “what would pay” and a profound unwillingness to learn anything for its own sake; so that when he was ten years old, it being found that Mark was in all respects in advance of his cousin, Lady Elgitha decreed that it was waste of time for Mark to study at home any longer, and that Gilbert had better be sent to one of those feeders of Eton where the subjects of study are strictly narrowed to suit the demands of that seat of learning; and in due course Gilbert Manners Echlin, having passed through the congenial mill of the Rev. Edward Thornborough, at Staines, took a good place on his entrance, and was fairly launched into the sea of public school life. His grandfather and his uncle being earls, and his father a parson, he was not particularly badgered on his first coming; he was sufficiently aristocratic in countenance and bearing to pass muster with the boys, and sufficiently ready with his lessons to escape the censure of masters.

Mark Fenner, meanwhile, diligently attended the Grammar School at Sunbridge, walking to and fro summer and winter, wet and dry, and, with his bright, cheery face and steady ways, won the love of masters and of boys, and worked his way with quiet perseverance to the top of the school. It never occurred to him to envy Gilbert his fine clothes or the guineas he jingled in his pockets when he came to the cottage to say good-bye; and he submitted with an easy grace to the airs of patronage which his cousin assumed. It was natural, he thought, that his Aunt Elgitha’s son should go to Eton, and it was equally natural and right that he himself should work out his lessons without other aid than that of dictionary and grammar by the light of his mother’s lamp in the cottage parlour, occasionally refreshing himself by a half-unconscious glance at the enlarged photograph over the mantelpiece, which was the only portrait they had of their father, and which, dull and poor as it was in comparison with the bright presence which had passed away, was yet an outward visible sign of it very dear to the three who called the cottage home.

In countenance Mark was not at all like his father, resembling his mother in feature and complexion; but many a time and oft the widow’s heart beat and tears rose in her eyes as she recognised in her boy traits which assured her of that higher affinity of heart and mind which is infinitely deeper than any trick of feature or complexion. It is a mistake to suppose that because boys are often rough in speech and careless in manner there is any reason for it in their boyhood, and though the braggart and the bully naturally attract most attention, and do what they can to spoil the beauty of the little republics in which they live, we confidently believe that there are hundreds of boys who have no taste for bullying and coarse talking any more than for lying and thieving, and who pass through their school career pure in speech and gentle in nature. Certainly Mark Fenner never need have blushed if his mother had heard all he said any more than if she had read the thoughts of his heart; yet Mark was almost as good in the cricket-field as in the school-room, he was an adroit swimmer, a stout wrestler, and, better than all, an excellent walker.

Eveline, who was just two years younger than her brother, was a bright, healthy damsel, not specially clever, but one of those girls who have a truly feminine and harmonising influence in families, modest and happy in temper, always more occupied by care for others than for herself. She had acquired most of her knowledge from her mother, and would have been pronounced by many a young lady of the nineteenth century “frightfully ignorant.” I am afraid it would have cost her some thought to define what is meant by physical, political, and commercial geography; physiology as a science was unknown to her, but she had been an apt pupil in those graces which no board of examiners can gauge, but without which English homes would never have been the desire and the admiration of foreigners, the safety and the comfort of her sons.

Eveline was sufficiently well-read to take an interest in wholesome books and understand political questions, when they were discussed; and for this she was much indebted to her uncle, with whom she was a great favourite, and whom she often accompanied on his parish rambles, when he beguiled the way and relieved his own heart by gently philosophising after a fashion too ideal to find favour with Lady Elgitha, but which sounded very sweetly in the ears of the young Eveline.

And so the years sped on. Gilbert had left Eton with fair credit, but without having attained any distinction, and was making up his mind what he should do next—a process that occupied him some months, and which, but for the pressure of circumstances, which his mother regarded as cruel, he might never have achieved; but she was well aware that his father could not live for ever, that her fortune would be too small to support him, when divided, as by her father’s will it must be, between her children. The church, the army, the bar, which was it to be? The church was perhaps the easiest; it would not cost Gilbert much trouble to take a respectable degree, and there was a good living in the family; but the living was in Northamptonshire, in a part of the country which Gilbert knew and did not admire; besides, a country life, even with all the amenities of Sunbridge within easy reach, did not suit him. He would have preferred the army if he could have been guaranteed against heavy campaigning, and if the examinations for the higher branches of the service had not been so stiff. As to law, it was horrid all round, absolutely nothing to be got without burning the midnight oil, a process to which, in its classic sense, Gilbert had a special objection, though he testified no aversion to midnight gas. So the months passed, until the time came for Mark to leave school, which he did after having been captain for a couple of years, with a long row of charmingly-bound prize books and a very good scholarship to Trinity College, Cambridge.

Then Lady Elgitha, finding her son no nearer to a conclusion, decreed that he also should go to Cambridge; all her family who were not in the army had gone to Cambridge; but as Gilbert had not the gift of plodding, a smaller college, his father’s, Corpus, was chosen for him. Boys of his age seldom cared for the church; he would probably come round in a year or two, and then he would be in the right road for it.

Mark was sure to do well. He had had nothing to do at Sunbridge but work, whereas poor Gilbert had been so distracted at Eton by games, society, etc., etc. Mark would distinguish himself. He could hardly help doing so, and no doubt would be glad of the opportunity to do his cousin a service in return for the many benefits he and his mother and sister had received from his uncle.

The seven years which the boys had spent apart, except during holidays, had widened the natural gulf between them; and when Mark, in obedience to his aunt’s wish, offered to read with Gilbert, he found the task no easy one. Gilbert professed an abomination for mathematics, and by his ignorance of the first principles, seemed to justify the opinion generally entertained of the perfection in which the study is ignored in the old schools.

“It’s just horrid, old man!” he exclaimed one morning, after half-an-hour’s study, thrusting his long fingers through his fair hair. “I’m awfully sorry for you having to grind away at it.”

“But I like it!” said Mark, mind and eyes deep in his geometry. “Just listen, Gilbert. I do think I see another solution.”

“Another solution!” cried Gilbert, in despair. “Just as if one was not enough.”

“But it’s so interesting,” persisted Mark. “If you’d only give your mind to it, I’m sure you’d like it; it is so pretty.”

“Where’s the good? I’m not going in for a don. I shall scrape through when the time comes, never fear. Hullo! There’s St. Maur and Tullietudlem in a tandem. Splendid, isn’t it? How will Tullie ever get that wild filly of his round the corner? There! I knew it. Down goes the old woman—wagon, Tullie, and St. Maur on the top of her. There’ll be a row!”

“They’ll have something to pay, at all events,” said Mark, looking up, but still deep in his problem.

“Never a bit. A sovereign to the old woman. She’s used to it. Nothing will ever teach Tullie to handle the ribbons. Never could at Eton; and his sister’s such a splendid whip. I wonder where they were going to! Newmarket, perhaps. St. Maur’s uncle is running a two-year-old. O, bother, Mark! I can’t be worried now. The very look of those figures makes me sick! I shall get up enough to scrape through, never fear. I’m strong in classics.”

“All right, old fellow,” said Mark, shutting up his book. “Then you won’t want me. Tell me if you do, you know. I’ll come in any day.”

“Thanks, a thousand times. It is no good working against the grain, is it? My head is all in a whirl with that stupid geometry.”

Internally wondering at the stupefying effect of the geometry he had not done on his cousin’s brain, but too happy to escape to his own quiet room, Mark Fenner ran with the speed of a lover across the familiar flags, and buried himself until lunch time in his favourite study.

At half-past one his friend, John Mildmay, came in for lunch and for a chat; and the lads ate their bread-and-butter and pressed beef, flanked with a jug of college ale, with a keen appetite and much pleasant talk about men and things. The meal ended, they started for their afternoon walk along the banks of the Cam, interchanging many a cheery greeting with friends on land and river, invigorating mind and body by sufficient and temperate exercise, and taking care to be back in time for “chapel,” which they attended in the loveliest of chapels—aëry and exquisite King’s.

So to Mark Fenner Cambridge was what it should be—a home of intellectual effort, of happy and reposeful thought, sweetened by the companionship of chosen friends, mostly men of very moderate means like himself, to whom the Alma Mater was holding out her protecting arms. Some men of his cousin’s set made overtures to him—men whose fathers remembered his father; but Mark had the courage to decline their invitations, and to keep to the work he had set himself to do; and when the term was ended, and the lads went home, Mark’s cheeks were round and rosy, while Gilbert looked so thin and pale that his mother was alarmed lest he had been doing too much.

“Very possibly, my dear,” said the rector, to whom she imparted her fears, with his sweet sad smile, “but not too much work; Gilbert is innocent of that, I am sure.”

“I do not think you ever have understood the poor boy, James. He is not a book-worm, like Mark, of course, no Manners ever was; it is unfortunate for him that he does take so much after my family.”

“You are the best judge of that, Elgitha; he certainly does not appear to me much to resemble any of my people. Perhaps, as far as this world is concerned, it is all the better for him.”

“I don’t know why you should say that, James,” said Lady Elgitha, rather reproachfully; “surely your lot has fallen in pleasant places.”

“I did not mean to complain, my dear; my fortune is much above my deserts. If I should like to see Gilbert more studious, it is perhaps from a selfish wish to have him more in sympathy with myself—not that I am much of a student, I am but an idle fellow, God help me, enjoying my pleasant, easy life here with you, Margaret, and the girls.”

“Everybody must be happy in his own way,” said Lady Elgitha. “Gilbert would never be happy as a parson; it is my belief that he wants an active life. I must write to the Earl about him—something in the Treasury now.”

“My dear, your nephew cannot nominate as your father and grandfather did. Gilbert must stand the test of an examination; if he cannot satisfy the examiners, no amount of blue blood will avail him.”

“According to that, Mark will have the best chance in the world.”

“And everywhere else,” said the rector. “I only wish our Gilbert had half the chances of Margaret’s fatherless boy. Michael Fenner, though dead, has done more for his son than I for mine. Gilbert is selfish, idle, almost illiterate, and I look with shame on the virtues of my nephew who has had so much less done for him.”

“Why, Rector, what has given you such a fit of the blues this afternoon?” exclaimed Lady Elgitha, regarding him with amazed alarm.

The rector attempted some jest, and calling his little daughter, set out on his usual afternoon peregrination, while Lady Elgitha, seriously disturbed, reflected whether it would be advisable to calm his troubled mind by a course of globules, or to divert his thoughts by a dinner party or a tennis tournament.

(To be continued.)

RULES I. NO charge is made for answering questions

II. All correspondents to give initials or pseudonym

III. The Editor reserves the right of declining to reply to any of the questions

IV. No direct answers can be sent to the Editor through the post

V. No more than two questions may be asked in one letter which must be addressed to the Editor of The Girl’s Own Paper 56 Paternoster Row London E.C.

VI. No address of firms tradesmen or any other matter of the nature of an advertisement will be inserted.

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

Page 234: Gian-Galleazzo to Gian-Galeazzo—“those of Gian-Galeazzo”.]