THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

[Transcriber's Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

[“WHEN HEAVEN IS RAINING GOLD.”]
[“OUR HERO.”]
[FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.]
[BEAUTY IN WOMAN: FROM A MAN'S POINT OF VIEW.]
[LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.]
[OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;]
[VARIETIES.]
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
[THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.]
[THE RULING PASSION.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

[“WHEN HEAVEN IS RAINING GOLD.”][1]

By CLARA THWAITES.

All rights reserved.]

There are hours when voices call us
From earth and sea and sky,
To take the benediction
Which falleth from on high;
And ere they fleet, their benison
Our eager hands may hold,
Bring out your every chalice,
When heaven is raining gold!

There are days of bright endeavour,
When the spirit is aflame
To reach unto the utmost
That human heart may claim:
Press on, ere daylight dieth;
Press on, true heart and bold;
Possess the good thou cravest,
When heaven is raining gold!

There are times of glad refreshing,
When roses strew our path,
In summer's bright effulgence
Or autumn's aftermath.
Hereafter we may wander
In darkness on the wold,
Rejoice, with joy undoubting,
When heaven is raining gold!

The storms will surely gather,
The sunshine will not last,
But the heart may count her treasures
When the skies are overcast.
Possessions past revealing
May be ours, and wealth untold,
If we but seize Love's largess,
When heaven is raining gold!

[“OUR HERO.”]

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

“I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis—a young artist and his wife. He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their wedding tour when the arrest took place, and I'm afraid it is a serious matter with them, in more ways than one. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call.”

“Then they've come here from Brussels?”

“Yes, with Major Woodgate and his wife, in an open cart.”

“Why?”

“Couldn't afford anything better.”

“What a beastly shame! Is Major Woodgate badly off too?”

“He was short of money. A good many are, naturally enough, under the present condition of affairs. Your father is going to call on Major Woodgate.”

“To help him?”

“Possibly. That is only between you and me. I am treating you as my friend—speaking in confidence.” Roy's glance bespoke comprehension. “If you were in temporary difficulties, and a friend gave you quietly a little help, you would not wish to have the fact published.”

“No. And, Den, are you going to help the Curtises?”

“That is as may be. I wish to find out how things are with them. And I am taking you because it may be a help. If you can keep Mrs. Curtis' attention engaged, that will give me a chance for a few words with her husband. You see? You will not have anything to do with what goes on between him and me.”

“Good thing papa has lots of money!”

“He is better off than many; but bills are only to be cashed here at a heavy loss; and it is very uncertain how often he may be able to get remittances from England. So it will not do to spend recklessly. Besides, after the way we have been treated, we are not anxious to enrich our captors.”

Roy's “No!” was energetic.

“And, with so many of our countrymen in want, we must save all we can, to be able to help them the more. See, Roy?”

“I think I won't ask mamma to get me a new waistcoat just yet,” was Roy's practical response. “I'll wait. Are you going to stop?”

“This is the house. Remember, you have to get Mrs. Curtis into a talk.”

Roy was deeply interested. Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever face, much overshadowed by present care, while his wife, hardly more than a child in age, was kitten-like in small plump prettiness.

“Oh, it is quite dreadful!” she said, speedily fraternising with Roy. Having had six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in general. “We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying ourselves—you know”—with a blush. “And then that terrible order came, that we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least, my husband was a prisoner, and that, of course, meant the same for me. And our dear little home, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us ever since—empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand, which was to have been finished this autumn. He”—lowering her voice and speaking with childish unreserve—“was to have had a hundred pounds for it. And now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same trouble too.”

She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to her husband.

“It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland told us that he would ask him to come; but we never dreamt of seeing him so soon. We feel strange here, you know; and it is a help to see anyone come in.” Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. “What a pleasant-looking man he is—and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had never seen a handsomer face; and I don't think I ever did either. It is such a kind face too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of him.”

Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk about being “fond” of people. “Den's just the very best fellow that ever lived!” he declared—his usual formula. “And I suppose you got here before we did.”

“Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very homelike, are they? But the landlady is pleasant; and nothing else would matter much if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon depressed—don't you think so?”

Roy said “No” promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear, yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement of Denham's hand, and then of a startled “No, no! How can I—from a stranger?”

“We are not strangers; we are brothers in misfortune,” Denham answered, with the smile which always drew people to him. “Call it a loan, if you like. For your wife's sake”—softly—“do not refuse.”

Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was intended to hear. A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless remark as the callers took leave.

“Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help,” came outside as a confession.

“Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts,” Ivor said, dropping the subject. Roy knew him better than to put questions.

On this first arrival of the large body of English détenus in Verdun, they found a quiet town, with little going on in it, with few shops, and those second-rate in style. There were some small manufactories, as of coarse felt hats and sweetmeats, and also some tanneries. A limited number of “hôtels”[2] belonged to members of the old “noblesse,” who had been allowed since Revolution days to return to France, though in few cases had their confiscated property been restored to them. Those who were in Verdun lived in a very retired style. The bourgeoisie too were rural and unsophisticated. But this condition of things, unfortunately, was soon to be changed, and by no means for the better.

A sudden rush into the place of hundreds of strangers, many of them used to a luxurious style of living, many of them lavishly free with their money, could not but have a marked effect upon the inhabitants.

Among the détenus, it is true, a goodly number lived with close economy, refusing to keep horse or carriage or one single servant more than they counted strictly necessary. They only broke through this self-imposed rule on behalf of their poorer countrymen, dozens of whom were condemned to live, or rather to half starve, upon the wretched pittance, allowed by the French Government to those who had no other means of support, of three sous and half-a-pound of bread each day.

But the détenus, as a body, included men of various descriptions, not only those of high principle and loyal feeling. There were rich men, rendered reckless by their captivity; and there were others, not rich, yet equally reckless and extravagant, who rushed into debt with complete indifference as to consequences. As may easily be supposed, they did much harm by their example and influence, more especially among young naval officers, who as time passed by were taken prisoners in the course of the war, and were sent to Verdun. When first Verdun was appointed to be a dépôt for prisoners, the commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the fault of the French Government.

Unhappily, before many months were past, General Roussel was sent elsewhere; and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to be a man of a totally different stamp.

Wirion was a product of the Revolution; originally the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy; later an attorney's clerk, with a shady reputation; then an active terrorist, approved of by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who, under Napoleon, had risen to be a general of gendarmerie.

Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the captives at Verdun speedily found.

All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext, and oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day. Wirion and his gendarmes showed a shameless capacity for pocketing money—nay, for inventing opportunities to wring gifts from the English.

Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse or with no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This terror hung over them all, as a perpetual possibility. Worse still was the dread of being some day suddenly despatched to the grim fortress of Bitche, where numbers of British prisoners pined in close confinement. The tales of Bitche dungeons and of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to those who lived at Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.[3]

And Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed. In that direction Colonel Baron would thankfully have paid aught in his power, if thereby he might have sent his boy safe to England. But the time was gone by. Napoleon was very bitter against England; and passports were refused to almost all who requested them.

As a writer of the day states, France had become one huge prison, not only to such English as were compelled to stay there, but also to the French themselves. If a Frenchman wished to leave his country and to go elsewhere, leave would in most cases be refused. As conscripts in the army men might go; seldom otherwise.

In the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.

Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was and rarely to be seen out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through; and Denham, though commonly looked upon as a grave and dignified man, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions.

From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had been seldom apart for a whole day. Denham had been Roy's tutor, friend, and playfellow. Roy had in the place one or two boy-friends; but, compared with Denham, he cared little for any other. His absolute devotion to Ivor somewhat resembled Jack Keene's adoration for John Moore, only it meant greater personal intimacy. Roy was known among friends as “Captain Ivor's shadow” and “Captain Ivor's echo.” What Denham thought, Roy thought; what Denham said, Roy said.

“I don't know what he would do without you,” Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. “No use to say how much we owe to your kindness. You have been the making of the boy.”

Ivor would reply, “Roy is as much to me as I am to him.” And, in a sense this might be true, though not in all senses.

September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large number of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were given, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary. The wishes or convenience of anyone received not the slightest consideration.[4]

On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later. Many had made their arrangements for the winter, even buying and laying by little stores; and now, no matter at what cost or loss, they had to leave. Some were artisans who had just begun to make a little headway, others were gentlemen hardly able to pay their way from the perpetual uncertainty as to remittances from England. But the autocratic order had to be obeyed.

Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at the gates by a crowd of their English friends. And that afternoon at appel forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start on the Wednesday. Still no reasons, no explanations, were vouchsafed, no apologies were made; and every détenu in the place lived on tenterhooks of suspense, not knowing whether his turn might come next.

The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to go to Valenciennes on the Saturday.

Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier. Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town; and from those quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus proudly refused so to seek it.

“Roy, I want a word with you,” Denham said, towards the evening of Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. “Come here.”

“Just in a minute. May I get——”

“Never mind anything else. Come to my room.”

Roy obeyed at once.

“Shut the door. I have something to say to you.” Ivor motioned the boy to a chair. “I have just seen Curtis.”

The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes. Wirion——” significantly.

“Do tell me.”

“Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business that she persuaded her husband to see one of the shop-lists.”

“I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding out.”

“No. But Curtis went—and he finds——”

“Are they ordered off? O I'm sorry. I like Mrs. Curtis. She's so jolly—like a boy, almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a bother!”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else?”

“Yes.”

Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and stared—aghast and wordless.

“I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. When a thing has to be, it's no use making a fuss. For your mother's sake you must bear it bravely.”

Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.

“But you don't mean—you! Not you!”

“Yes.”

“Den!”

“It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. And I have managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a while. It may be only for a few weeks. But——”

Roy walked to the window, and stood with his back to Denham. Silence lasted fully three minutes. Denham remained where he was, looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the parting would be to the other.

“Come,” he said at length. “It can't be helped. And—I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy.”

Roy came back slowly.

“That—brute!” he burst out, choking over the word.

“Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you.”

“What?”

“You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you.”

Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words.

“Promise. I can depend upon your word.”

“I do—promise,” Roy said with difficulty.

“Faithfully?”

“Yes—faithfully.”

“And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now, more than ever.”

“It's so beastly hard,” muttered Roy.

“Yes—it is!”—and a pause. “There's one thought that always is a help to me, and I hope it will be to you. Whatever happens—remember, God is over all. By-and-by we shall see it to be so. Things won't go on always like this.”

The interview was getting to be too much for both of them, and Denham drew one hand across his forehead. “There!—that will do. No need to say more. You won't forget that I depend on you; and you'll be just the same as if I were here. The same—every way. I shall miss my——”

He was going to say “friend;” but he stopped in time. Roy could stand no more; and Ivor hardly felt as if he could himself. The boy's face worked painfully, and Denham's hand grasped his.

“Not for long, I hope,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Now I must go and tell your father.”

Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and his father, with others, were at the gate, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more sternly composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend; but he found it hard work. This was not like an ordinary farewell. He and Denham were alike in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could guess what might become of the other, or whether they might hope again to meet before the close of the war: and each could be sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter one with another.

“Remember, Denham, you are always one of us. Wherever we may be, there is your home,” Colonel Baron said, in moved tones. “When you can join us again, your welcome is certain.”

“I could never doubt it, sir, after the past,” Denham answered.

Then he was gone, and Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had largely the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.

Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, besides Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.

Somehow, she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but that other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of the foreground of her mind.

(To be continued.)

[FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.]

PART III.

ENGAGING A DRAGOMAN.

A DRAGOMAN.

We had been strongly advised by our Jaffa friends to take as guide for our long journeys a young English-speaking man living in Jerusalem. He was represented as thoroughly trustworthy and intelligent, besides being willing to fall in with our plans, rather than insisting upon our falling in with his. This was exactly the man we needed, and as the travellers' season was at its height, one of our first duties must be to find him. With this object in view we started one morning in search of his home. Two rival dragomen, of whom we inquired the way, assured us that Ameen—for so I will call him—was in Damascus with a party, and would not return for forty days. As this gratuitous information was imparted to us with unnecessary vehemence and exaggerated regrets, we distrusted its veracity and continued our search. Ameen's dwelling seemed to be hidden away in some remote region “far from the madding crowd,” but after many false turnings, we at length espied a neat little house standing in a garden, and a neat little woman with a baby in her arms standing in the doorway. We opened the gate and walked up the path to the young woman. “Does Ameen live here, and is he at home?” we asked in English. For answer she smiled, pointed to a divan inside the house, and by signs invited us to go in and “sit.” We did so, and continued our conversation by smiling inanely at each other, for our hostess evidently understood no other language but her own barbarous Arabic, which was the more disappointing as no Ameen was visible. He might be in Damascus after all. We were not going, however, to give up the object of our visit so easily. We must try another method of rousing Mrs. Ameen's understanding. A bright thought flashed through our mind. There was that Saracen maiden who long ages ago travelled from Palestine to England in search of her lover Gilbert à Becket. She only knew two words of English, “Gilbert” and “London,” but they were the talisman which, after many adventures, brought success, and her lover to her side. Why should not we try the effect of two words on the little woman before us? The louder you shout to an Arab the more important does he consider your communication, so we shouted “Ameen—dragoman,” accompanying our duet with gestures expressive of our desire to see him. Our hostess redoubled her smiles, and we redoubled our shouts, until “Ameen—dragoman” became a monotonous chant, which grew more despairing at each repetition. When our efforts seemed most hopeless, Mrs. Ameen allowed the light of intelligence to dawn on her countenance, and murmuring some indistinct apologies, she suddenly darted through the door and disappeared. Congratulating ourselves on our success, we waited patiently for ten minutes or so before the welcome sound of voices and footsteps sounded near at hand, and in walked our little friend, still carrying the baby, and proudly escorting the redoubtable Ameen, whose preposterous Turkish trousers gave him a swagger as consequential as that of a Highland piper. He greeted us courteously in excellent English, but as one who had been expecting us, and immediately inquired whether we had left his cousin in Jaffa in good health, and if he had told us any family news. Happily we had met the cousin, and were able to give the desired information, which was received simply and as a matter of course.

We were favourably impressed by Ameen's honest face and gentle manners, and though he looked delicate, he seemed capable. He told us that twice he had acted as guide to a celebrated English explorer and that he knew the country thoroughly. We were rather alarmed, on his producing an enormous sheaf of testimonials, and modestly requesting us to read them. If the few we glanced at were to be relied upon, our friend must be a Solomon in the matter of wisdom, a prince among guides, a servant with so many superlative qualities—we felt excessively small in his presence—while his record as a “provider” might have caused the cheek of the renowned Mr. Whitely to grow pale with envy.

Ameen was evidently a treasure (and such he afterwards proved himself to be), and must be secured, so we plunged at once into business, and for the next half-hour discussed routes and other minutiæ. The bargain was concluded by Ameen agreeing to take us for a four days' trip to Jericho, and a five or seven days' trip to Tiberias. The charges were to be a pound a day each. He was to provide everything, including good horses, and saddles, a muleteer, and when necessary an armed escort, which a thoughtful government—with an eye to backsheesh—insisted upon, lest the confiding traveller should fall among thieves. As the escort was invariably chosen from a tribe of raiders, the moral was obvious. We considered these terms very moderate for this time of the year, especially so, as the party was to consist only of Elizabeth and myself.

We further stipulated for the horses and saddles to be brought round for our inspection the evening before we started on our journey. Everything being now satisfactorily settled, we partook of coffee, said good-bye to the little wife, kissed the baby, who resented deeply the familiarity, and, preceded by our picturesque guide, who had already assumed an air of proprietorship, made our way into the city, where we dismissed him and continued our prowl unattended.

On one of our excursions we took part in an adventure which might have ended seriously to one of the party. Looking back now, it seems like a modern version of the story of the Good Samaritan.

It was a hot afternoon in April when Elizabeth and I, accompanied by Elias, Miss K.'s native servant, carrying a tea-basket, set out for Neby Samwîl, the ancient Mizpeh, where we intended picnicking.

As we were riding slowly down the hill in the direction of Jerusalem, we noticed afar off an unusual cloud of dust, out of which there presently emerged a horseman riding furiously. Almost before we could exclaim he had turned the sharp corner by the Pool of Hinnom and was tearing madly on towards us. In another moment the horse wheeled suddenly round and, flinging its rider to the earth, galloped back to the city gate.

We reined up near the unfortunate man, who lay stretched out unconscious in the middle of the road, a tropical sun beating fiercely on his uncovered head, and the blood slowly trickling from a nasty wound in the temple.

In an incredibly short space of time a crowd collected. White-sheeted women, like flocks of seagulls, scudded down the hill slopes, and were joined by dark-faced men, who seemed to spring from nowhere.

They stared with much curiosity at the little group below, but neither signs nor talking could induce them to approach nearer than the stone wall which bounded the road. They answered our appeals by jabbering among themselves like so many monkeys, pointing at us and gesticulating excitedly. Clearly we were each unintelligible to the other.

We next tried to awaken the sympathy of a family living close at hand; but, much to our indignation, they refused help though they showed considerable interest in us, wondering why we took so much trouble about a stranger who was nothing to us. We could only be sorry that with the knowledge of English had not come the knowledge of our Lord's answer to the question, “Who is my neighbour?”

Appeals to the passers-by met with the same heartless indifference. They stared at the unconscious cause of the commotion and looked at us with eyes which plainly said, “The English are mad, they are always minding other people's business.”

In the meantime the man was in great danger from the heat. He was too heavy for us to move, and Elias, with true Oriental timidity, refused to touch him. The case was becoming desperate when we saw a benevolent-looking priest coming along the road. He joined the circle, looked at the wounded man, and turned to resume his journey.

Elizabeth stopped him and eagerly accosted him in French, but he was evidently ignorant of that tongue. She then attacked him in German, but he shook his head deprecatingly. As a last resource she bombarded him in Italian, which language he did understand, for he immediately replied that he was at the signora's service.

“Then,” said Elizabeth, “will you kindly tell us, signor, what to do with that poor man? He was thrown from his horse a few minutes ago. He is wounded, and may be dying. Could you not get him carried to a place of safety and find out who he is?”

During this address the priest's countenance changed from courteous attention to grave disquietude. He scarcely waited for its conclusion before he gathered up his skirts and, murmuring that “he knew nothing—it was not his affair,” walked rapidly away.

We were more perplexed than ever. Could there be defilement in the touch of the wounded man? Or did the fact of his wearing European clothes proclaim him an infidel and one whom it was best to leave alone?

While we were deliberating on the best course to take, Elias shook off his fear and began talking to a big porter who was looking on. After what seemed to us an endless discussion, he came forward and intimated that the porter would carry the man to a hakeem (doctor) in Jerusalem.

It was not without a great deal of talking, appealing looks from the porter, and, I must add, evident reluctance on his part, that the wounded man was placed on his shoulders and the procession started for the city, Elizabeth riding on ahead in the hope of finding some intelligent person who would interpret for us, for we were still puzzled how to act for the best.

Among the motley crowds always assembled at the Jaffa Gate, we caught sight of a young clerk, with whom we had had dealings, and who spoke English fairly well. He was standing near his office. In response to Elizabeth's sign, he crossed the road with alacrity, and was all attention to her commands. When, however, he understood their extent, and grasped the fact that a stranger had met with an accident, and saw him apparently dead on the back of the brawny porter, he bolted into his office, shut the door with the words, “Excuse me, madame, but I am too busy to help.” There was no time to analyse our own feelings, for the procession had increased considerably, the babel of tongues was deafening, donkeys braying, camels grunting, men screaming and gesticulating; even the lepers rushed forward and added to the noise and confusion. The porter's face bore a look of unmistakable terror, as he caught a glimpse of the ragged uniform of a soldier, but on we went, hoping that the hakeem's house was not far off.

Happening to glance round we saw to our intense relief the swaggering form of Ameen approaching. In him we saw also an end to all our difficulties. We attacked him at once.

“Find a doctor, please, or do something for this poor man, and do, if you can, stop that awful noise!” we exclaimed. Alas, Ameen manifested the same extraordinary unwillingness to interfere, though his sympathy was excited. “Do look at him,” we urged, “perhaps you may know him, and why are all the people calling to him and shouting hakeem?”

Yielding to our entreaties Ameen examined the face of the object of our solicitude, added his contribution to the hubbub, and exclaimed—

“He's the Russian doctor from the hospital, the people say; he was riding into Bethlehem this afternoon, it is the day he sees patients among the pilgrims there. Poor man, we will carry you to the Russian hospital, that is,” continued he, turning to us, “if you will take all the responsibility, Miss N.”

“Of course I will take the responsibility!” was the impatient answer. “Be quick, unless you want him to die!”

Ameen now assumed leadership, issued his orders with much importance, using the English lady's name with great effect, we could see. The porter, however, kept close to us, talking earnestly.

“What is he saying?” inquired Elizabeth.

“He is afraid that he will be punished. He thinks he will be accused of the doctor's death and be put into prison; he begs of you to say that he is only acting under the English ladies' orders; he is their slave, and cannot help himself,” replied Ameen.

“Assure him that he need have no fear, he shall not get into trouble for helping us; we will see to that,” Elizabeth answered, looking down kindly on the man, who seemed as grateful as if he had been rescued from some terrible danger.

“You see, Miss N.,” said Ameen, “we are all afraid to help in an accident of this kind, the risk is too great. We might be seized and thrown into prison, accused of having murdered, or attempted to murder, the person we were only assisting. Certainly if he happened to die, we should be held responsible for his death, and could not escape prison unless a big backsheesh were constantly paid to the governor. You of the English nation are different, you are just, and do not understand our Government. Your word they will take, ours they would not believe. We are not naturally inhuman, we have to pretend to be.”

This explanation threw a new light on the indifference to suffering which we had witnessed. Under the circumstances it certainly required a very brave man to follow the dictates of ordinary humanity where a stranger was concerned. We were truly thankful that we were “of the English nation,” and free to exercise our privileges here.

But we had now reached our goal after being nearly forty minutes on the road. The poor porter's strength was giving out, but he managed to get up the steps of the hospital and lay his burden down on the cool floor of the hall. The nurses gathered round the unconscious doctor, talking volubly in Russian, which none of us understood. There was a look of consternation on their faces as they carried him gently into an inner room. We could not explain what had happened, but we waited until we thought we heard sounds which indicated returning consciousness, then telling Ameen to reward the good porter with a liberal backsheesh, and bring us news of the patient on the morrow, we rode on our way to Neby Samwîl.

It was a glorious day, and we were glad to get away from the noise and dust of the city into the open country where quiet and beauty reigned.

The watch-tower on the top of Mizpeh, though three hours' distant, was plainly visible in the clear atmosphere. It thrilled us as we called to mind that it was on that spot Laban and Jacob made their covenant of amity and settled their differences for ever. There the judges had assembled the Israelites together in times of national danger or calamity. It was at Mizpeh the prophet Samuel anointed young Saul king of Israel. From its summit the Israelites, after humbling themselves before God, rushed into the plain, routed the host of the Philistines and discomfited them.

Through the very passes we were traversing and over those grey stony mountains had Samuel, Saul, David, and hosts of the famous men of old walked. If they could speak, what marvellous stories could those ancient hills tell of all they had heard and seen of triumph and defeat of great armies, of God's anger towards His stiff-necked people, of His unbounded love and forgiveness!

It was not easy riding. The flat smooth rocks were slippery footholds for our sturdy little horses; but they were hardy fellows and stepped over the most break-neck places with the ease and confidence of mountain goats.

We were enchanted with the gorgeous carpet of flowers spread out at intervals before us. Here was a patch of cyclamen, covering a space of about twelve feet, nestling under the eaves of a sullen brown rock. Masses of scarlet anemones, yellow flax, pheasant's eye, and many other lovely flowers disclosed their beauty to us, making up in their colouring and variety for the lack of trees and foliage.

The slopes of the hills were dotted with handsome, long-haired goats feeding side by side with the ungainly “fat-tailed” sheep. These sheep are far from pretty. Their tails, hanging like great bags, touch the ground as they move, giving them a most unsymmetrical appearance. The fat of the tail is considered a great luxury among the natives. It is made into “seminy”—a strongly-flavoured grease used in all native cooking and, to our taste, rancid and unpalatable.

The summit of Mizpeh was reached without further adventure. A few olive trees grew there, and the watch-tower seemed old; but, otherwise, there was nothing to remind us of the past.

We tied up our horses, and in a few minutes the kettle was singing merrily and we were enjoying a cup of tea, which was very refreshing after our long ride. Elias was made happy with a great piece of sugar, which he ate slowly, smiling upon us the while like a dusky cherub.

There was but little time to indulge our fancy, though the spot on which we sat teemed with memories. It was getting late—sunset would be upon us in an hour. If we did not wish to be benighted among those desolate mountains we must be up and going. So, as soon as tea was over, we mounted our horses and turned their heads homewards.

Before we were half way, the great sun left us suddenly (as if he were pressed for time and must make it up on his next journey), and we were plunged into darkness, for there is scarcely any twilight in the East.

It was a hard matter to keep Elias in sight; but, fortunately, the horses knew the way, and we rode with a loose rein. Soon the silver moon rose in the heavens and flooded the landscape with her brilliant light. A couple of hours later saw us cantering through the deserted streets of Jerusalem, throwing long shadows as we passed under the grey walls of David's Tower.

The ghastly Pool of Hinnom looked more ghastly in the moonlight; but the shining road gave no indication of the scene in which we had acted a few hours before. Ten minutes later we were dismounting at Miss K.'s hospitable door, well pleased to be back again among our friends.

S. E. Bell.

[BEAUTY IN WOMAN: FROM A MAN'S POINT OF VIEW.]

By “MEDICUS” (Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.).

“Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.”

Wordsworth.

That I am an admirer of female beauty and loveliness goes without saying, nor would I care to take tiffin with a man who isn't.

Beauty likes to be Admired.

Yes—that is true, and I don't blame beauty a bit. Nevertheless ladies who are not gifted with this great glory, prim, demure women, with prim, demure ways, may look sadly sour and say, “That Miss So-and-so thinks she is entrancing, and maybe she is good-looking after a fashion, but I feel sure she spends quite a deal of her time indoors attitudinising and gavotting before the looking-glass, and she can't pass a shop window without using it as a mirror to note how she looks.” Well, for the life of me I cannot see any harm in Miss So-and-so's turning a shop window into a mirror if she chooses. Her mind is thus satisfied. That dress does hang nicely, and she carries herself well in it.

As to Miss So-and-so spending some time before the mirror at home, the Misses Prim can only be reasoning from analogy. They themselves doubtless do the same, but it is as a forlorn hope and in order to see if there be anything about their faces and figures analogous to beauty.

But Miss So-and-so is right again. What are mirrors made for, I wonder, if not to study before, to study attitude, the set of the head, the proper use of lips and eyes, and the contour of the neck. Indeed, indeed, I'm all on beauty's side.

But in this, as in all other matters, there is a danger of over-doing it. It is quite proper to assure yourself that you look your best, but it is unwise to think too much of the matter, or to allow yourself to become a piece of human vanity.

Every Woman has a Mission.

I should be sorry indeed to speak disparagingly about the Misses Prim.

There are a great many of them in this world, and they can do much to make the world better and happier. That is their mission. Some fulfil it, some don't. Some want to die right off the reel because nature has made them somewhat angular and gray and has, in fact, denied them beauty. They become sour in temper and sharp in tongue because of envy. Ah, but just see the happiness they could shed abroad among others were they only cheerful and always willing to assist their neighbours with good sound, solid advice. And this happiness would come back to their own hearts and take up its abode there, so that blessedness should shine in their faces. Women of this description ought to dress very neatly but not gaily. They often have good figures, and these may be attired to advantage without their making any attempt at dressing to kill, which would obviously be somewhat ridiculous. They should be neat also in hands and feet and hair, the arrangement of which lends itself to much that is artistic and beautiful.

The Misses Prim may be thirty or forty years old, or more. What matters it? Their mission lies chiefly among the young, and thoughtless though these may be, they are loving and have ten times more gratitude in their souls than grown-up people. Alas! though, I may be addressing some who have but little time to help those around them, little time even to read; theirs only to work, to long, and sometimes to weep. I do in my heart feel for such as these; but the very fact that they do long for something better to come shows, I think, that there is a better world than this, and that this life is but probationary.

It is their mission then to work, and to try to do so willingly, for methinks duty well performed is a reward in itself.

Beauty's Mission.

Beauty's mission is a noble one, and if kept well apart from pride and frivolity, it is a self-ennobling one.

Beauty has been called a fatal gift. It is so only when the possessor thereof has no other attractions. Every beautiful girl should possess refinement, and by this I do not mean accomplishments that can be shown to advantage in a drawing-room. No, but refinement of mind or soul. She ought to be well read, though far indeed from being a blue-stocking. She ought to be herself a poet at heart, a lover of nature and of God's animals, His trees and His flowers. She ought to be a good but not a garrulous conversationalist; the sentences that leave her lips ought to flow like the murmur and ripple of a sparkling fountain. Forced conversation has no reality about it, and anyone can see it does not come from the heart.

Beauty should be musical. Alas! it is not always so. I may go further and say it is too often automatical. This is the result of a forced musical education. Beauty should never play what she cannot feel. If she feels, so shall others around her, and the chords will touch the heart.

A beautiful woman who can play the violin so as to bring tears to the listener's eyes, possesses a power that nothing on this dull earth of ours can excel.

And a beauty like that which I so feebly paint has a deal to be proud of, though she ought not to be vain. Vanity only proves narrowness of soul, a mind with no breadth of beam.

“She moves a goddess and she looks a queen.”

True enough, yet the greatest of beauties are not simply there for show. For her a nobler part is retained, and ere many years are over her head she ought to be as noble-minded and beautiful a matron as she now is a maiden.

Yes, and if health and beauty go hand-in-hand, with modesty and virtue in their train, this great kingdom of ours will never need to lower its flag to any combination in the world.

I say, then, to every girl-reader I have, “It is well to be beautiful.”

Growing Old Gracefully.

I cannot but respect and admire the women who grow old gracefully. Generally a little inclined to embonpoint are they, which but accords with their years. But there is a sincerity about them which is very creditable. A lady of this kind is never ashamed to own that she is getting up in years. No one would be rude enough to ask her age; but if anybody did, they would have a straightforward truthful answer. See, there is a sprinkling of silvery hairs on her head; she is, I believe, somewhat proud of them rather than otherwise, and if true religion dwells in her heart, she is altogether amiable. Some day she knows she will die. Some day—yes, some day; but this death will only just be going home. She is to be envied.

Should Art aid Beauty?

My answer is, “Yes, undoubtedly, if it be real art.”

Says the poet—

“Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.”

This is all nonsense. It is just as reasonable for beauty to call in the aid of science and art as it is for her to use soap with which to wash her hands and face. But on the other hand, a beauty that is all artificial is quite detestable. No man can stand a painted doll. We meet such in society all too often, but we soon find out that she is just as frivolous and heartless as she is artificial—a painted fraud, in fact, and I pity the poor fellow who is snared into marrying her.

But there are legitimate methods of securing greater beauty. The chief of these is health. Without good health there can be no real beauty, no beautiful complexion, no bright and sparkling eyes, and no power to please others or make others happy. One cannot bestow upon those around them that which they do not possess themselves. It is girls like this—girls who may be classed with that great army, the only middling—who, instead of endeavouring to set themselves right by the aid of judicious living and everything that conduces to health, are for ever hunting among the trashy advertisements of cheap ladies' papers for cosmetics that shall not only make them beautiful for a day, but keep them beautiful for all time.

Very catchy are many of those advertisements to the eyes of the simple and the ignorant, and they are always tastefully illustrated. In a country better governed than ours, those advertising quack-women, who charge such awful prices for specialities that are simply worse than want, would soon find themselves inside the four walls of a prison. Pray take my warning, girls, and keep your money in your purses.

Do not forget, however, that regularity in living, temperance in eating, daily pleasant exercise, no spurting if you ride, plenty of fruit, and the bath, using the mildest soaps are the passports to health and happiness; and beauty cannot exist without these latter.

[LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.]

PART IV.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—Before going away for your summer holiday, I should advise you to put all your valuables, such as your silver tea-set, etc., into a strong iron box and get Gerald to deposit the same at his bank, where it will be perfectly safe.

The bank will not give you a receipt for the contents of the box, because they will not make themselves responsible for property which they are taking care of gratuitously; but they will give you an acknowledgment for the box itself, which is quite sufficient for your purpose.

The landlady at Southsea had no justification for writing and telling you that you could not have the rooms, which you had previously engaged, for another week yet, because her present lodgers were staying on in them. She has broken her contract with you—which was to let her rooms to you from a certain date for a specified amount—so that if you find it more convenient to leave town at the date you originally fixed, you need not wait upon the Southsea landlady's pleasure. The contract to take her rooms is at an end, and you need not go to her at all unless it suits you to do so.

From a strictly legal point of view, you have a right of action against her, which I do not advise nor suppose you would care to exercise, although it is most annoying to have your plans upset in this manner, and more especially too when you went to the trouble and expense of going down to Southsea so as to make certain of securing comfortable quarters.

I would not advise your friend to have anything to do with those attractive advertisements which appear in the newspapers, offering home employment to gentlewomen at the rate of ten to thirty shillings a week. The dodge is little better than a swindle; perhaps not a swindle in a strictly legal sense, but a swindle all the same.

The way it is worked is this: you are asked to send two or three shillings in the first instance and in return you get a quantity of rubber stamps which you have to sell to your friends at a profit, and when you have disposed of them all (a most unlikely event) you buy more rubber stamps at wholesale prices and sell them at retail ones; or else you receive a packet of wool, which you have to knit into an impossible number of socks and comforters, and for which you will be paid a small sum for so many dozen pairs.

It is a particularly heartless swindle to my mind, because the unfortunate ladies who answer these advertisements can ill afford to waste even two or three shillings, and, of course, they are quite unable to sell the rubber stamps or similar rubbish received in return for their money.

I have received frequent complaints from ladies who have been taken in by this trick, and I should like to see all such advertisements expunged from the newspapers. The advertisement columns contain a good many traps for the unwary. For instance, there is the “lady” who is offering silver fish-knives for sale at an immense sacrifice, unused, and less than half the original value.

You will observe that the word is “value” not “cost”; but she omits to state that the value put upon them is that given to them by herself, and, curiously enough, she is offering a similar sacrifice every day in the year.

I do not suggest that there is any swindle in the above style of advertisement. It is a trick of the trade, and if you are sharp enough you will find that the same “lady” is offering other articles for sale also at a sacrifice in another part of the paper.

The fact also that nearly all these articles are advertised as “unused” ought to be sufficient to warn people that it is a dealer and not a private individual who is advertising; but people, especially ladies, my dear Dorothy, are so anxious to make a bargain that they cannot resist the temptation to purchase an article, with a fictitious value attached to it, at half price.

A similar article, if bought at a shop in the ordinary way, costs less and lasts longer; but then it would not profess to be a bargain—wherein lies the charm.

I am afraid that I cannot give you any comfort as regards the bill sent in by your stationer, whom you say you have already paid. If you cannot find or did not get a receipt from him you are powerless and will have to pay it over again.

When tradespeople know your name and address, it is always advisable to ask for a receipt if they do not offer to give you one. Even when dealing with shops which profess to sell on cash terms only, I always make a point of asking for a receipt if the goods are to be sent to my address; and, for the future, I advise you to follow the example of

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

[OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;]
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE DAYS.

COTTAGE AT PINNER.

PART IV.

We will now describe a few examples of village architecture in the immediate neighbourhood of London, with illustrations from Pinner and Acton. The first, which is in “Post-and-pan” construction, is a simple but pleasing example of Gothic work, dating from the reign of Henry VIII., sketched at Pinner. The second is a porch to a cottage in the same pretty village; it is one of the most picturesque examples we know of, and the lovely rose bush which shades it adds much to its beauty. When we first saw it great clusters of these exquisite flowers clung around the ancient timbers and spread themselves over the ruddy tiles of the roof. It would be difficult to conceive a more charming bower, but, although some mending has been recently carried out, it will probably not last through many more winters; some cruel wind may wreck it, or some tempest ruin it, but when this catastrophe takes place it will have served its purpose for nearly four centuries, and can a wooden porch be expected to do more? As we heard an archæologist say, “it will have earned a right to tumble down.” Alas, we fear that most of the old village architecture in England has earned this right, and will, before very long, take advantage of it.

In addition to this the wholesale “improving” away of picturesque village architecture in the vicinity of the metropolis will leave little for those who come after us to study or admire.

A few years back how beautiful a place was Willesden, with its mediæval cottages, ancient wooden parsonage, inns and country houses surrounded by gardens, farm-yards, barns, wooden granaries, etc. All but one or two have lately disappeared, and they are threatened.

What a pretty country village Acton was, but now how changed! The old forge still remains to speak to us of village life of the past; it is sweet and charming, its walls mantled with creepers and overshadowed with great elms and poplars. A quaint little garden with brick paths separates it from the road. The building itself is of brick partly framed in timber, though not of “Post-and-pan” construction, as the wood is simply introduced by way of bond, a kind of construction which came in towards the end of the seventeenth century. The chimneys are older than the house, and look quite Elizabethan. It is altogether a lovely village bit and strangely out of gear with the smart suburban villas growing up all around it.

COTTAGE PORCH, PINNER.

It is strange that in times within the memory of the writer the villages closely surrounding London were so countrified. Hampstead, Highgate, Acton, Fulham, Barnes, Kew, Richmond, Bow, Stratford, Bromley were quite separated from the metropolis and surrounded by pleasant fields, approached by lanes shaded by elms and tall hawthorn hedges, full of good old-fashioned houses shut in with lofty red brick walls, over which fruit trees might be seen, laden in autumn, with ruddy apples, golden pears or purple plums, offering a temptation to the passer-by. Fields of cabbages or fragrant beans, (can anything surpass the scent of a bean-field in full bloom with the sun upon it?) market gardens, orchards, and acres of more delicate vegetables, cucumbers, etc., grown under glass; great waggons laden with the produce of the land jolting and jingling along the road or stopping for refreshment for man and beast in front of some well-shaded wayside inn. A four-wheeled cab might be seen occasionally, when folks would look at one another, and say, “What can be the matter? Here's a cab going to the Smiths'. Can it be a lawyer going to draw up the old man's will, or has his son, after so many years, come back again from India?” See the neighbourhoods now with their huge warehouses, manufactories or smart suburban streets and rows of shops, omnibuses, motor cars, etc. How few years, comparatively speaking, it has taken to effect these changes, and one wonders whether any country at all will be left in the days of our grandchildren.

VILLAGE FORGE AT ACTON.

(To be continued.)

[VARIETIES.]

A Fable for Critics.

A lamb strayed for the first time into the woods, and excited much discussion among the other animals. In a mixed company, one day, when he became the subject of a friendly gossip, the goat praised him.

“Pooh!” said the lion, “this is too absurd. The beast is a pretty beast enough, but did you hear him roar? I heard him roar, and, by the manes of my fathers, when he roars he does nothing but cry ba—a—a!” And the lion bleated his best in mockery, but bleated far from well.

“Nay,” said the deer, “I do not think so badly of his voice. I liked him well enough until I saw him leap. He kicks with the hind legs in running, and with all his skipping gets over very little ground.”

“It is a bad beast altogether,” said the tiger. “He cannot roar, he cannot run, he can do nothing—and what wonder? I killed a man yesterday, and, in politeness to the new-comer, offered him a bit, upon which he had the impudence to look disgusted and say, ‘No, sir, I eat nothing but grass.’”

So the beasts criticised the lamb, each in his own way; and yet it was a very good lamb nevertheless.

Taking down the Clothes-Line.

“We had at one time in our service,” says a modern housekeeper, “a very simple young woman, who came to us through one of the registry offices in our town.

“She showed the quality of her intelligence on the very day she came. She was told to go out into the yard and take down the clothes-line, which was stretched upon half-a-dozen posts set up for that purpose.

“Bridget was at the task so long that we began to wonder what on earth had become of her. We went out to see what she was doing, and found her working away vigorously with a spade. She had dug up three of the posts and had almost completed the work upon a fourth. She did not stay with us long.”

Truth is always Easiest.—It is hard to personate and act a part long; for, where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return and will peep out and betray herself one time or other.

The Gifts of Fortune.—“I generally divide my favours,” says Fortune, “by giving a gift to one and the power to appreciate it to another.”

Natural Barometers.

From the earliest times observations have been made on the signs exhibited by members of the animal world indicative of changes in the weather.

Rain and storms have been predicted by asses frequently shaking and agitating their ears; by dogs rolling on the ground and scratching up the earth with their forefeet; by oxen lying on their right side; by animals crowding together; by moles throwing up more earth than usual; by bats sending forth their cries and flying into houses; by sea-fowl and other aquatic birds retiring to the shore; by ducks and geese flying backwards and forwards and frequently plunging into the water; by swallows flying low, etc.

Fine weather, on the other hand, has been foretold by the croaking of crows in the morning; by bats remaining longer than usual abroad and flying about in considerable numbers; by the screech of the owl; and by cranes flying very high in silence and ranged in order.

Courage.—There is nothing like courage even in ordinary things. Let us be willing to try at anything we wish to accomplish. It often happens that those who try at it do it.

[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

CHAPTER XV.

For the next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.

At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked weary little mortal to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again instead of getting up to face the long, long day.

Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.

In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then, each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.

When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant “Peggy, what would you like?” “What does Peggy say?” her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.

It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.

“Peggy is so grumpy!” Mellicent complained to her mother. “She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in! She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!”

Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.

“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”

“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.

“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”

Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about—Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.

“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”

“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”

“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”

“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”

“Are you writing to India—to your mother?”

“N—no, not just now.”

“Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit at all with those white cheeks.”

Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, “Oh, do let me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret, but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be pleased.” If she had done so she knew perfectly well how hearty and pleasant would have been Mrs. Asplin's consent; but there are some states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs. Asplin sigh, as if with anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her shoulders in wilful indifference.

“She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than ever, as I mayn't work during the day, Mellicent said I was never with them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not! They don't want me; nobody wants me now that Rosalind has come! I hate Rosalind—nasty, smirking, conceited thing!” and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her over-charged feelings.

She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint with a crest and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin, another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.

“Invitations!” cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. “Invitations! How scrumptious!” Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the letters, “R.D.,” suggested the sender of the letters, but the natural girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, “Quis, Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!”

“Ego, Ego!” came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and torn open in breathless haste.

“From Rosalind! Oh, how very funny! ‘Requests the pleasure—company—to a pink luncheon.’ What in the world is a ‘pink luncheon?’—‘on Tuesday next, the 20th inst....’”

“A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r” since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene, a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”

“That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob!” asked Peggy curiously, and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.