CHAPTER X.

“I TRUST THEM TO YOU, MERLE.”

With the early summer came a new anxiety; Joyce was growing very fast, and, like other children of her age, looked thin and delicate. She lost her appetite, grew captious and irritable, had crying fits if she were contradicted, and tired of all her playthings. It was hard work to amuse her; and as Reggie was rather fretful with the heat, I found my charge decidedly onerous, especially as it was the height of the season, and Mrs. Morton’s daily visits to the nursery barely lasted ten minutes.

Dr. Myrtle was called in and recommended change for both the children. There was a want of tone about Joyce: she was growing too fast, and there was slight irritability of the brain, a not uncommon thing, he remarked, with nervous, delicately organised children.

He recommended sea air and bathing. She must be out on the shore all day, and run wild. Fresh air, new milk, and country diet would be her best medicine; and, as Dr. Myrtle was an oracle in our household, Mr. Morton at once decided that his advice must be followed.

There was a long, anxious deliberation between the parents, and the next morning I was summoned to Mrs. Morton’s dressing-room. I found her lying on the couch; the blinds were lowered, and the smelling salts were in her hand. She said at once that she had had a restless night, and had one of her bad headaches. I thought she looked wretchedly ill, and, for the first time, the fear crossed me that her life was killing her by inches. Hers was not a robust constitution, and, like Joyce, she was most delicately organised. Late hours and excitement are fatal to these nervous constitutions, if only I dared hint at this to Dr. Myrtle, but I felt, in my position, it would be an act of presumption. She would not let me speak of herself; at my first word of sympathy she stopped me.

“Never mind about me, I am used to these headaches; sit down a moment; I want to speak to you about the children. Dr. Myrtle has made us very anxious about Joyce; he says she must have change at once.”

“He said the same to me, Mrs. Morton.”

“My husband and I have talked the matter over; if I could only go with you and the children—but no, it is impossible. How could I leave just now, when our ball is coming off on the eighteenth, and we have two dinners as well? Besides, I could not leave my husband; he is far from well. This late session tries him dreadfully. I have never left him yet, not even for a day.”

“And yet you require the change as much as the children.” I could not help saying this, but she took no notice of my remark.

“We have decided to send them to my father’s. Do you know Netherton, Merle? It is a pretty village about a mile from Orton-on-Sea. Netherton is by the sea, and the air is nearly as fine as Orton. Marshlands, that is my father’s place, is about half a mile from the shore.”

I heard this with some trepidation. In my secret heart I had hoped that we should have taken lodgings at some watering-place, and I thought, with Hannah’s help, I should have got on nicely; but to go amongst strangers! I was perfectly unaware of Mr. Morton’s horror of lodgings, and it would have seemed absurd to him to take a house just for me and the children.

“I have written to my sister, Merle,” she continued, “to make all arrangements. My father never interferes in domestic matters. I have told her that I hold you responsible for my children, and that you will have the sole charge of them. I laid a stress on this, because I know my sister’s ideas of management differ entirely from mine. I can trust you as I trust myself, Merle, and it is my wish to secure you from interference of any kind.” It was nice to hear this, but her speech made me a little nervous; she evidently dreaded interference for me.

“Is your sister younger than yourself?” I faltered.

“I have two sisters,” she returned, quickly; “Gay is much younger; she was not grown up when I married; my eldest sister, Mrs. Markham, was then in India. Two years ago she came back a widow, with her only remaining child, and at my father’s request remained with him to manage his household. Domestic matters were not either in his or Gay’s line, and Mrs. Markham is one who loves to rule.”

I confess this slight sketch of Mrs. Markham did not impress me in her favour. I conceived the idea of a masculine, bustling woman, very different to my beloved mistress. I could not well express these sentiments, but I think Mrs. Morton must have read them in my face.

“I am going to be very frank with you, Merle,” she said, after a moment’s thought, “and I do not think I shall repent my confidence. I know my sister Adelaide’s faults. She has had many troubles with which to contend in her married life, and they have made her a little hard. She lost two dear little girls in India, and, as Rolf is her only child, she spoils him dreadfully; in fact, young as he is, he has completely mastered her. He is a very delicate, wilful child, and needs firm management; in spite of his faults he is a dear little fellow, and I am very sorry for Rolf.”

“Will he be with us in the nursery?” I asked, anxiously.

“No, indeed: Rolf is always with his mother in the drawing-room, to the no small discomfort of his mother’s visitors. Sometimes he is with her maid Judson, but that is only when even Mrs. Markham finds him unbearable. A spoilt child is greatly to be pitied, Merle; he has his own way nine times out of ten, and on the tenth he meets with undesirable severity. Adelaide either will not punish him at all, or punishes him too severely. Children suffer as much from their parent’s temper as from over-indulgence.”

“I am afraid Rolf’s example will be bad for Joyce.”

“That is my fear,” she replied, with a sigh. “I wish the children could be kept apart, but Rolf will have his own way in that. There is one thing of which I must warn you, Merle. Mrs. Markham may be disposed to interfere in your department; remember, you are responsible to me and not to her. I look to you to follow my rules and wishes with regard to my children.”

“Oh, Mrs. Morton,” I burst out, “you are putting me in a very difficult position. If any unpleasantness should arise, I cannot refer to you. How am I to help it if Mrs. Markham interferes with the children?”

“You must be firm, Merle; you must act in any difficulty in the way you think will please me. Be true to me, and you may be sure I shall listen to no idle complaints of you. I wish I had not to say all this; it is very painful to hint this of a sister, but Mrs. Markham is not always judicious with regard to children.”

“Will it be good for them to go to Netherton under these circumstances?”

“There is nowhere else where they can go,” she returned, rather sadly; “my husband has such a horror of lodgings, and he will not take a house for us this year—he thinks it an unnecessary expense, as later on we are going to Scotland that he may have some shooting. All the doctors speak so well of Netherton; the air is very fine and bracing, and my father’s garden will be a Paradise to the children.”

We were interrupted here by Mr. Morton.

“Oh, are you there, Miss Fenton?” he said, pleasantly (he so often called me Miss Fenton now); “I was just in search of you. Violet, your sister has telegraphed as you wished, and the rooms will be quite ready for the children to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” I gasped.

“Yes,” he returned, in his quick, decided voice; “you and Hannah will have plenty of work to-day. You are looking pale, Miss Fenton; sea air will be good for you as well as Joyce. I do not like people to grow pale in my service.”

“I have been telling Merle,” observed his wife, anxiously, “that she is to have the sole responsibility of our children. Adelaide must not interfere, must she, Alick?”

“Of course not,” with a frown. “My dear Violet, we all know what your sister’s management means; Rolf is a fine little fellow, but she is utterly ruining him. Remember, Miss Fenton, no unwholesome sweets and delicacies for the children; you know our rules. She may stuff her own boy if she likes, but not my children,” and with this he dismissed me, and sat down beside his wife with some open letters in his hand.

I returned to the nursery with a heavy heart. How little we know as we open our eyes on the new day, what that day’s work may bring us! I think one’s waking prayer should be, “Lead me in a plain path because of mine enemies.”

I was utterly cast down and disheartened at the thought of leaving my mistress. The responsibility terrified me. I should be at the tender mercies of strangers, who would not recognise my position. Ah! I had got to the Hill Difficulty at last, and yet surely the confidence reposed in me ought to have made me glad. “I trust you as myself.” Were not those sweet words to hear from my mistress’s lips? Well, I was only a girl. Human nature, and especially girl nature, is subject to hot and cold fits. At one moment we are star-gazing, and the majesty of the universe, with its undeviating laws, seems to lift us out of ourselves with admiration and wonder; and the next hour we are grovelling in the dust, and the grasshopper is a burthen, and we see nothing save the hard stones of the highway and the walls that shut us in on every side. “Lead us in a plain path.” Oh, that is just what we want; a Divine Hand to lift us up and clear the dust from our eyes, and to lead us on as little children are led.

These salutary thoughts checked my nervous fears and restored calmness. I remembered a passage that Aunt Agatha had once read to me—a quotation from a favourite book of hers; I had copied it out for myself.

“Do as the little children do—little children who with one hand hold fast by their father, and with the other gather strawberries or blackberries along the hedges. Do you, while gathering and managing the goods of this world with one hand, with the other always hold fast the hand of your heavenly Father, turning to Him from time to time to see if your actions or occupations are pleasing to Him; but take care, above all things, that you never let go His hand, thinking to gather more, for, should He let you go, you will not be able to take another step without falling.”

Just then Hannah came to me for the day’s orders, and I told her as briefly as possible of the plans for the morrow. To my astonishment, directly I mentioned Netherton, she turned very red, and uttered an exclamation.

“Netherton—we are to go to Netherton—Squire Cheriton’s place! Why, miss, it is not more than a mile and a half from there to Dorlecote and Wheeler’s Farm.”

“Do you mean the farm where your father and your sister Molly live?” I returned, quite taken aback at this, for the girl’s eyes were sparkling, and she seemed almost beside herself with joy. “Truly it is an ill wind that blows no one any good.”

“Yes, indeed, miss, you have told me a piece of good news. I was just thinking of asking mistress for a week’s holiday, only Master Reggie seemed so fretful and Miss Joyce so weakly, that I hardly knew how I could be spared without putting too much work upon you; but now I shall be near them all for a month or more. Molly had been writing to me the other day to tell me that they were longing for a sight of me.”

“I am very glad for your sake, Hannah, that we shall be so near your old home; but now we must see to the children’s things, and I must get Rhoda to send a note to the laundress.” I had put a stop to the conversation purposely, for I wanted to know my mistress’s opinion before I encouraged Hannah in speaking about her own people. How did I know what Mrs. Morton would wish? I took the opportunity of speaking to her when she came up to the nursery in the course of the evening. Hannah was still packing, and I was collecting some of the children’s toys. Mrs. Morton listened to me with great attention; I thought she seemed interested.

“Of course I know Wheeler’s Farm,” she replied at once; “Michael Sowerby, Hannah’s father, is a very respectable man; indeed, they are all most respectable, and I know Mrs. Garnett thinks highly of them. I shall have no objection to my children visiting the farm if you think proper to take them, Merle; but of course they will go nowhere without you. If you can spare Hannah for a day now and then I should be glad for her to have the holiday, for she is a good girl, and has always done her duty.”

“I will willingly spare her,” was my answer, for Hannah’s sweet temper and obliging ways had made me her friend. “I was only anxious to know your wishes on this point, in case my conduct or Hannah’s should be questioned.”

“You are nervous about going to Netherton, Merle,” she returned, at once, looking at me more keenly than usual. “You are quite pale this evening. Put down those toys; Hannah can pack them, with Rhoda’s help; I will not have you tire yourself any more to-night.”

“I am not tired,” I faltered, but the foolish tears rushed to my eyes. Did she have an idea, I wonder, how hard I felt it would be to leave her the next day. As the thought passed through my mind she took the chair beside me.

“The carriage has not come yet, Anderson will let me know when my husband is ready for me; we shall have time for a talk. You are a little down-hearted to-night, Merle; you are dreading leaving us to-morrow.”

“I am sorry to leave you,” I returned, and now I could not keep the tears back.

“I shall miss you, too,” she replied, kindly; “I am getting to know you so well, Merle. I think we understand each other, and then I am so grateful to you for loving my children; no one has ever been so good to them before.”

“I am only doing my duty to them and you.”

“Perhaps so; but then how few do their duty? How few try to act up to so high a standard. I am dull myself to-night, Merle. No one knows how I feel parting with my children; I try not to indulge in nervous fancies, but I cannot feel happy and at rest when they are away from me.”

“It is very hard for you,” was my answer to this.

“It is not quite so hard this time,” she returned, hastily; “I feel they will be safe with you, Merle, that you will watch over them as though they were your own. I know you will justify my trust.”

“You may be assured that I will do my best for them.”

“I know that,” returned my mistress, gently. “You will write to me, will you not, and give me full particulars about my darlings. I think you will like Marshlands; my sister Gay is very bright and winning, and my father is always kind.”

“Mrs. Markham?” I stammered.

“Oh, my sister Adelaide; she will be too much occupied with her own boy and her own affairs to trouble you much. If you are in any difficulty write to me and I will help you. Now I must say good-night. Have I done you any good, Merle? Have the fears lessened?”

“You always do me good,” I answered, gratefully, as she put out her slim hand to me; and, indeed, her few sympathising words had lifted a little of the weight. When she had left the nursery I sat down and wrote a long letter to Aunt Agatha, bidding her good-bye, and speaking cheerfully of our intended flitting. When the next day came I woke far more cheerful. The bright sunshine, Joyce’s excitement, and Hannah’s happy looks stimulated me to courage. There was little time for thought, for there was still much to be done before the carriage came round for us. Mrs. Morton accompanied us to the station, and did not quit the platform until our train moved off.

“Remember, Merle, I trust them to you,” were her last words before we left her there alone in the summer sunshine.

(_To be continued._)

CHRISTMAS IN A FRENCH BOARDING-SCHOOL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LACE-MAKING IN THE ERZGEBIRGE;[3]

OR,

THE RESULT OF A WOMAN’S HOSPITALITY.

BY EMMA BREWER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That bobbin lace may prosper ever.”

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

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Mountains between Saxony and Bohemia.

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

“NO.”

BY MARY E. HULLAH.