CHAPTER III.

The wind blew fiercer than ever as Embrance turned out of the broad avenue into a side path, and found herself face to face with Horace Meade.

“Good afternoon, Miss Clemon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meade.”

She put her hand into his for a second; he had thrown away his cigar and turned to walk by her side. “How fast you walk,” he said; “I have been watching you for the last three minutes.”

“I haven’t much time to lose,” said Embrance, apologetically, “as a rule. The park gate will shut soon.”

“Yes, to be sure. Do you like the Regent’s-park?”

“Very much; don’t you?”

“Oh yes, immensely, but somehow I never come here. No, indeed, I don’t,” in answer to her look of amusement; “I came to-day because I thought there was a chance of meeting you. There is something that I want to talk to you about. Do you know that you are the most difficult person in the world to approach?”

“I should not have thought so,” said Embrance, with a smile. “I think I can guess what you are going to tell me.”

He shook his head: “I’m afraid you can’t.”

“You must not suppose that she means all she says; only give her time and she will take your advice.”

“Ah, yes; Joan, you mean?”

It struck Embrance that he was very absent and unlike himself, but she had broached the subject now, and she felt bound to go on with it. “She told me that she was very sorry that she had been ungracious about some suggestion that you made. I’m quite sure that she would not willingly say anything to hurt you.”

“I’m quite sure she would not,” assented Horace, “she is much too kind-hearted.”

“And,” continued Embrance, clasping her hands firmly in her muff, “I wanted to say (we needn’t talk about it again), if you think that it would be better for her to go down to Doveton, I will try and persuade her to go; it would not be for long, perhaps.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Horace, absently; “but don’t you see, Miss Clemon, the question is not altogether about Joan’s peace of mind, but yours?”

They had reached the gate, and turned into a dreary piece of “outer circle.”

“Mine?” exclaimed Embrance, growing scarlet in the dim twilight; “there is no occasion to talk about me.”

“I beg your pardon, I have a great deal to say. Do you suppose I don’t see what you are doing for my cousin, how you are helping her and teaching her, and taking on your shoulders the responsibilities that her own family ought to bear?”

“I had not looked upon it from that point of view,” said Embrance, dryly.

“Now you are angry at what I have said; I can’t help it, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. Joan knows what I think, but perhaps she has not told you all I said; she is a dear little girl. Don’t imagine that I am throwing any blame on her, but she shouldn’t have come to London!”

“I have tried to do my best for her,” said Embrance, in a broken voice.

“Miss Clemon,” cried Horace, “you must think that I am behaving like a brute! Do you suppose I don’t know that? You have done her, and are doing her, all the good in the world.”

“I thought that you did not trust me,” explained Embrance, simply. “I’m so glad I was wrong; indeed, Joan is like a younger sister to me; don’t try to separate us.”

The light of a feeble gaslight fell upon her face as she spoke; her eyes were raised pleadingly to his.

“You have mistaken me altogether,” he said, hurriedly, “but I couldn’t expect it to be otherwise. You must not misunderstand me again. Embrance, I know I am taking you by surprise; I must say it. I love you. I am miserable when I am away from you. Don’t, don’t turn away!”

A gust of wind came roaring down the road; she did not heed it. She walked quietly by his side, stricken dumb with great joy. She did not deceive herself for one instant, it was too late for that, she liked him too well. She could not shut her heart to the truth, any more than she could shut her ears to his words. Alas, alas! where were all her plans for Joan? Did Joan love him? In the darkness of the badly lighted road, she seemed to see Joan’s beautiful face, and to hear her say, “Embrance, have patience with me. Don’t think ill of me! You are the only one who has patience with me!”

“My poor dear, I will do my best for you,” she thought, as a feeling of great tenderness towards Joan came over her. She had no answer ready for Horace Meade. Ah! he was strong, and did not want her pity.

“What shall I say? What shall I do?” she cried at last, in desperation. It seemed as if hours had passed since he had spoken the words that made this great difference in her life.

“Have I distressed you? I can’t help it. Tell me, won’t you listen to me?”

“I, I am sorry,” she faltered, looking at him with a tearful glance.

“I didn’t know. I had thought——” She stopped; Joan’s name must not be mentioned now if she loved him; if—nay, she must love him, and he would find it out by-and-by; he could not but be fond of her. Only give them time; he was vexed with her for the moment; it would all come right. Nevertheless it was hard to give him her answer. “Mr. Meade,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “it is very good of you. I thank you very much. I can’t listen to you; it is better not.”

“Are you engaged to that man who went to New Zealand?”

“My cousin? No, certainly not; why should you think so?”

“Joan said something about it, that is partly why I determined to know my fate at once.”

“You must have misunderstood her altogether. When did you see her last?”

“About a fortnight ago. I can’t remember,” he replied, impatiently. “I believe your whole thoughts are wrapped up in her.”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to vex you. Can’t we be friends, at least?”

Up to the present moment she had indeed been thinking how she could best make a reconciliation possible between him and Joan. With a sharp pang it struck her that perhaps after all she was in the wrong.

“Listen,” he said; “I am in earnest, in bitter earnest. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Embrance.

“Thank you. I was sure of that, at least. I care so much that I can’t stay here any longer, coming to see you like a stranger, and having no right to help you in any way whatever. I have seen enough in the last few months to guess a little what your work is. No; let me say it out to the end. Before I knew you I fancied that you were selfish and indifferent. Heaven knows how wrong I was! If I can’t win your love, it is my own fault. Embrance, don’t decide in a hurry. Think it over. I love you. Give me a chance.”

They had reached the crowded thoroughfare. Gaslights were flaring; the road was thronged with cabs and carts; the people were pushing along the pavement, too busy to notice the quiet couple, or to observe that the plain girl in an ulster had a white face, and that the lines of her mouth were set with pain and suffering. Across the street, in a few minutes, they were in a dreary square. Here there were no loiterers. A murky grey sky; black trees, flinging their gaunt arms to the chimney pots; rows of melancholy stone houses, with carved heads, placidly unconcerned, gazing down from the lintels.

In vain she strove to find words to tell him her perplexity. How could she accept this gift from his hands, believing as she did that the child at home was longing to make friends with him? How should she return and look her friend in the face, saying, “I have stolen your lover”?

“Embrance, be patient with me,” Joan had said. “Embrance, don’t give me up.”

Then she turned and put her hand into Horace’s. Her fingers were cold as ice, but they did not tremble. “I can’t; don’t ask me,” she cried under her breath.

He strode by her side in silence. An empty cab came rattling round the corner. “Stop it,” whispered Embrance. He obeyed her, opened the door, and told the man where to drive. He lifted his hat, standing on one side, and waiting for the cab to drive off. At last she raised her eyes to his. “Forgive me,” she whispered; “do forgive me. God bless you, Horace.”

He turned away without a word. What should he say more than he had said? She could not love him. There was nothing more to be done. She was no coquette to say “No” when she meant “Yes.” Fate was hard on him. The one woman in the whole world whom he longed to call his wife had rejected his love. He must bear his grief as best he could.

Embrance sank back into a dark corner of the cab, shuddering as she recalled his look of misery. She had none of the spirit of a heroine or a martyr to support her; she had tried, struggling against her own self, to act uprightly by one friend; suppose that her very love of honesty had caused her to be cruel to another? Now that it was all too late, she longed to have the last five minutes over again. No, a thousand times, no! Let her only get home and have time to think, and she would leave off being sorry. Whether rightly or wrongly, she had done what seemed honest and fair; she would not reproach herself, and he would soon get over it. “Men forget sooner than women,” she reflected, falling back on one of her aunt’s numerous truisms. Then she almost laughed in scorn at her own insincerity. “You don’t believe it; you know he loves you, and your ridiculous behaviour will make him think worse of all womanhood from this day forth.” “Oh! I hope not. I hope not!” she sobbed aloud, with her head against the cushion of the cab.

The sound of her own voice roused her to the consciousness that she was getting very near home; she sat up, dried her eyes and smoothed her hair. It would not do to alarm Joan; what had happened this afternoon must be kept a secret from her at all events. She had her own latch-key. She opened the door and stole upstairs. The landlady and her daughter were chatting in the back parlour, but Embrance did not want to exchange civilities with them just now. Outside her own door she paused for a moment, then opened it, saying: “Well, Joan, are you waiting for your tea?”

There was no answer. The lamp was lighted, the tablecloth was laid, but Joan was not there. Her chair was in a corner by the window; there were no signs of her drawing or scraps of millinery about.

“Joan!” cried Embrance, nervously. “Where are you?”

No answer. She ran to the door of the next room and looked in; all was dark and silent. “I suppose it is not so late as I thought,” she said to herself. “She will be in soon, I daresay.”

She took off her bonnet, and sat down to wait with a book, but she could not fix her attention. She was very, very tired, and rather lonely; she did wish that Joan would come. The longing to speak to somebody was so great, that after a short time she put out her hand and rang the bell. Annie came running upstairs at the summons; her eyes were round with excitement; she hardly waited to hear Miss Clemon’s question.

“Did Miss Fulloch leave any message for me when she went out?”

“No, miss; she’s been gone ever since ten o’clock, half an hour after you left. I heard the door bang, and I said to myself, ‘What’s that?’ And it was Miss Fulloch; she had on her new bonnet, with the pink feather, that she was making.”

“Never mind the bonnet, Annie; did she say when she would be in to tea?”

“No, miss; and I expect she won’t be back; she took her bag.”

“Very well. I will wait half an hour, and then, please, bring tea.”

“There’s something wrong upstairs,” was Annie’s report in the kitchen. “Miss Clemon looks as if she see a ghost. She isn’t half the lady she was.”

Seven o’clock struck; eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and no Joan appeared. Embrance drank a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. In vain she told herself that very likely Mrs. Rakely had made one of her flying visits to London, and had persuaded Joan to spend the day with her; it was absurd to be anxious; of course she would be back directly; nevertheless she could not read, write, or rest. The late postman brought a letter for Miss Clemon. Annie, having studied the envelope on the way upstairs, saw that the postmark was Brighton.

Embrance took the letter. The handwriting, firm and neat, was quite strange to her. She opened it hastily.

“Dear old Embrance” (it began). “I had not the courage to say good-bye to you this morning, but I told you that I had a secret, and I think you guessed it; you are so clever. I was afraid you would be disappointed, you meant me to be a painter’s wife, didn’t you? but I was happily married to Alfred Brownhill this morning, and we are spending our honeymoon at Brighton. We must come and see you before we go to Doveton. Alfred sends his kind regards; he remembers you quite well. You will be glad to hear that I am so happy; I hope you won’t miss me too much, you busy old dear.—Your loving, JOAN BROWNHILL. P.S. Alfred likes the bonnet very much. He wrote the address; were you mystified?”

A little bunch of sweet smelling violets dropped out of the letter and scented the room—Joan always loved flowers. She liked everything that was pleasant and good to look upon.

Alfred Brownhill! he was a staid, middle-aged man, with a comfortable home and a prosperous income. No wonder that old Mr. Fulloch had wished for the marriage. He would be surprised, too, and would wonder that his grand-daughter had not returned to his roof, as she was prepared to follow his advice at last. But Embrance saw clearly enough that Joan would never have done that. A runaway wedding, and a triumphant return to Doveton, would be much more to her taste. She looked at Joan’s unused cup and saucer on the table, and she shivered as she realised the truth; her friend would never come back. While she had been rejecting the pleadings of a good man who loved her, Joan had perhaps been telling her husband that “Embrance wished her to marry a painter.”

“I will write to him,” she said, turning to the little table where she had so often sat when he and Joan talked together over the fire. She never swerved from her intention; he had been cruelly treated; he might not care to accept her apology, that did not matter. She must see him once more, and explain to him that she had been deceived—mistaken, that was a more gracious word. She would write no more than she could help.

“Dear Mr. Meade,—Please come and see me. I have made a mistake.—Yours truly, EMBRANCE CLEMON.”

She knew his address, she had written to him before, asking him to do various little acts of kindness for Joan. Once she had been to tea at his rooms, with Mrs. Rakely and Joan, he had shown her his sketches and asked her opinion about his pictures. It was all long ago. It had been a bitterly cold day, Joan had caught a bad sore throat, and was ill for a week afterwards; she had been an impatient invalid, and Horace had called to inquire after her very often, and had left fruit and flowers.

Embrance could no longer endure the loneliness of the little parlour; she missed Joan terribly, her laugh and her many coaxing ways. She longed for air; it was a good excuse for posting the letter herself. As she tied her bonnet-strings before the glass, she shrank back aghast at the sight of her pale face. She put on a thick veil and threw a shawl over her shoulders; she would feel happier when the letter was once in the pillar-box. A hundred times she had been up and down the crooked staircase in the dark; to-night, it might be that she was tired, or that her eyes were full of tears, but her foot slipped, she clutched instinctively at the banister, missed it, and fell down into the darkness below.

So it came about that the letter to Horace Meade was left unposted till the following morning.

Some days passed before Embrance could leave her room; the doctor, whom the landlady had summoned in her fright, said that she had sprained her ankle badly, and ordered perfect rest. The people in the house were good to the solitary invalid; the first-floor lodger brought her knitting and a great many dull stories of her own youth, and experiences of sprained ankles and broken limbs, and came and sat by her sofa, while the landlady and Annie were unceasing in their attentions. Some of Embrance’s pupils called, and Joan wrote sheets of sympathy, crossed and recrossed. Her husband sent his kind regards and hoped that Miss Clemon would come down to Doveton and stay there till she was quite convalescent. However, Embrance refused the invitation, she would rather stay at home for the present; later on, she would like to visit Joan.

Mrs. Brownhill, in the snug breakfast-room in her new home, fretted a little over this refusal; then she recovered her spirits and laid plans for summer excursions; it would be better to have Embrance, after all, when the roses were in bloom. Alfred Brownhill was very much in love with his young wife, and considered her interest in the welfare of her sick friend the prettiest trait of character imaginable.

“Poor old Embrance,” exclaimed Joan, with her hand in his; “I should die of loneliness in that pokey room all by myself, but she has so much strength of will; I don’t believe she minds a bit. I shall never be like her!”

“Heaven forbid!” murmured he devoutly. He was prepared to be kind to the lady for his wife’s sake, but he had a virtuous horror of a strong-minded woman wrapped up in herself, and his principles (which he held sacred) did not allow him to disguise his feelings.

In the meantime Embrance recovered slowly and went back to her work, but she received no answer to her letter.

(_To be concluded._)

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

L. M. D. (Suisse).—We have no charge whatever to make against the moral or intellectual training given in Swiss schools, having had opportunities for making ourselves well acquainted with some of them. But we speak advisedly in stating that, on the score of diet, and certain other matters, English habits differ from those of foreign countries, and many English constitutions cannot bear so great a change with impunity, especially young growing girls. Thus it is better that they should be educated at schools in their own country; or, if abroad, should attend day schools, or engage visiting masters, and sleep and board at home. We have many Swiss friends, and are partial to them and their country. We are glad you like our paper, being one of “our girls.”

YOUNG ANTIQUARY.—The word “cromleac” is a compound of two Irish words—viz, _crom_, “to adore,” or “worship,” and _leac_, “a stone.” _Crom_ was likewise one of the Irish names of the supreme God. These ancient remains are therefore very clearly those of altars or places of worship. You would learn all that is known of them by reading Higgins’ rare work on the round towers, etc., in the British Museum.

WORK.

DUCHESS.—To tan a tennis net, soak it in boiled oil, and let it dry under cover, hung up in the air. Your writing is too full of flourishes.

YOUNG MOTHER, HELEN C.—Get a shilling manual with knitting and crochet patterns. Our space cannot be occupied by them.

FLORENCE GOBBLER.—We thank you for your communication about hat cleaning.

COURTS.—Clothing for Ceylon should consist of what we here call summer clothing—white and pale-coloured cambrics, tussore and Surah silks, very thin cashmere, silk gauze webs for undervests, etc. Go to an Indian outfitter’s, and you will be shown the materials which are the most suitable.

T. A. and C. M.—The best dress for tricycle-riding is a tailor-made short habit, or tight short jacket, and a plain narrow cloth skirt, without any trimmings, festooning, and draping.

C. C.—Table centres are much used for dinner parties, but not of gathered up plush. They are made of straight pieces of silk, German canvas, or satin sheeting, ornmented with an appliqué of plaited straw, or plush edged with fine cord or tinsel.

MISCELLANEOUS.

MAUD.—Go to the police office and inform the inspector of your trouble and the cruel treatment to which you are subjected, and he will take you to the proper quarters, where you may obtain a separation and an allowance. Do nothing rashly and nothing wrong, be your trials and provocations what they may. What you suggested to us would be very wrong indeed, and we think and hope you must have done so under great excitement. If by word or act you thoughtlessly gave cause for jealousy, you might not obtain the separation and allowance, to which otherwise you could lay just claim. Pray God to guide you and preserve you from evil.

BLUSH ROSE.—_Requiescat in pace_ means “Rest in peace.”

LOTTA.—Try to live much in prayer during each day while at your business, or in little intervals of leisure. The responsibility of either turning to God and accepting or “neglecting so great salvation” lies on you. You are not a mere puppet, but a reasonable being, and have been given to distinguish between good and evil. “Ye _will_ not come unto Me,” not “Ye _shall_ not come.” “Why will ye die?” etc. Do not let anyone deceive you with the idea that you have no free will. God does not unjustly “gather where He does not strew.” He had already given the one pound to the idle servant, and thus supplied the means for trading, or would not have expected any return. May He guide you aright.

KITTIE.—Perhaps some glycerine or vaseline might remove the roughness from your face and neck. Get some nice nursery hairwash and apply it to the skin of your head with a small sponge.

HARRY’S WIFE.—We sympathise with you in your trouble and your sister in her sufferings. Certainly, the prayer offered in faith, resting on God’s promises, will certainly be answered. He who bestows faith will accept His own gift with favour. It is He who is drawing your heart towards Him.

EMMA WALKER.—There is the Royal Free Hospital in Gray’s-inn-road, W.C., for the relief of the sick poor of all nations, without any letter of recommendation or other claim beyond sickness and destitution. Write to the secretary, James S. Blyth, Esq. About 2,000 in-patients and 25,000 out-patients are annually under its care.

BEATRICE MARIE.—1. The 16th July, 1869, was a Friday. 2. A series of articles on girls’ pets was given in vol. iv., pages 83, 274, 602, and 731.

A DARK LADY and SUSSEX.—When a married man dies intestate, having children, the widow can claim one-third of his property, and the remaining two-thirds are divided between his children in equal portions. If he die without children, the widow can claim one-half of his property, and the rest is divided in equal portions between his nearest of kin. “Sussex” is quite wrong in his ideas respecting a brother’s claims taking precedence of those of the widow and the children, and it would be most unjust if such were the law. The “Dark Lady” writes well.

PRISCILLA.—Your digestion needs attention, and perhaps your diet and mode of life. If you get a bad headache whenever you read for long at a time, why do you attempt it? Read a little from time to time, and rest your eyes and the feeble nerves connected with the brain.

ADELAIDE.—What you name are designed as acts expressing respect and veneration for Him whom we worship on bended knee. We cannot enter more fully into the subject of your letter. We have no remembrance of any letter signed “Ade.”

ANTOINETTE R. informs us that “she is pretty,” and that gentlemen whom she serves in her father’s shop “stare at her as if she were an unseen object.” (?) We fail to understand what that means. She should resolutely try to forget herself, and give her whole attention to selling her father’s gloves, etc.

JULIA F. E. must count the feet of her verses, so as to get them even. It will not do to have nine feet in one line and eight in another. “Heaven” and “driven” do not rhyme, and in the poem to a “Skylark” here are many mistakes in the length of the feet. But, after all, to an invalid the pleasure of writing down the “thoughts that oppress” and “the words which burn” is very great, and the relief is excellent both for brain and the feelings.

AN ENGLISH VOICE FROM IRELAND.—We certainly could not advise you to marry under the circumstances that you “neither love nor respect” the man to whom you have promised your hand. Perhaps you do not know your own mind, and had better ask to wait a year before you decide finally.

MARION, NEWCASTLE.—The new volume of the G. O. P. begins with the November part. You could improve your writing by crossing your “t’s” and dotting your “i’s.”

RILLY.—The Malvern Home of Rest might suit you. Particulars may be had from the Hon. Mrs. Hewett, Barnard’s Green, Great Malvern. There is also Fern House, Coleshill, Warwickshire, standing high, having a large garden, etc. Apply for terms to Miss Price, Fern House, Coleshill, Warwickshire. We think that one of these might suit you. If a boarder were willing to share a bedroom, the charge would be 17s. per week, everything included except washing, which would be 9d. a dozen.

ANNIE.—The office of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation, an institution intended to give aid in temporary distress to them, their widows, or orphans, is at 36, Southampton-street, Strand, W.C.

THYRA and CASSY.—There is no “usual time” for giving answers. There is very little space allowed for putting them in. In reference to your question, the use of tweezers and pumice-stone is all that we can recommend.

AUNTIE LAURIE.—Your parents’ objection to an engagement with the man you name is fully justified by his conduct. The fact that he has endeavoured to induce you, a minor, to rebel against them and “marry him secretly,” shows him to be devoid of all honour and right principle. He is taking a disgraceful advantage of your youth, weakness, and inexperience.

MAUDE SCOTT.—1. When a cemetery is closed it is generally because the neighbourhood has become overcrowded near it. We never heard of a cemetery being re-opened. 2. The colours of the hoods worn by clergymen and their linings show the university or college from which they come.

A PERPLEXED ONE.—We know of no remedy so good as golden ointment. But why not consult a doctor, as your house and its surroundings must be in fault?

A SCOTCHWOMAN.—“Edward Garrett” is the _nom de plume_ under which Isabella Fyvie Mayo has written several popular works, amongst others, “Occupations of a Retired Life,” and “Premiums Paid to Experience.”

VIRGINIA MAUD.—We could not answer your letter at the length you desire, as we have no space in our columns. We should advise you to write to the secretary, Girls’ Friendly Society, central office, 3, Victoria Mansions, Victoria-street, Westminster, S.W., with a view to joining the Girls’ Friendly Society, which will offer you all the aid and information you may require.

LILY.—Ten extra summer and Christmas numbers have now been published.

HERMON’S SERVANT.—Ember Week is a corruption of _Quatuor tempora_, through the Dutch _Quatemper_ and German _Quatember_. The four times are after Quadragesima Sunday, Whit Sunday, Holyrood Day (September), and St. Lucia’s Day (December). The ancient belief that persons sat in embers or ashes on those days is without foundation.

RANCE and GYPSY.—Canaries’ claws when too long can be cut with a small pair of sharp scissors, but it is a very delicate business to perform.

PORTIA.—Your sending out cards of thanks for kind inquiries is an intimation that you are prepared to receive the visits of the friends who made them. That will decide the time for you. Until you send the cards, they would be most indiscreet and intrusive in calling, unless the very nearest relations, or an exceptionally intimate and privileged friend.

ROWENA.—It is a fixed and general rule that for a girl to ride out only with a riding master is very far from expedient. Of course, if he were an uncle or brother, or a very old and respectable married man, the objection would be lessened, especially if riding up and down the sea sands in full sight, instead of taking a country ride out of sight. There should always be a second lady or a brother, though quite young.

JERBOA is thanked for her kind letter, and the Editor feels much obliged to those who proposed his health at the dinner party “Jerboa” attended. She makes the tails of her letters too long below the lines. Those above are of a suitable and prettier length. Make them correspond.

PRISCILLA may probably outgrow her headaches, as she is so young. They may arise from various causes. Thus, we could not prescribe without due acquaintance with her constitution and many surrounding circumstances.

LOUIE.—Your informant was right, and probably drew his information from Major A. B. Ellis’s work, entitled “West African Islands,” published last year. Canaries have no song in their wild state; it is of artificial origin, and the song our birds give us in no way resembles their natural shrill chirp. They are placed in cages near those of birds already trained to sing, and when accustomed to imprisonment they strive hard to imitate the notes of their educated fellows. The natives of the Canary Islands keep a large stock on hand in process of training. The young of those trained and taught naturally learn from the parent birds.

ELLA BROWN.—The statue of the Venus de Medici is only 4 feet 11½ inches in height. It is believed to be the production of Cleomenes, of Athens, of the second century. It was exhumed in the seventh century near Tivoli, in the villa of Hadrian, and was removed in 1680, by Cosmo III., to the Imperial Gallery at Florence, from the Medici Palace at Rome. It was broken into eleven pieces when discovered, all in a perfect state, one arm only missing, which has been added.

TWIN SISTERS.—The 5th of June, 1876, was a Monday.

C. OF RUDOLSTADT, IDA, and STELLA.—We are inundated with verses from girls, young and untaught; and, as a rule, the same opinion and criticism would be suitable for all alike. But in the case of “Ida’s” verses there is some promise of better to come; as, at least, she has a good ear for rhythm. Our young friend with the long name should count the feet and make each line correspond with its fellow, observing where the beat falls in every line, and placing it uniformly on the same syllable in each verse. Those that follow her first verse neither correspond with it in feet nor in the beat. Though quite incorrect, there is some little poetic feeling in “Stella’s” lines.

VEVEY.—We are much obliged for your article, but are unable to give it a place in our columns owing to lack of space.

LULU.—Consult our series of articles on “Good Breeding,” and “The Habits of Polite Society.” At page 314, vol. ii., you will find “Dinners in Society,” and from this you can glean all the information you require. You only show your good sense in making inquiries when unacquainted with any subject. There is nothing to be ashamed of in so doing.

BULB.—You should put out a good-sized barrel or tub to catch any rainfall in a garden, backyard, or on the leads, where accessible, and use it at least for the face and hands.

LILY LEAVES.—To prevent moths from eating your clothes in the summer, keep them constantly brushed and aired. Camphor, Keating’s powder, or sandal-wood shavings should be placed about all clothing that is kept in boxes and cupboards. The 23rd of September, 1867, was a Monday.

MILLICENT LEIGH.—St. Catharine was a virgin martyr, who suffered at Alexandria under Maximin in 307, and whose relics were said to have been miraculously conveyed to Mount Sinai, where they are preserved in a monastery. The celebrated Duchess of Devonshire was the youngest daughter of John, Earl of Spencer, born, June, 1757; died, March, 1806. Her beauty, wit, and audacity made her one of the most celebrated women of her day.

A WARD IN CHANCERY.—Rice thrown at a bride is a relic of the _panis farreus_ in the most honourable form of marriage amongst the ancient Romans, and it was called _Confarreatio_. Orange blossoms were first worn by Saracen brides, but the modern custom of wearing them is a fashion introduced by dressmakers, and is referrable to the “language of flowers.”

ARMISTICE.—The redness of the scar can only be removed by time. Nature has produced a new skin, but, like that of a new-born infant, it is tender and red. Leave it alone.

MAUD KINSLEY.—_Au revoir_ is the French for “to see again,” and is pronounced as “o-rev-voir,” and _retroussé_ means “turned up,” or “tucked up,” and is pronounced as “re-troo-say.”

ANAHUAC (Mexico).—The individual who is desirous of being naturalised as a British subject should have resided seven years in Great Britain. Did the applicant do so when being educated in England? Children belong to the father’s nationality, not the mother’s. The British consul would give all necessary instructions and assistance.

T. M. B.—Your nice letter deserves a kindly acknowledgment. You may send as much as would fill a sheet of notepaper as a specimen of your style and originality of ideas, and we shall hope to give you our opinion, as you desire.

WILL’S DARLING.—We do not know how to advise you, save to marry and live with your aged grandmother. You cannot possibly leave her, and in all probability she will be glad to have you comfortably settled with a kind husband before she is called away. Your writing is rather careless.

SHINY FACE.—It is not the so-called working men whose wives enter learned professions and neglect home duties. They enter public-houses instead. The complete monopoly of almost all occupations for bread-earning for such a length of time by men could not continue amongst an ever-increasing population; so many suitable fields of intellectual and manual work have been shut out from women by their “natural protectors.” It is sad to see the latter selling tapes and ribbons behind counters. They can be clergymen, schoolmasters, soldiers, sailors, emigrants to prepare new settlements, lumberers, navvies, engine-drivers, stokers, mechanics, chimney sweepers, masons, etc., and the women will leave all such work to them. But dairy, fruit, flower, poultry, and other farming may be very suitably directed by women; also printing, binding, engraving, designing, china painting, and very many other ways of bread-earning should be equally open to them as to men.

ROSELEAF.—An ell (cloth measure) was fixed at 45 inches by Henry I., A.D. 1101. The word is derived from _ulna_, “the arm,” although much longer than that member; but even now measurements are made by it.

LADY ADELAIDE.—Edelweiss is pronounced as “A-dle-vice.”

ANXIOUS ONE.—Lessons can be had to cure stammering. Fill your lungs well with air, and consider what you wish to say before you speak. Make your sentences very short, and open your mouth well. When alone, read aloud, and beat time with your foot or hand regularly at every second syllable.

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

Page 180: flocked to flock—“with his washed flocked”.]