CHAPTER III.

THE CALLING IN LIFE CHOSEN.

As Eveline had said, what seemed an accident determined Mark’s choice of an occupation. A cousin of his mother’s came to spend a few days at the rectory. He had recently lost a very promising son, and was much softened and saddened by his trouble, and in his saddened mood his thoughts turned to his cousin James, whom he remembered a bright and cheery lad, very much his own junior. He knew that there were two lads at Rosenhurst, one the son of his cousin James, the other of his widowed cousin Margaret, and he thought with interest of him who bore his own name, and wondered whether he in any way resembled his lost Edward—whether he was a true Echlin, like his father, earnest, teachable, and faithful.

Miles Echlin was the head of a publishing house, holding a high position in London, and by the death of his son, not only he himself but the business had experienced an irreparable loss. He wanted comfort, he wanted help, and in this saddened mood he came down to Rosenhurst Rectory. Lady Elgitha, fully alive to the fact that many sons of noble houses were at the present time engaged in commerce, was at some trouble to be civil to him, and schooled her son to proper behaviour; but outward civility did not impose on the keen-sighted man of business, and before he had been twelve hours at the rectory he was convinced that Gilbert was indolent, opinionated, and selfish.

Margaret and her children came to dinner, and there was much pleasant chat among the elders about the days when they had been children, and when Miles had thought it a great treat to spend the holidays with his uncle at Westborough, but he had little opportunity then for making acquaintance with Mark and Eveline; but when next morning he walked over with the rector to the cottage, Miles felt at once the calm and restful sense of home, where all the members were in harmony, and where the grave, handsome face looking down from the wall seemed to his mind, saddened by recent sorrow, to promise him sympathy. He had known Michael Fenner very slightly, being at the time of Margaret’s marriage already much immersed in business, but a glance at the picture of her husband, and at Margaret’s own composed and gentle face, assured him that she would listen, not only with patience, but with true interest, to what he should tell her about his son, and so it came about that during his stay at Rosenhurst he spent most of his time at the cottage, and talked much with and of Mark.

At the end of four days he returned to town, and in less than a fortnight there came a letter from him inviting Mark to come and stay with him in town, and offering him a share in his business if he would devote himself to the study of it.

It was not without hesitation that Mark acceded to the proposal; either of the callings he had been meditating on would, he thought, have been more to his taste, but in either he would have been a comparatively poor man, unable to do much for his mother and sister, and he could not flatter himself that in either he was much wanted. Here there was a place left vacant which he might fill, a positive call from a weary heart which he might comfort.

His mother was slow to give her opinion in the matter; it was too easy, too pleasant for her to have her son occupied in work which would not take him very far away, which would not overtax his energies; she could hardly believe that it would be desirable for his highest interests; she feared lest James and Elgitha might be vexed that the offer had not been made first to Gilbert. Of course Miles was a sort of tradesman, and Elgitha could scarcely be supposed to admire trade; still she might have liked Gilbert to have been first consulted.

She took the letter up to the rectory, and laid it before her brother. The rector read it carefully, and returned it to her with a sigh and a smile.

“I suppose Mark will go,” he said.

“He has not made up his mind yet,” said Margaret.

“Does he dislike the idea of desk work?”

“I don’t think he ever thought of disliking it. If he were to be a teacher or a clergyman he would have a great deal of desk work, wouldn’t he?”

“Certainly, and promotion is so slow; unless he happened to possess the gift of oratory, he might be a curate at forty.”

“I fancy he thought rather of being a teacher.”

“Very hard work; breaking stones on the road is play to it,” said the gentle rector, who had no talent for teaching, though he had a very pretty talent for preaching. “It seems a pity that he should not close with Miles’ offer; Mark would be a treasure to him.”

“You think he would?”

“Can you doubt it? Don’t you know what he is to you and to me? On all grounds I think he should accept it, if he has no personal dislike to the arrangement. At all events he should go and try.”

So Mark went, and Gilbert, with many a shrug, pronounced him a lucky fellow, and promised to come and dine with him.

The rector took occasion, on Mark’s departure, to speak to his son as to his own path in life.

“Mark has made his start in life, Gilbert. Don’t you think it would be advisable for you to make up your mind as to what you will do?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it would; but it is so hard to make up one’s mind when one has no special vocation. Mark’s a lucky fellow; his mind was made up for him.”

“I have very good reason to think that if you had had Mark’s aptitude, the offer would have been made to you.”

“It is a pity I hadn’t; but I don’t suppose it’s a man’s fault not caring for things. It must be a great bore to you, sir, to have a son like me, who doesn’t care for any of the things you care for. I don’t suppose two men were ever more unlike.”

“I don’t ask you to consider what I should like you to do; that, perhaps, would be unfair; but only to see that, taking your own view, what you are doing will not pay. If I were to die, there would not be more than enough for your mother and sister.”

“So you have told me before; so the mother has told me. It is unfortunate that I have no taste for anything. I don’t find that I care about doing the same thing for two days together.”

“Does it never occur to you that there is such a thing as duty?”

“A very useful dissyllable, no doubt, sir, and telling in a song; but it is very much gone out of fashion nowadays, with the Church Catechism, high pews, and church clerks. No one considers that he ought to be ‘content with that state of life,’ etc.”

“Gilbert,” said Mr. Echlin, more sternly than he had ever spoken to his son, “if you do not woo duty as a mistress, she will drive you as a taskmistress. The man who has no love of duty had better never have been born. He has no high aims, no ennobling thoughts. Do not, I beseech you, give me the misery of knowing that my only son is an idle man.”

“Do not distress yourself, father. I suppose I shall drop into something before long. There can be no hurry. If you had ten children it would be another matter. There’s Elgitha; she has energy enough, and cares about lots of things. If you would send her to Girton, sir, I feel sure she’d take a double first, and like it.”

“She might do very much worse, I believe,” said Mr. Echlin, turning away. He went into his study with a sore heart to write his Sunday sermon on the beauty of holiness, and Gilbert found half an hour’s amusement in teasing his sister’s canaries.

It was not long before Mark Fenner’s start in life brought changes to Rosenhurst. The more Miles Echlin knew him, the better he liked him. Mark possessed one of those strong natures that rests in itself, never impatient to thrust itself forward, and never much occupied with a consideration of its own wants or pleasures. Accepting in the fullest and heartiest sense all the duties that were comprehended in the partnership offered him by his mother’s cousin, and loving them because they were duties, he set himself with all his heart to master the technicalities of the business, and entered into the enthusiasms of the old publisher with all a young man’s energy.

“It was a lucky thing, sir, that visit to Rosenhurst,” said Evans, Mr. Echlin’s head clerk and factotum, when Mark had been some six months in London. “Mr. Fenner is a born publisher. He takes to the printer’s ink as a babe to its mother’s milk. As things have turned out, it really seems quite providential.”

“I am glad you think so, Evans; it is my own opinion exactly. I hope the lad is satisfied. How those dear ladies at the cottage must miss him!”

When Mr. Echlin left his office after this conversation, he took his leisurely way to Manchester-square. It had always been a principle with him to live within an easy walk of his business, having early imbibed a taste for that most healthy of all exercises, and having found that there was no better time for thinking over business. Indeed, for many years he had never embarked upon an undertaking until he had turned it over in his mind during two or three days’ walk to and fro.

As he strolled home that evening it was June, and the whole earth was singing with gladness. The City’s great heart was throbbing with welcome to the sweet summer, and stretching out eager hands for the fruits and flowers of the country. Roses and strawberries lay in tempting proximity in the shops, women’s clothes fluttered airily in the breeze, and young men skimmed cheerily along, taking note of the luncheon-bars where American drinks were for sale, while elderly men looked fresh and rosy in light trousers, light hats, and light waistcoats.

As Mr. Echlin walked on, nodding to an acquaintance here, exchanging a word or two there, his mind was pursuing some such train of thought as this:—How fine the weather was; it was a pleasure to breathe. This time last year Edward had been by his side; it was on the 18th of June; he remembered it because he had made a little excuse for the extravagance, saying that we ought not to forget the anniversary of Waterloo; and they had stopped to buy the first basket of strawberries. How little had either of them thought that the course of their quiet life would so soon be broken! It was a dismal thing to think that he had let him go to Rome at that time of the year. But then he seemed so strong; nothing ever ailed him. Dr. Dickenson said, indeed, that he had no reserve force—weak vital energy, like his dear mother. To wish him “good-bye” for a six weeks’ holiday, and never to see him alive again! Well, well, it was sad. Such a son, too, and with all his future so easy before him! Well, well, it wouldn’t be so very long that he would have to survive him; he was almost sixty; it could not be so very long. And now he had Mark Fenner. Strange that all the time Edward was with him he had never thought of going down to Rosenhurst to see James and poor Margaret. And then his thoughts carried him to the little cottage at the rectory gate, where the two women lived who must miss their good son and brother so much, and who must be so much missed by him.

Thus meditating, he reached his own door, which he opened, according to his custom, with a latchkey, and passed down the cool passage into the large, cool, but rather sombre dining-room.

The table was laid for two, the silver and glass shining on the white damask, while the old butler stood with his smile of welcome by the shining mahogany sideboard, whereon was displayed the usual row of bottles—port, sherry, and claret, with a dessert of early strawberries and biscuits. It was all very comfortable, but just a trifle dreary; so, at least, Miles thought it must be to the young man who was now knocking at the door, who was to use the second knife and fork and be his companion all the evening.

At the cottage at Rosenhurst what would the young man’s mother and sister be doing now? Perhaps sitting down to their modest meal, waited on by the little country damsel with round eyes and rosy cheeks; perhaps going through the more stately but rather dismal ceremonial of “dining at the rectory.”

All the evening, while they dined, read the papers, and, later on, in deference to the beauty of the night, strolled through the quiet streets towards the Regent’s Park, and saw the moon hanging like a silver disc in the sky—while Mark, following his lead, discoursed of the lovely woods of Sunbridge, of the hedges fragrant with wild roses and honeysuckle, of the sweet, pure air, of his mother and her garden, of his sister singing in the twilight to the old piano—there always lay the thought suggested to him by the words of Evans in the afternoon, “As things have turned out, it really seems quite providential.” Mark Fenner was already much more to him than he could ever have hoped from one who was not his own son; he was doing his work with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his strength, accepting it as the business of his life. But might not he for his part—he, Miles Echlin—do something on his side also to make the lad’s life brighter—to make the house in Manchester-square, now for nearly thirty years his home, a little more cheery and a little more homelike to the boy who had grown up in the little cottage at the rectory gate at Rosenhurst?

If there is much cause of lamentation at the overcrowded dwellings of the poor, something might also be said plaintive and touching about the desolation of the houses of the wealthy—of the rich carpets so seldom trodden, the couches on which no limbs ever find repose, the mirrors reflecting nothing but each other, of the soft beds which are never pressed, and all the elaborate machinery of modern life gathered into chamber after chamber, and never used. Extremes meet, and the rich man in the desolation of his empty chambers may be as much in need of pity as the poor man crowded out of his one apartment by the superabundance of his domestic ties.

The house which Miles Echlin called home consisted of suites of reception-rooms furnished in the costliest taste of thirty years ago, when Mrs. Echlin was alive, and Edward, a bright boy of three, was making sunshine in the house, while there was a possibility of sons and daughters yet to come; but the cheery little wife, for whose sake and by whose direction the furnishing had been done, took a cold—a mere nothing, it seemed—and passed almost suddenly out of the life so full of hope and happiness for her, just as a bright flame which makes the whole room glad is blown out by a puff of wind coming one knows not whence. Then Miles, saddened and sobered, went about his work, caring little for the large house, only seeing that it was properly cleaned and aired, walking methodically through the great rooms, and coming at last to live in two of them, his dining-room and a small sleeping room, which had been his dressing-room while his wife was alive. A few friends came to see him at intervals, and there were some to whom the silent house was a home whenever they came to town; but Miles had no heart for company. When Edward should be grown up would be time enough; the boy should marry, and then the house would once again echo with laughter and song; he should make his own choice—it would be sure to be a worthy one, and they would find a corner for the old man, and not think him in the way. Edward grew up, and was all that his father wished him to be; then came the second bitter disappointment, and the big house was more empty and silent than ever.

On that June evening, as he strolled with Mark through the quiet streets, and glanced up at the lighted windows in the houses of his neighbours, at the groups of people, old and young, on the high balconies, and caught the waves of laughter or song, the silence, the darkness of the house into which they introduced themselves by a latchkey, seemed almost unendurable. The gas was turned low in the dining-room; the portrait of Mrs. Echlin looked thin and spectral; the plate and glass on the sideboard suggested anything but good cheer, looking rather like mummies from which the life has long since departed. Mark turned up the gas, and they saw that it wanted five minutes to ten. What a long evening it had been. Mark was tired, and thought, if Mr. Echlin didn’t mind, he would go to bed; he said something in apology about country habits; he did not say that he was up every morning before six practising certain technicalities which were necessary for the carrying on the business; nor did he complain of the heat and closeness of the office, though both were trying to a country lad.

Mr. Echlin wished him “good-night” kindly, but rather like one in a dream, and when the butler came in at eleven, according to custom, with his master’s candle, and to carry up the plate, he still sat in the same chair, but he was leaning back with a satisfied look; the inkstand and blotting-pad were on the table, and a sealed letter lay before him.

“Are you ready for your candle, sir?” said Martin, taking all in at a glance.

“Yes, quite,” replied the master, rising briskly from his chair. “Good-night, Martin; fine weather for the country.”

“Splendid for the crops, sir,” said Martin, a cockney to the backbone, who was imbued with the idea that the more the sun blazed the better the corn grew; but as he turned out the gas the old man wondered to whom his master had been writing, a wonder which was not relieved in the morning, as was generally the case on the rare occasions when Mr. Echlin wrote a letter at home, by his being requested to post it, for his master brought the letter down with him, laid it on the mantelpiece with the direction downwards, and carried it out in his own hand when he went to business, all which unusual proceedings served to fix Martin’s attention on the letter, and to impress him with the idea that it must be a document of much importance.

(_To be concluded._)

AN APPEAL FOR AN OLD FRIEND.

BY ANNE BEALE.

Five years ago the first appeal for the Princess Louise Home was inserted in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER. It appeared in the weekly number dated February 25, 1882. The response to it was hearty and immediate, and from all parts of the habitable globe arrived contributions in money and goods towards a bazaar for the benefit of this “National Society for the Protection of Young Girls.” The bazaar was held in May, but the account of it was given in the number for July 22, 1882.

Every subscriber likes to know what becomes of his or her donations; therefore we purpose to look into results by paying another visit to our old friends at Woodhouse, Wanstead, before terrifying our readers by announcing another fancy fair.

“Old friends” is almost a misnomer, for new faces greet us everywhere as we enter the precincts of the grounds and ancient abode. Mrs. Talbot, the esteemed matron, has resigned, and Mrs. Macdonald reigns in her stead. Miss Tidd, the originator and untiring secretary of the bazaar, is happily married. So is the schoolmistress, who, it will be remembered, was also a pupil trained at the Home. The monatresses of to-day are the scholars of five years ago, and our own particular girls have diminished in number. Thanks to the bazaar and collateral causes, we have been privileged to gain admission for nearly a dozen, of whom the greater number are in service and doing well, and when we make urgent demands for our girls, four only respond to them; but they have not forgotten us. We find two in the kitchen and two in the laundry, and hear that a couple of these are going to service after Christmas. They all look rosy and happy, in spite of the fumes that surround them; for the young cooks are bending over two gigantic saucepans, whence issues a very savoury odour, and the juvenile laundresses are enveloped in the less appetising exhalations from damp linen; for this is folding, drying, and mangling day, and one of our particular girls is turning the mangle. This large and commodious laundry has been erected, opened, and utilised since our last visit to Woodhouse. There are different compartments for sorting, washing, drying, ironing, mangling, packing, and delivering, which all communicate with one another. We live and learn; for we had scarcely realised before all the processes of laundry work. And this is all done by manual toil; for there is no steam. Seven of the elder girls are at present in training under a special experienced matron and laundry-maid, and as customers increase, more will be drafted off to this particular work, and open the other parts of the establishment to an increased number of inmates. As laundries almost invariably pay, it is confidently hoped that the income of the Home will be greatly increased by this agency, and both friends and strangers are “cordially invited,” as the phrase now is, to try it. The tariff of charges is the ordinary one laid down in London and the neighbourhood, and arrangements have been made with those ubiquitous carriers, Carter and Paterson, to fetch and return boxes and hampers of linen from and to any part of this vast metropolis free of charge; and customers may count on being supplied with the said boxes and hampers gratis and securely padlocked. What could they want more? “Good washing and ironing,” is the reply; and we trust these will follow the demand. Over a thousand articles have to be washed weekly for the inmates of the Home alone; so under all circumstances the hand is kept in.

Our laundresses boast of a separate establishment, which they have called Primrose Cottage, probably after the Primrose League, of which they have heard. This is a long room with a long green-baize-covered table, communicating with the laundry. A short time ago it was a sort of outhouse; now it is a sitting and dining-room, adorned with texts. If funds only came in, many other tumble-down and ill-paved portions of this country seat might be vastly amended. But neither Rome nor Woodhouse was built or repaired in a day. Soon, however, we hope to see a splendid drying-ground replace the present one, for the asphalted roof of the laundries offers every facility for it. If we may be permitted to make a personal remark, we would venture to say that a rosier, healthier set of laundry-girls could nowhere be seen, and the roses extend from face to arms. As we descend from Primrose Cottage to the laundry, we are arrested by a remark made by the secretary, as he points upwards to an iron girder—

“This was a great encouragement to me. This iron came from Providence, and bears that name. I took it as a good sign, and worked on in faith,” he says.

Assuredly there is the word “Providence” stamped on the iron, and we will not pause to inquire whence its origin, but hasten onwards to see what the Divine Providence is doing for His rescued children, and what He requires us to do.

Most of them are in the playground, and their ringing voices and laughter sound mirthful, and convey no impression of the depraved homes from which they have been taken. About a dozen of them, however, are gathered round a fire in what is called their playroom, which might be better paved and appointed, if only those—we dare not mention funds again in this place, seeing we are about to make an appeal vigorous enough to melt hearts harder than these very rough stones on which the children play. A bundle of picture text cards attracts the whole school into the playroom, and we are soon surrounded by about fifty girls of ages varying from eleven to fifteen and over, all thankful for very small mercies. We are thus enabled to declare them very well-mannered; for instead of pressing forward to seize on the coveted card, they stand back, each urging a companion to the front. Slight touches indicate character and training, and this reticence speaks for itself. In spite of many difficulties inseparable from the education of girls mostly born and bred in a doubtful atmosphere, it is possible to cultivate a certain delicacy and refinement amongst them.

“I am sorry to be obliged to leave you; but I am going to take this girl to her place,” interrupts the matron, as a respectable-looking, neatly-dressed maiden appears amongst her schoolfellows to bid them good-bye.

She has passed her term of years in the Home, and is about to make her start in life. A good outfit and a respectable place have been provided for her somewhere in Kent, and the kind matron will not lose sight of her until she places her in the care of her new mistress. Indeed, the girls are never lost sight of, as their touching letters and frequent returns home prove, as well as the communications made to the matron on each change of place.

“If you keep your situation and have a good character for one clear year, the committee will give you a guinea as a reward, together with a new dress,” says the secretary, encouragingly.

How little we realise the feelings of the young servant as she leaves the best home she has known for a stranger one, and hurries off to the train about to whirl her away into a new world! When we inquire her previous history, we are told that she was “surrounded by immoral influences, and rescued just in time.”

Let us hope that her mistress will be able to write of her as many mistresses have written this year of girls sent to service before her—in terms of high commendation. Here are one or two extracts:—“Mary has been in my service for three years, and I have much pleasure in testifying to her continued good behaviour. She works hard, is very trustworthy, and I should be very sorry to part with her.” “Ellen is a very good girl, and during the two years she has been with me has given me great satisfaction. I hope she may remain with me many years,” etc.

When we consider what may have been the fate of these young people had not friends of the Home intervened, we are thankful for what our readers have done to help them. We are attracted by one who sits rather apart, and is bigger than the others. She was rescued from a life of such awful terrorism that even now, when reproved, she hides under the beds, creeping from one to another like a wild animal. She has, it is said, lost half her wits from fear; but it is hoped that kindness may recall them from their “wool-gathering.” She seems less perplexed than she was.

We should like to linger, and learn the story of all the girls; but we are summoned from the outworks to the keep, where lessons and housework alternate, just as they did when last we were here. As to the dormitories, they are literally ablaze with colour, for a generous, anonymous donor has sent seventy scarlet woollen coverlets, and each bed boasts of one. But there are at present only sixty-one inmates, and, accordingly, nine of the said coverlets are set aside. We are anxious to fill the home, which will hold one hundred. Therefore that last resource, a bazaar, is still in contemplation. Adverse circumstances prevented its taking place in 1886, the jubilee year of the Institution; so we hope that 1887, the jubilee year of our well-beloved Queen, may see it consummated. Will the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER continue their kind efforts, and send us work or money, as seems to them best? Some eight hundred pounds resulted from the last bazaar, which was mainly attributable to the start they gave it; and already numerous contributions have been received, the work of their willing fingers. Five years ago the office of the Princess Louise Home was crowded with packages containing their gifts. May it be so again, and may the writer once more be privileged to record them, and may another round dozen or more of girls be safely housed, taught, and placed in service, as the result of their labours.

Several distinguished and influential ladies have already promised their aid in various ways, and we are stirring ourselves up to hope for “a great success.” H. R. H. the Princess Louise will open the bazaar, life and health being granted to her. We will pray that they may be extended and lengthened, and that she may see the Home that bears her name full to overflowing.

We are thankful that our readers have such good memories, and that they have not forgotten this, their first love, while contracting an attachment for another, equally worthy. Happily the philanthropic heart is large, and its hand ever open.

We have been so long the historian of the Home that we find nothing new to say about it, therefore we will wind up by a visit to the secretary’s private abode, in order to see one of the girls, now in his service, who was a Woodhouse bird when last we looked into the nest. A drive across Wanstead Flats, through a portion of the Forest, and past the picturesque village, brings us to his hospitable domicile. Hence he walks almost daily to oversee the Home, so that he, at least, is not idle, since he must also supervise monetary matters in London diurnally. We congratulate him on having such a quiet halting-ground midway.

It would be out of place to describe it, or the excellent luncheon of which we partook, but it is quite allowable to say that the neatly dressed, rosy-faced parlour-maid waits uncommonly well, and that she is a good specimen of Woodhouse training. We are gratified by her recognising us, and if all the readers of THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER could have seen her bright smile of welcome and respectable appearance, they would have rejoiced with us. But she is only one of the many who have been aided. During the fifty years of the existence of the Institution, nearly three thousand have been rescued from danger of one kind and another, fifteen hundred of whom have been received since it has been known as “The Princess Louise Home.” Forty-three of these were admitted only last year. Close upon eleven hundred have become domestic servants, and who can calculate the inestimable good done to them and society by rescuing them from indescribable evils?

As we stood upon the platform of the Snaresbrook Station awaiting the train, we moralised on this. Sunset with its heavenly glow overspread Epping Forest and Wanstead-park, beyond which lies the Home. We reflect on the Divine love which has inspired in the human heart the desire to devote all we see around us to the overworked citizens of the largest city in the world; and to open to some of her tempted children the gates of the rescue house in the distance. We recognize in the evening glow that God’s love never fails. We will strive to obey His command, which says “Let brotherly love continue.”

We perceive both degrees of love in the subjoined list, and feel assured that Christ’s little ones will be still held in tender remembrance.

In addition to the seventy coverlets already mentioned, we are requested to state that 224 valuable articles have been received at the Home from a lady who desires her name not to be announced. These vary from scarlet blankets to children’s hose.

Lady Greenall and Mrs. Edward Lloyd have also sent magnificent gifts of clothing, made and unmade; and “The Hampton Court Association of Ladies for the Care of Friendless Girls” has likewise contributed a valuable parcel of clothing, through the Dowager Lady Clifford.

In money, three guineas from Lady Martin and ten shillings from C. W. B. D. have been received.

Contributions sent to the Secretary, Mr. Gillham, at 32, Sackville-street, W., will be immediately acknowledged by him, and subsequently in this Magazine.

“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO;”

OR,

THE IGNORANT HOUSEKEEPER, AND HOW SHE ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE.

BY DORA HOPE.

Although Mrs. Wilson was very much better, her improvement still greatly depended upon having perfect quiet and freedom from all excitement, and her nurses found that if she was in any way disturbed or agitated in the evening, she either lay awake the greater part of the night, or, when worn out for want of sleep, was compelled to take the soothing medicine, which always had a depressing effect upon her next day.

One evening, Ella had just left her aunt, who was drowsily watching nurse’s final preparations for the night, when the whole house suddenly rang with piercing screams and cries for help from the kitchen.

Greatly annoyed and frightened, Ella ran downstairs to stop the noise, and, on reaching the kitchen, was horrified to find Annie, the housemaid, rushing about the room with her dress in flames, and shrieking wildly for someone to save her. The cook, meanwhile, was crouching in a corner with her apron over her head, so that, as she said afterwards, she “might not see Annie burnt to death before her eyes.”

Ella quickly shut the kitchen-door, thereby stopping the draught of air, which was blowing the flames in all directions, and then, with more presence of mind, although not much better success, than the cook, she seized a jug of water, and flung it over the flames, and ran for more.

Unfortunately, it was burning oil that had caught fire, and was setting alight to the matting that covered the floor, and the water only spread the mischief further.

Happily, nurse now appeared in the doorway, and instantly perceiving what was the matter, tore up a heavy hearthrug, and wrapping it round Annie, soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames; while Ella, perceiving the good effect of her plan, promptly imitated her example, and pulling up doormats, and anything woollen she could reach, threw them on the burning oil on the floor, and she and nurse soon stamped out the flames.

Directly the fire was quite out, nurse urged Ella to return to her aunt, while she herself examined the extent of Annie’s burns. Happily, the poor girl was wearing a dress of thick woollen material, which had taken a long time to ignite, so that, although her muslin apron had made a great blaze, she herself was hardly injured at all. It was, in reality, Mrs. Wilson who suffered the most, the excitement causing her a sleepless night, followed next day by a violent headache and feverish attack.

After breakfast the following day, Ella made up her mind to hold a solemn inquiry into the causes of the accident, the result of which filled her with amazement that the whole house had not been burnt down long ago.

There was no gas in the house, and, as a great deal of oil was required, a large tin vessel containing several gallons was kept (or was supposed to be) in an outhouse; while, in order to avoid the danger of taking a light near this supply of oil, Mrs. Wilson had given instructions that the lamps should always be cleaned and re-filled during the morning.

But the outhouse was cold, and the lamps were often forgotten until they were wanted in the evening; so the large can of oil had been surreptitiously brought into one of the pantries, where it could be more easily got at.

On this occasion, as on many others, Annie had forgotten to fill the hall lamp, and when it reminded her of the fact by smoking, making a choking smell, and finally going out, she took it down and filled it, using the naked flame of a benzoline lamp to light the dark little pantry.

Even this foolhardy act did not, as it might have done, set the whole store of oil in flames, and she actually trimmed and re-lighted the lamp in safety, and was carrying it through the kitchen, when a sudden draught blew the flame of the benzoline lamp against her hand, on which some oil was spilled. This flamed up, and the frightened girl dropped both lamps. The larger one exploded in the fall, setting fire to the oil and to her own apron, and, but for nurse’s quickness and presence of mind, she would probably have been burned to death.

All this information, very unwillingly given, added to cook’s remark that there was not a lamp that would burn properly in the house, so frightened Ella that she felt inclined to give up the use of lamps altogether, and burn nothing but candles. On second thoughts, however, and after consulting Mrs. Mobberly, to whom she always referred in all her difficulties, she sent instead for the man who had supplied the lamps, and had them all reviewed.

He declared that all the mischief arose from the dirty state of the lamps, which, much to the indignation of the maids, he requested Ella to look at, to prove the truth of his words.

“If you have good lamps, and keep them perfectly clean, and burn good oil, you are quite safe,” he said; “but if you neglect any of those three, they are the most dangerous things you can have about a house.”

Ella honestly acknowledged that she knew nothing at all about lamps, and had never cleaned one in her life, but she was determined to understand the matter thoroughly now, and begged the man to explain exactly what cleansing was necessary to keep them in good order.

He advised that the lamp glasses and globes should be washed every week with warm water, soap, and soda, but they must be most carefully dried before using. The different parts of the burner should be brushed out, or rubbed clean with a cloth every day; and at least once in two months the whole brass fittings taken off and well washed.

In a well-made lamp all parts of the burner should take to pieces in order to be cleaned. The wick-tube and perforated plate through which the air has to pass to feed the flame should be most particularly seen to. Charred wick and paper, match heads and dust are often allowed to fill up the holes of the grid, causing a poor flame, a bad smell, and, not unfrequently, an explosion.

“Don’t be afraid of plenty of warm water and soap and soda,” the man repeated; “only you’d better look out pretty sharp, miss, and see that they get the whole thing perfectly dry before it is lighted again, or you’ll be having another explosion, and perhaps you won’t come off as well next time.”

Ella thanked the man for his goodnatured advice, and determined henceforward to examine the lamps for herself every day, to make sure her directions were really carried out. Both she and the nurse made as light as possible of the affair to Mrs. Wilson, who, on seeing for herself that Annie was not much the worse, was quite contented that it had been a very trifling matter which had unnecessarily frightened them; and feeling herself worn out and irritable with sleeplessness, and the consequent feverishness, she indulged in some rather biting sarcasms on the “hysterical young ladies of the present day, who make a fuss about nothing at all,” and begged Ella to remember that she liked the house kept quiet last thing at night.

These very undeserved reproaches were rather hard for poor Ella to bear, but she managed to keep silence, and as soon as she was released consoled herself by writing a doleful letter to her mother, with a full account of the whole affair, adding the oft-repeated remark that “she would never be able to manage a house—it was not in her.”

As she expected, her letter brought a speedy reply.

“You must not be discouraged, my child,” wrote her mother, “when you have to accept blame for the faults of others; that is the very essence of self-denial, to give up everything, even the credit you feel you have deserved, for the sake of others; and if it cost you no effort to do, it would be no denial of self. At any rate you have been successful, for the very fact that you are blamed proves that you have saved Aunt Mary the worry and annoyance of knowing her servants to be careless and incompetent, and thereby you have done much to help on her recovery.

“Now about the lamps. My own experience has taught me one or two other lessons, which I will pass on to you.

“The wick must fit the lamp, and be the right kind for that particular burner. If you are not sure about the kind to get, they will always advise you if you go to a good shop to buy the wick.

“Then, again, the oil is not (or should not be) all burnt out before the lamp is refilled, but fresh oil is added to what is already in. After this process has been continued some time, however, the oil becomes turbid, and gives a disagreeable smell when the lamp is lighted. To avoid this, the oil should occasionally be emptied out of the lamp, and the whole thing washed before being refilled with fresh oil.

“You cannot insist too strongly on proper care being used in filling the lamps; one brilliant housemaid we had when you were children was caught filling a lamp holding it over the kitchen fire, that the oil might run over on to the fire, and not make a mess on the floor. After that I filled them myself till I got a maid whom I could thoroughly trust.

“And do not try to be economical in buying the oil; I cannot advise you which kind to use, as I do not remember what the lamps are like, but go to a good shop, and get the best they recommend. I have generally used a very good kind, called ‘water-white.’ The poor oils throw off a most explosive gas at a low heat, and do not give so much light as better oils. If you are careful on all these points, you need not be in the least nervous about the lamps; we have always used them till the last year or two, and have never had an explosion or accident of any sort.”

With all this information to guide her, coupled with her own observation of the construction of the lamps, Ella felt herself mistress of the situation, and determined that for once she would insist upon having her own way.

She had the oil removed to the little outhouse again, the door of which she locked, and kept the key herself, only giving it to Annie at the time she had appointed for filling the lamps.

The result of this decided measure was that Annie became sullen and disobliging, while the cook, taking her part, made rude remarks in a tone purposely loud enough for Ella to hear, about the discomfort of having two mistresses in the house; and nurse caught her, a short time afterwards, complaining to Mrs. Wilson of Ella’s overbearing ways and unreasonable orders, and of the “nasty, stuck-up ways” of the nurse. She was very quickly and unceremoniously turned out of the room; but the mischief was already done, for Mrs. Wilson, with the natural irritableness of an invalid, insisted on having the servants admitted to the room whenever they wished to see her, and partly, too, in consequence of her weakness, which made her unwilling to have any kind of upset in the house, and partly that she believed the servants to be honest and trustworthy, while she knew Ella was ignorant and inexperienced, Mrs. Wilson made matters worse by always taking their part, and blaming Ella for actions which had existed only in the imaginations of the maids.

One complaint especially annoyed Ella. At home they had always been accustomed to arrange the work and the meals on Sundays so that not only the family, but the servants also, might attend a Bible class in the afternoon, in addition to the regular morning or evening service; and as she was very anxious that the servants at Hapsleigh should have the same liberty, Ella had done as much as she could of the necessary work for the sick room herself on that day, and had so managed that one or other of the maids had been able to go out every Sunday afternoon since her arrival.

It was, therefore, with considerable surprise and vexation that Mrs. Wilson one morning showed her a note she had just received from the teacher of the Bible class Annie was supposed to attend, asking if she could be spared to come once in the month, so that the lady should not lose sight of her altogether.

This was rather too much for Ella’s patience, and after with some difficulty convincing Mrs. Wilson that the girl had not even once been hindered from attending the class, she went straight off to call on the teacher. It seemed that Annie had lamented to that lady that with sickness in the house and an unreasonable young mistress, she would be unable to attend the class until Mrs. Wilson was well again; whereas in reality she had been going every Sunday to visit some friends whom she knew would be disapproved of both by her mistress and her teacher.

However, happily for all parties, matters were coming to a crisis.

Ella went, as usual, one morning to speak to the old gardener, whom she found digging in a secluded corner of the garden, with the ducks following closely at his heels, and poking with their flat bills into the freshly-turned earth, searching for worms or any other choice morsels that good fortune might bring in their way.

The old man evidently had something on his mind, and, after the usual greetings and inquiries after Mrs. Wilson, he stuck his spade into the earth and leaned his arms on the top of it, as if prepared for a long conversation; at which the old drake cocked his head on one side, and stared at him out of one eye with an air of virtuous indignation at having his own labours interrupted in this way.

The conversation did not seem easy to begin, however, and it was only after a good deal of hesitation that he said at last—

“I’ve lived along of the missus now these forty year.”

“Yes, I know you have, Mallard. Why, I remember you all my life,” replied Ella, wondering what was coming.

“Well, Miss Ella, I ain’t told no tales, and I ain’t goin’ to tell no tales; but what I say I say; and that is as ’ow there’s things goes on in this ’ouse as ’adn’t ought to; and I ain’t lived along o’ the family, man and boy, these forty years without knowin’ as when the doors is locked at night they ought to be locked, and not so many goin’ in and out as what there is.”

And having finished this enigmatical speech, accompanied by many mysterious nods and winks, the old man pulled up his spade, and, touching his hat to Ella, disappeared amongst the bushes, leaving Ella and the ducks gazing after him in mutual astonishment.

(_To be continued._)

NOTES FOR FEBRUARY.

A paper in _Science Gossip_ for August, 1886, gives a very interesting description of the sprouting of a sycamore seed.

These seeds have wings especially adapted for floating a heavy body. In November they are caught by the wind, and whirl round and round till they reach the earth. They always grow in pairs, although, if looked for now among the grass or on the wayside, many of them will be found single, having been separated from their companions. If a few of the double seeds are brought into the house, placed in a warm situation under a bell glass, and kept watered, their growth may be watched, and some marvels of nature learned.

Every process is wonderful: the separation of the double seed, showing their junction to the stalk, then the appearance of the rootlets which are the first signs of growth, and then the cotyledons, or “nursing leaves,” whose function in life is to nourish and protect the pair of true leaves hidden within their embrace, till they are strong enough to defend themselves, when the cotyledons fall off and die.

The folding of the cotyledon is a study in itself. “They are folded so as to occupy the least space, _i.e._, first fold in half, and then in half again, like a ribbon reduplicate, and not coiled round (circinate) like a fern frond, which, growing later in the season, requires less protection.”

So the life goes on, showing fresh wonders and beauties at every stage of its growth, each step showing the wisdom and love of the great Creator and Designer.

Plants grown indoors need constant care; it is advisable only to keep as many as can be properly attended to. Very few can stand gas, and all thrive better if removed when it is lighted. The watering, too, needs careful attention; they should not be kept too wet during the cold weather, although they must never get quite dry. They need plenty of light, so it is important that the windows should be kept clean, to allow a full measure of sunshine. The pots must be kept clean, and when a green growth appears on the outside they should be well scrubbed. They must not stand in a draught, which causes a chill, and checks the growth of the plants.

Outdoor gardening this month depends greatly on the weather. If cold, all tender plants must still be protected, and even if warm they should not be encouraged to grow, as frosts may be expected for some time to come yet. Unless it is actually frosty, rose-trees needing it may be pruned, also raspberry, gooseberry, and currant trees. Turf may be re-laid, and, if necessary, grass-seed sown; the grass should be rolled after wet weather.

Pay attention to bulbs now; crocuses and snowdrops should be starting. As soon as tulips, hyacinths, and other bulbs show their foliage, they should be protected at night by a light covering, until the frosts are over.

In February, annuals may be sown indoors in boxes, and gradually hardened off for the garden, where everything should now be made tidy and ready for the spring, which will soon be coming.

In the warmer counties of England the wild daffodil will soon be flowering. The old-fashioned “daffy-down-dilly,” though only of late years fashionable in town drawing-rooms, has always been a favourite with poets and artists, and all true lovers of the country. Wordsworth gives a beautiful description of “a host of golden daffodils.”

“Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”

And who does not remember Herrick’s quaint but beautiful verses, beginning:

“Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon.”

Or Spenser’s equally charming description of Cymoënt with her companions playing by a pond, and

“Gathering sweete daffadillyes, to have made Gay girlonds from the sun their forheads fayr to shade.”

The name sometimes given them of “Lent Lilies” is peculiar to places where they flower; in colder countries, where it would have no significance, the name is unknown.

Like every other growing thing, the daffodil has much about it worthy of notice. It deals in sixes; six lobes to the corolla, and six pollen stamens, but a three-lobed ovary, and only one seed-leaf.

The wild daffodil has little scent, but being, like the majority of spring flowers, of a bright yellow colour, it is easily seen by the day-flying insects, on whose visits it depends for fertilisation, while some of its near relatives, which are chiefly visited by night moths, are white and strongly scented, in order to be conspicuous even in the darkness.

At this time of year, when the more hardy birds are beginning to return to our shores, as well as in autumn when they are migrating, a great number of our songsters are killed annually by flying against telegraph wires.

Those that fly by night are the most frequent victims, but besides these many either fly or are blown against the wires, and killed or injured so severely that they die before long.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

EDUCATIONAL.

MELISSA MATHESON.—The Braille System is the invention of M. Louis Braille, who was a blind professor at one of the national French institutions for the blind in Paris. The work of copying the cut-books is done by ladies, and the blind copy the embossed copy five times at least. You can obtain full particulars on applying to the secretary, British and Foreign Blind Association, 33, Cambridge-square, Hyde Park, London, W.

A LOVER OF HISTORY.—Sir William Wallace was defeated at Falkirk, July, 1298, by Edward I., brought to London, and hanged at Smithfield, 24th August, 1305, seven years afterwards. His public life extends over a period of fifteen months, and as to the history of his private life, there is an absolute blank. The whole of the fables about Sir William Wallace are the product of Blind Harry’s imagination.

A MARTINITE.—You do not mention where you live, so our help will not be as effectual as it might be. You would obtain evening classes at the Birkbeck Institution, Bream’s-buildings, Chancery-lane, E.C., in all the branches you name. Subscriptions, 4s. quarterly, 12s. annually.

S. A. U.—We should think you fully capable of taking a situation as governess with your certificates, which say so much for your general education, as well as attainments in music. Your handwriting is certainly not good, and looks uncultured. The only way you can improve it is to take some pretty handwriting and form yours on it.

M. B. B.—You should write to the secretary of the College of Preceptors, 42, Queen-square, Bloomsbury, W.C., for their prospectus, and all information for the current year or coming term. It holds half-yearly pupils’ examinations, the certificates given being recognised as guarantees of a good and general education. The fee is 10s.

ART.

MERMAID.—Seaweed taken from rocks should be placed in a basin of cold fresh water to spread itself out, and removed from thence on to a sheet of blotting-paper by sliding a card under it. See directions already given, and the article on how to preserve seaweed.

MEMORY.—The price mentioned in the article upon crystoleum for finished pictures was obtainable when the work was new, at which time the paper was written. Five years have elapsed since that time, and many people have learnt the art, so that the price it could fetch at first is no longer given, unless the work be very superior and the subject of large dimensions.

MARY.—Fan painting is decidedly remunerative, and has the advantage of being home-work; but a certain amount of originality is essential for it, as well as practical skill and experience and very great neatness.

MISCELLANEOUS.

WINIFRED MARY wants “a remedy for taking sunburn off the face and hands.” Shut yourself up in a bandbox, my dear, and when winter clouds and winds return you may open the lid and inspect the condition of your complexion. If a cure have been effected, come out; if not, shut yourself up in the dark a little longer. If you live to rejoice in the return of the summer’s sunshine you had better wear gloves and a veil.

ROSE HENSHAW.—We regret our inability to avail ourselves of your story. If you send your address in full, it shall be returned to you.

LIZZIE HERBERT.—We are glad you are happy in your marriage, even in the circumstances you name. But “one swallow does not make a summer.” We only laid down general rules, more especially for girls in the upper ranks of life. In your special case you seem to have acted wisely.

HEZEKIAH.—We think that the “best thing to make you look as if you had not been crying” is not to cry. We imagine that your royal namesake cared little whether his eyes were red or not, because his was real grief.

ANNE S.—No stranger could venture to give advice for deafness without seeing the patients and becoming acquainted with a variety of circumstances connected with them. Deafness may be hereditary or accidental, from a cold, an abscess, a plug of cotton, a secretion of wax, a fall, and thickening of the membrane, or a broken drum from a loud noise. It is an ailment too serious for guess-work.

VIOLET.—The sons of a commoner could not inherit the rank their own father did not hold merely because their mother’s former husband was a peer. However, there are some few peerages that run in the female line, the mother being a peeress “in her own right,” not by marriage only. See our letters on “Girls’ Allowances,” in vol. v., pages 54, 91, 246 and 764.

MYRTLE.—Provided a licence were obtained, the marriage would be legal anywhere. If “Myrtle” is a Protestant, the ceremony should be performed by her own minister as well.

FITZGERALD.—We are much obliged for the account of your visit to Wales, and regret that we can make no use of it; but it is very well written for a girl of your age.

UNE JEUNE FILLE.—You would find a mention in the “Princesses of Wales” of the Princess Charlotte, at page 773, vol. vi. We have read the verses, but as yet they do not show much promise of future poetry in them.

A SORROWFUL WIFE.—The Act passed last session will enable you to summon your husband for maintenance without the intervention of the Poor Law Guardians. Hitherto deserted wives have been obliged to throw themselves on the parish before taking proceedings; but the necessity for so doing no longer exists, and the benefit cannot be too widely known, as it is a very excellent change.

E. G. (Leeds).—We sympathise much with you in your sorrow and trouble, and were glad to hear from you.

MARGUERITE VANCE.—She would be his niece by the half-blood, and, of course, he could not marry her.

WINNIE must keep her feet dry and warm, and place herself away from the fire when she comes in from a walk, as the heat of the fire will make her nose burn.

ELLA KINGSLEY.—Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Oliphant, Mrs. Craik, Rosa N. Carey, and Anne Beale, are all good and careful writers, whose books are quite fit for young girls to read.

MINNIE M. (Maidstone).—Your verses are pretty, and give some promise, but need correction.

POLLY.—The condition of your hair seems to imply a deterioration of your general health, for which you probably need tonics and better living. Vaseline is highly spoken of for the hair, and might be of use.

MAGGIE.—1. As silkworms’ eggs are sold in Covent Garden Market, perhaps they might buy yours, if they can be proved thoroughly healthy and strong. 2. The acidulated drops such as are almost universally sold are most injurious to the enamel of the teeth.

CECILIA.—Your lines on “Evangeline” give some promise for the future. The first sixteen lines are correct, the last sixteen are not so, neither in the number of feet nor fall of the beat, or emphasis.

MAY.—The fault lies with yourself if you “hold back,” and be “unable to raise yourself from sin to a certain extent,” because our Divine Lord has promised to “give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him.” It most certainly is not our Father’s will that we should not “attain grace for a little while.” The evil will that keeps you back is that of your own heart and of the arch-tempter and deceiver. In reciting to uneducated people or children, select what they can comprehend, but what is good, though simple.

MISS DAYNS.—Persons requiring any publication issued by the Religious Tract Society, whether a number of this paper or otherwise, should apply to the publisher (as we are always telling our correspondents), as the Editor has nothing to do with that department. He regrets that he has no knowledge of what Miss Dayns’s question was, nor in which number it may yet be answered. The number of answers inserted depends on the amount of space.

CHRISTABEL.—Ash Wednesday is the first day in Lent in the English and Roman Church. In the latter the priest makes the sign of the cross on the foreheads of the people, saying, “Remember thou art but dust and ashes, and to dust thou shalt return.” Shrove Tuesday is the day preceding Lent, when in the latter church the people go to confess and be shriven.

UNA.—1. We think the process of hardening, as carried out by exposure to cold, is of questionable wisdom in most cases. 2. We have made no personal trial of the instrument you name, but heard a friend commend its utility.

VIVIAN KATE.—1. A young man who presumed to introduce himself to a girl could know nothing of common propriety nor of the respect due to an unprotected woman. Any knowledge of etiquette in such an individual is, of course, out of the question. In the circles of society where the rules of etiquette obtain, such impertinent intrusion on the part of a man would not be tolerated. 2. Wash the blue sateen in tepid water.

HOPEFULL.—The water takes up all the camphor requisite, and will last for some time in the wash. You can use it again when you make it fresh.

DORA (Aged 13) sends a poem, written when confined to the house by indisposition one Sunday, from which we can only quote one verse—

“And one, though pale, yet _beautiful_, Lay in a darkened room, But the sweet texts she uttered Seemed to dispel the gloom.”

Did she mean this description of an invalid to apply to herself?

MARY.—1. The town named by you, Altrincham, in Cheshire, is usually spelt “Altringham,” and pronounced accordingly. 2. We say “crocuses,” not “croci.”

LONELY GIRL writes her _nom de plume_ so illegibly that we cannot decipher it, so do not know what she wrote about on the first occasion that she addressed us; but she may feel happy in the assurance that we do not think, judging from her second letter, that she could have written anything needing the apology she now makes on the chance of having done so.

ANTI-ANT.—You may keep the ants from shelves by keeping the latter washed with a strong solution of alum and water. You should also sprinkle insecticide powder over the floor, only be careful if you have a cat. Should this prove insufficient, apply to a chemist. Without doubt, Sir John Lubbock would appreciate his pets’ all-pervading presence as little as you do were he a guest in your house and found them, as you say, in his “meat, bacon, bread, cheese, pastry, sugar, plate, and cup” at all times and seasons!

GWENDOLINE R.—1. We could not condense into two or three lines all the rules of lawn tennis contained in the manuals of instruction respecting the game. You should buy one of these. 2. Eat no more sweetmeats if you wish to cure your complaints.

GERANIUM should write to our publisher. The editor’s department is perfectly distinct from his.

FEATHERS.—Curl the ostrich feathers by gently drawing every filament between the edge of a blunt penknife and your thumb.

POLLY.—1. By “elective affinity” we suppose natural selection was meant. 2. Your handwriting is rather a poor one.

KATHERINE VAN HEMSKIRK.—We are sure that you could not do better than send the articles of clothing you name to the Home for Upper-class Children, 11, South-grove, Tunbridge Wells. Any of our readers who have school books or any suitable books for such a home would do a useful and charitable act in sending contributions of these kinds to this little institution.

BUCHAN and J. B.—The verses by these young people express good sentiments in feeble language. They ought to make themselves acquainted with the rules of metrical composition. This at least could be accomplished, though the gift of original ideas cannot be acquired by any amount of study.

ONE OF TWO.—For the meaning of girls’ Christian names, see our articles in vol. iv. In Webster’s large illustrated dictionary of the English language you will find those of most names, male as well as female.

* * * * *

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

Page 261: dont’s to don’ts—“don’ts”.]