CHAPTER XXVI.

A few days later Peggy was driven home to the vicarage, and stood the drive so well that she was able to walk downstairs at tea-time and sit at the table with only a cushion at her back to mark her out as an invalid just recovering from a serious illness. There was a special reason why she wished to look well this afternoon, for Arthur was expected by the six o’clock train; and the candidate who had come out first in his examination lists must not have his reception chilled by anxiety or disappointment.

Peggy was attired in her pink dress, and sat roasting before the fire so as to get some colour into her cheeks. If her face were only the size of the palm of a hand, she was determined that it should at least be rosy; and if she looked very bright, and smiled all the time, perhaps Arthur would not notice how thin she had become.

When half-past six struck, everyone crowded into the school-room, and presently a cab drove up to the door, and a modest rap sounded on the knocker.

“That’s not Arthur!” cried Mrs. Asplin confidently. “He knocks straight on without stopping, peals the bell at the same time, and shouts Christmas carols through the letter-box! He has sent on his luggage, I expect, and is going to pounce in upon us later on.”

“Ah, no, that’s not Arthur!” assented Peggy; but Mr. Asplin turned his head quickly towards the door, as if his ear had caught a familiar note, hesitated for a moment, and then walked quickly into the hall.

“My dear boy!” the listeners heard him cry, and then another voice spoke in reply—Arthur’s voice—saying, “How do you do, sir?” in such flat, subdued tones as filled them with amazement.

Mrs. Asplin and Peggy turned towards each other with distended eyes. If Arthur had suddenly slid down the chimney and crawled out on the hearth before them, turned a somersault in at the window, or crawled from beneath the table, it would have caused no astonishment whatever; but that he should knock at the door, walk quietly into the hall, and wait to hang up his hat like any other ordinary mortal—this was indeed an unprecedented and extraordinary proceeding! The same explanation darted into both minds. His sister’s illness! He was afraid of startling an invalid, and was curbing his overflowing spirits in consideration for her weakness.

Peggy rose from her chair, and stood waiting, with sparkling eyes and burning cheeks. He should see in one glance that she was better—almost well—that there was no need of anxiety on her behalf. And then the tall, handsome figure appeared in the doorway, and Arthur’s voice cried—

“Peggikens! Up and dressed! This is better than I hoped. How are you, dear little Peg?”

There was something wrong with the voice, something lacking in the smile; but his sister was too excited to notice it. She stretched out her arms towards him, and raised her weak, quavering, little voice in a song of triumph.

“See—ee the conquering he—he—he—he—hero com—ums! Sow—ow—ow—ow—ownd the trumpet, play—a—a—a——”

“Don’t, Peg!” cried Arthur sharply. “Don’t, dear!” He was standing by her side by this time, and suddenly he wrapped his arms round her and laid his curly head on hers. “I’m plucked, Peg!” he cried, and his voice was full of tears. “Oh, Peg, I’m plucked! It’s all over; I can never be a soldier. I’m plucked—plucked—plucked!”

“Arthur dear! Arthur darling!” cried Peggy loudly. She clasped her arms round his neck, and glared over his shoulder, like a tigress whose young has been threatened with danger. “You plucked! My brother plucked! Ho! ho! ho!” She gave a shrill peal of laughter. “It’s impossible! You were first of all, the very first. You always are first. Who was wicked enough, and cruel enough, and false enough to say that Arthur Saville was plucked in an examination?”

“Arthur, my boy, what is it? What does it mean? You told us you were first. How can you possibly be plucked?”

“My—my eyes!” said Arthur faintly. He raised his head from Peggy’s shoulder and looked round with a haggard smile. “The medical exam. They would not pass me. I was rather blind when I was here before, but I thought it was with reading too much. I never suspected there was anything really wrong—never for a moment!”

“Your eyes!” The Vicar pressed his hand to his forehead, as if unable to grasp this sudden shattering of his hopes. “But—but I don’t understand! Your eyes never gave you any trouble when you were here. You were not short-sighted. One knew, of course, that good sight was necessary; but there seemed no weakness in that direction. I can’t imagine any cause that can have brought it on.”

“I can!” said Arthur drearily. “I got a bad knock at lacrosse a year ago. I didn’t tell you about it, for it wasn’t worth while; but my eyes were bad for some time after that. I thought they were all right again; but I had to read a lot of things across a room, and made a poor show of it. Then the doctor took me to a window and pointed to an omnibus that was passing.

“‘What’s the name on that ’bus?’ he said. ‘What is the colour of that woman’s hat? How many horses are there?’

“I guessed. I couldn’t see. I made a shot at it, and it was a wrong shot. He was a kind old chap. I think he was sorry for me. I—I came out into the street, and walked about. It was very cold. I tried to write to you, but I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t put it down in black and white. No V.C. now, little Peg! That’s all over. You will have a civilian for your brother, after all!”

He bent down to kiss the girl’s cheeks as he spoke, and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately upon his closed eyelids.

“Dear eyes!” she cried impetuously. “Oh, dear eyes! They are the dearest eyes in all the world, whatever anyone says about them. It doesn’t matter what you are—you are my Arthur, the best and cleverest brother in all the world. Nobody is like you!”

“You have a fine career before you still, my boy! You will always fight, I hope, and conquer enemies even more powerful than armed men!” cried Mrs. Asplin, trembling. “There are more ways than one of being a soldier, Arthur!”

“I know it, mater,” said the young man softly. He straightened his back and stood in silence, his head thrown back, his eyes shining with emotion, as fine a specimen of a young English gentleman as one could wish to meet. “I know it,” he repeated, and Mrs. Asplin turned aside to hide her tears. “Oh, my pretty boy!” she was saying to herself. “Oh, my pretty boy! And I’ll never see him in his red coat, riding his horse like a prince among them all! I’ll never see the medals on his breast! Oh, my poor lad that has the fighting blood in his veins! It’s like tearing the heart out of him to turn Arthur Saville into anything but a soldier. And the poor father—what will he say at all when he hears this terrible news?” She dared not trust herself to speak again, the others were too much stunned and distressed to make any attempt at consolation, and it was a relief to all when Mellicent’s calm, matter-of-fact treble broke the silence.

“Well, for my part, I’m very glad!” she announced slowly. “I’m sorry, of course, if he has to wear spectacles, because they are unbecoming, but I’m thankful he is not going to be a soldier. I think it’s silly having nothing to do but drill in barracks, and pretending to fight when there is no one to fight with. I should hate to be a soldier in times of peace, and it would be fifty thousand times worse in war. Oh, my goodness, shouldn’t I be in a fright! I should run away, I know I should; but Arthur would be in the front of every battle, and it’s absurd to think that he would not get killed. You know what Arthur is! Did you ever know him have a chance of hurting himself and not taking it? He would be killed in the very first battle—that’s my belief—and then you would be sorry that you wanted him to be a soldier! Or, if he wasn’t killed, he would have his legs shot off. Last time I was in London I saw a man with no legs. He was sitting on a little board with wheels on it, and selling matches in the street. Well, I must say I’d rather have my brother a civilian, as you call it, than have no legs, or be cut in pieces by a lot of nasty, naked old savages!”

A general smile went round the company. There was no resisting it. Even Arthur’s face brightened, and he turned his head and looked at Mellicent with his old twinkling smile.

“Bravo, Chubby!” he cried. “Bravo, Chubby! Commend me to Mellicent for good, sound common-sense. The prospect of squatting on a board, selling matches, is not exhilarating, I must confess. I’m glad there is one person at least who thinks my prospects are improved.” He gave a little sigh, which was stifled with praiseworthy quickness. “Well, the worst is over now that I have told you and written the letter to India. Those were the two things that I dreaded most. Now I shall just have to face life afresh, and see what can be made of it. I must have a talk with you, sir, later on, and get your advice. Cheer up, Peggikins! Cheer up, mater! It’s no use grieving over spilt milk, and Christmas is coming. It would never do to be in the dolefuls over Christmas! I’ve got a boxful of presents upstairs—amused myself with buying them yesterday to pass the time. You come up with me to-night, Peg, and I’ll give you a peep. You look better than I expected, dear, but fearsome scraggy! We shall have to pad her out a bit, sha’n’t we, mater? She must have an extra helping of plum pudding this year.”

He rattled on in his own bright style, or in as near an imitation of it as he could manage, and the others tried their best to follow his example, and make the evening as cheery as possible. Once or twice the joy of being all together again in health and strength conquered the underlying sorrow, and the laughter rang out as gayly as ever, but the next moment Arthur would draw in his breath with another of those short, stabbing sighs, and Peggy would shiver, and lie back trembling among her pillows. She had no heart to look at Christmas presents that night, but Arthur carried her upstairs in his strong arms, laid her on her bed, and sat beside her for ten minutes’ precious private talk.

“It’s a facer, Peg,” he said. “I can’t deny it’s a facer. When I walked out of that doctor’s room I felt as weak as a child. The shock knocked the strength out of me. I had never thought of anything else but being a soldier, you see, and it’s a strange experience to have to face life afresh, with everything that you had expected taken out of it, and nothing ahead but blankness and disappointment. I’ve been so strong too—as strong as a horse. If it hadn’t been for that blow—well, it’s over and it’s a comfort to me to feel that it was not my own fault. If I’d been lazy or careless and had failed in the exam, it would have driven me crazy; but this was altogether beyond my control. It is frightfully rough luck, but I don’t mean to howl—I must make the best of what’s left!”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you will. You have begun well, for I think you have been wonderfully brave and courageous about it, Arthur dear!”

“Well, of course!” said Arthur softly. “I always meant to be that, Peg; and, as the mater says, it is only another kind of battle. The other would have been easier, but I mean to fight still! I am not going to give up all my dreams. You shall be proud of me yet, though not in the way you expected.”

“I never was so proud of you in my life!” Peggy cried. “Never in all my life.”

Long after Arthur had kissed her and gone to his own room she lay awake, thinking of his words and of the expression on his handsome face as the firelight played on moistened eye and trembling lip. “I mean to fight,” “You shall be proud of me yet.” The words rang in her ears and would not be silenced. When she fell asleep Arthur was still by her side; the marks of tears were on his face. He was telling her once more the story of disappointment and failure; but she could not listen to him, for her eyes were fixed on something that was pinned on the breast of his coat—a little iron cross with two words printed across its surface.

In her dream Peggy bent forward and read those two words with a great rush of joy and exultation.

“For Valour!” “For Valour!” Yes, yes, it was quite true! Never was soldier flushed with victory more deserving of that decoration than Arthur Saville in his hour of disappointment and failure.

(_To be concluded._)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

FOR those who cannot drink tea without an attack of indigestion to follow, there is good news. Little tablets are now sold in boxes, one of which added to each teaspoonful of tea in the pot, corrects the tannin, and improves the tea. Hundreds of people are now enabled to drink tea who had been obliged to leave it off, and these tablets are a most valuable discovery. Boxes of these _Tanocea_ tablets are sent by the manufacturers, _The Tanocea Tablet Company, Bletchley Station_, or can be got from all Chemists and Grocers, price one shilling per box.

TO keep butter cool in summer is always somewhat of a difficulty, but a butter-cooler is easily improvised by turning a basin or clean flower-pot over the butter on a plate. Place that on a larger dish or basin in which there is water, cover over the top basin with a piece of flannel, the ends of which should rest in the water, and the evaporation of the moisture will keep the butter cool. The water must not be allowed to touch the butter itself.

BE careful when you buy jam, bottled fruits, pickles, or anything in glass vessels, to see that there is no broken glass fallen inside. Should the edge be chipped in any way, examine the contents on the top of the jar or bottle carefully, as broken glass has been found in such, and it would be probably fatal if swallowed. This caution is also necessary for wine and beer bottles.

CHILDREN should all be taught to eat salad olive oil. It obviates the necessity of administering other oils as medicine, and they get to like it very much. But care should be taken that it is got from a good maker, and that it really is olive oil. With salad or even with cold potato and a few drops of vinegar, this is most wholesome.

GAS-PIPES that are not in use are elements of danger, and great care should be taken not to knock them in any way, or hang things upon them so as to cause a leakage. This is very easily done and is not always readily perceived, so that there may be serious mischief before it is discovered.

THANK GOD FOR MAY.

BY HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.

The linnet in the hawthorn bush Her last wee egg has not yet hatched, Though it is May: But see, the nesting mother thrush, By loving mate so proudly watched, Comes forth to-day!

A veil of fresh translucent green, A-gleam with opal sparks of dew, Is the array Most meet for dainty Spring, I ween, When all her pretty nymphs anew Troop forth in May.

Immortal Spring! for ever fair, Her dews and new-born buds among— Her gardens gay— Her callow birds in leafy lair, And all the beauty, fresh and young, She brings in May!

“Thank God for Spring—thank God for all The stirring of new hope it brings,” Each year I say— When orchards bloom, and cuckoos call, And all the land with rapture rings— “Thank God for May.”

A HAPPY HEALTHY GIRLHOOD.

(_Dedicated to “The Mater.”_)

BY “MEDICUS” (DR. GORDON-STABLES, R.N.).

“From work she wins her spirits light, From busy day, the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven’s best treasures—peace and health.”—_Gray._

“Wretched, unidea’d girls.”—_Johnson._

The last quoted line is, as you see, from Johnson—Sam Johnson the lexicographer, Sam the learned, and, if I chose to be ill-natured, I might add Sam the sot. A man of infinite jest and “a stolid kind of humour, but cuttingly sarcastic”; a man whom Scotland delighted to honour, and did honour, and treated with the greatest of kindness and hospitality, which he rewarded by trying to hold Scotland and the Scots up to ridicule ever after. A man whose memory therefore I cannot revere. But, giving him his due, when he says “Wretched, unidea’d girls,” he does not mean to insult young womanhood. I think rather that, although his English was like himself, too heavy and elephantine, he meant to convey the impression that a girl who has no ideas, no mind, cannot be truly happy. And here I agree with Scotland’s foe. I pity a poor lassie who has no mind of her own, or who is possessed of a soul that is not firmly anchored in herself, and ballasted with ideas and convictions which are independent of those of anyone else. A flighty soul like this carries with it a nervous, silly, unhappy brain, and a body that is too often feeble and far from healthy.

I have met young ladies who confused Sam Johnson with the rare Ben Jonson. Now Sam was too obese and fond of the pleasures of the table to understand and appreciate girlhood and innocent beauty. Ben was a man spiritual, not grossly corporeal. It was Ben who wrote the lovely lines to Celia—

“Drink to me only with thine eyes And I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I’ll not look for wine.”

The idea, however, was not original, but borrowed from the Greek. But listen, solid Sam never could have penned such lines as Ben wrote in his “Good Life, Long Life”—

“Give me a look, give me a face That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art— That strike my eyes, but not my heart.”

Well, I believe I could preach a long, useful and pleasant health sermon from the very lines I have quoted. This is not quite my intention, however. But nevertheless I like to see a volume of poetry in a girl’s hand, and some of our older poets really teach us many a lesson, and these alas! are far too much neglected. Fashions, even in poetry, change as well as in music. Give me simplicity in both, and keep your Browning and your Wagner too. Many a lady in society pretends to love both, who knows nothing about either.

But, taking Gray as an example of a true and simple poet, whose lines you can read without racking your brain in wondering what the poet means, is there not, think you, a deal of truth in the verse that heads this paper?

From work many a girl wins light spirits. Work I mean, not the slavery which, alas! is far too often the lot of poor shop lassies and seamstresses, for whom my heart does bleed. Work _versus_ sauntering idleness. This idleness means an open empty mind; and parents may rest assured that, as Nature abhors a vacuum, girls are not very old before they get such minds filled with thoughts and silly aspirations that tend neither to the development of a healthy body nor a wholesome mind. Young girls who have nothing to do build themselves castles in the air and people them with inmates that they themselves are heartily ashamed of.

Indeed, I do not know anything more likely to generate future unhappiness and crabbed ill-health than graduation in the school of idleness.

An idle body preys upon itself and eke an idle mind.

I may be told that it is fashionable to be idle. True, in certain ranks of life, but here is my answer to that. Nature not only hates a vacuum, but she is fond of evenness of surface both as regards the material world and as regards the immaterial. Nature even levels the mountains, or is gradually doing so, and fashion is a tool of hers. Fashion levels down, education and honest work level up; and, in time, Nature will thus see to it that both shall meet.

It was, I think, Bulwer Lytton—one of the heroes of my boyhood—who proposed an “Aristocracy of Letters.” The notion has not yet borne fruit, and the aristocracy we have is certainly not very dignified, it being constantly added to and adulterated by parvenus of the lowest type, namely, men who have made millions dishonestly, such as quacks and patent nostrum men. So, in the course of a few decades, we shall have little reason to be proud of our “upper ten.” But a true and pure aristocracy may yet arise in this country from the ashes of the fading and effete present. Nothing but wisdom, knowledge and health can support this.

Well, every mater who wishes her girls to grow up happy and healthy, as they ought to be, has much to do and much to think about.

It cannot be too strongly impressed upon a mother’s mind that the first portion of a child’s education is begun in the nursery. Children are imitative to a degree, as much so as the monkeys from which, some say, we are evoluted. One cannot be too careful then with the ethical management of the nursery.

Servants allowed to enter there, or maids who take a child out in its little carriage, should be morally and physically pure. Even baby may learn from a nurse things that will never be forgotten. When she gets a little older she may be corrected, and told that to say this or do that is rude or naughty, and she will refrain for fear of punishment—that is all. The seed is sown, and nothing can eradicate the mischief.

I look upon it as a crime for mothers to give up their children wholly to nursery training. The mother should be with her darlings pretty nearly all the time; and if she loves them, she will be. And a mother has far greater influence over them than the very best of nurses.

When babyhood merges into girlhood, one of the first things to be checked is the all-too-easily-learned habit of criticising—generally spitefully—other children she has seen out of doors. This is the first sign of that spirit of tittle-tattleism which blossoms into verbosity, scandal, and all uncharitableness in many full-blown old maids.

If charity and love for all who suffer life cannot be taught by the mother or by a good nurse, then never in this world can a child or girl be truly happy or truly healthy. For a sour and uncharitable soul always goes hand in hand with a nervous or puny body.

Keep your girls busy. Be busy yourself, mother. There is a dignity and grace about household duties that put to the blush all drawing-room airs and frivolities.

But I note that a real genuine young lady is invariably natural and never ashamed to do work that, a “wretched, unidea’d girl” would deem _infra dignitatem_. I think that this is lovely.

“’Pon honour,” as old military men used to say, I’ve had earls’ or baronets’ daughters in my caravan while gipsying, who have begged of me to permit them to do something for me, and they have hemmed my wind-ravelled curtains, stitched my blinds, filled my pin-cushions—ay, and some would have darned my socks for me, had I permitted them! Now, these were ladies, mind, in the truest sense of the word, good God-fearing girls with hearts full of sympathy and in perfect unison with all the world around them.

Again, as to what some call “menial work,” or household, the girl who learns to cook and serve a dinner, or knows how a meal should be served, or who is not ashamed even to bare her bonnie white arms and help to wash up the delf, the girl who knows even a little medicine and surgery, the girl to whom the gardener will come with a cut and bleeding finger to be tenderly washed and dressed, the girl who can get up betimes in the morning—she is the girl who will make the best wife, and the only wife really worth having.

And she will be healthy in body too, because pure in thoughts and kind in nature.

THE GIRL OF COMMERCE.

You find her everywhere almost nowadays. She is not a natural production. She is got up. She is forced and artificial. She cannot be healthy, and has no more heart than a hen, no more stamina or staying power than a stalk of hemp. She is a resultant of the inflexible law of supply and demand. Made for the matrimonial market, grown to be sold, and if—like a choice standard rose—she is labelled with a title, she will go all the sooner. Money will purchase a wife like this, and, though marriage may change her and love may come after, the man who has her has speculated on the off-chance. And now that wax dolls can be manufactured that can both talk and walk, it seems to me that the man might have done better with his money. But, thank goodness, the majority of men prefer the genuine, well-reared, healthy girl, and the girl that has a heart.

But love is still a great factor—nay, the very greatest—in this life, and, if that love be real, oh, there is nothing it cannot do!

I must, as a medical man, go a little farther, and tell the mater something that no scientist will venture to deny. It is this: a loveless or commercial marriage is not only followed by a senseless and dreary monotonous life, but children born in such wedlock are never truly healthy in body, and very often they are defective in mental qualifications, that is, in brain power. Many a case of epilepsy is congenital, and a child that is nerveless is liable to future degeneracy, and apt to fall into any kind of temptation. Doctors have proofs of this every day.

But though ambitious parents may try to alter Nature’s law, she herself is inexorable and tells us sternly that the fittest shall survive.

* * * * *

But, harking back to our poet’s lines—

“From work she wins her spirits light, From busy day, the peaceful night,”

I must give my medical testimony to the truth herein conveyed. Work does give exhilaration of spirits and enables a girl truly to enjoy recreation and outdoor exercise, and, moreover, the busy day results in calm refreshing sleep at night.

Without sleep, without perfect exercise, ventilation of rooms and fresh air everywhere, no girl can grow up happy and healthful.

Coddling children and keeping them too warm causes them to become fragile and delicate, with no nerves worth mentioning, except when they give rise to the tortures of toothache and neuralgia, and no lungs good enough to last.

There is, mother, but a sad future for that girl who is ashamed to soil her fingers by doing honest work, or ashamed to wear a thimble and wield woman’s real weapon—the needle.

But it is not natural for girls to hate work. Do they not make the best of nurses, for instance, and the most gentle-handed? It is Scott who says—

“Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light and quivering aspen made, When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!”

And after many more years than I care to recall—for fear of making me feel old—of camp life and sea life, I can testify that girls make the best of all gipsy folks. Amateur, of course, I mean. But even in the management of a picnic their abilities shine forth; and in camp or on board ship, if one only gives them credit for common sense, they can do wonders.

The young lady who would not demean herself—there is really no demeanment about it—by doing cookery or kitchen work in her own house often comes out strong in wayside camp or caravan. She gets up to things as if guided by instinct, can light fires, cook plain nutritious meals, lay them out prettily, and clear up afterwards with most amiable and sweet-tempered dexterity, and, when all is over, will take guitar or mandoline and accompany your violin as if to the gipsy-manner born.

However, I have no doubt that a good deal of a girl’s willingness to work in this way, depends upon the novelty and romance of her surroundings, and very much also on the fact that she is breathing the purest air that can blow through dell or den, or balmy forest of pine, or from the mountains themselves that God built long before he made the poor puny microbe man.

THE VALUE OF HEALTH.

The value of health to any of us, whether old or young, cannot well be over-estimated. It is not, mind you, mater, that a deviation from its paths may lead to death. Indeed, many times and oft it would be far better if it did so directly. Instead of that, however, it may be, in girlhood, but the prelude to a long life of untold misery and wretchedness. Indeed, an ailing girl can never be anything save an object of pity. It is spring-time with her, but alas! it is a sad one—a spring that brings not with it the promise of a gladsome happy summer. The sun may shine, but it shines not for her. She is unable thoroughly to enjoy anything. There are times when her very soul seems darkened, and when even spiritual comfort brings no season of relief or even forgetfulness. And at such moments is it any wonder that she finds herself envying her more happy sisters, and thinking that the world is not only dark but cruel? Her companions have health and happiness; they may go anywhere and enjoy anything, and perhaps they forget her entirely until their return.

What comfort shall I pen in these papers for girls such as these? I think I can give a little hope, and, with our Editor’s kind permission, I shall continue this subject in my next paper, and have something to say about ailments and departures from the normal standard of health, and hints for regaining Heaven’s greatest blessing, that may prove invaluable to many.

“THAT LUNCHEON!”

A YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER’S DILEMMA.

“Nellie dear,” said Mr. Vernon, the principal solicitor in Riversmouth, to his nineteen year old daughter and housekeeper, “I have just run across to tell you that young Squire Laurence is riding over to consult me this morning, and I should like to bring him in to lunch at half-past one. Can you manage it?”

For a moment dismay ran riot in pretty Nellie’s heart. Nearly ten o’clock already, nothing to speak of in the house, and a smart luncheon to provide, as well as the schoolboys’ early dinner! However, she must do her best, and answered cheerfully to that effect.

“It need not be grand, you know,” added her father encouragingly, “so long as everything is nice and tasteful, as you so well understand how to make it.”

Nellie had been on her way to practise, but she now returned to the kitchen, and, resuming her big apron, surveyed the larder for the second time that morning. Ten minutes earlier, yesterday’s underdone leg of mutton re-roasted, with some vegetables, and the remains of yesterday’s pudding, with the addition of a homely roly-poly, had been deemed sufficient for the one o’clock meal, and as Mr. Vernon was dining out that evening, the butcher had been dismissed without orders. Economy was a stern necessity to Nellie, whose housekeeping allowance was not unlimited.

Accustomed to making “something out of nothing,” the cold remnants did not look as hopeless to her as they might to some young housekeepers. A cold whiting, the badly-roasted mutton, and a bowl containing about half a pint of tomato sauce, represented absolute riches to Nellie’s mind at that moment, and she quickly collected her materials and set to work in the kitchen.

The menu she drew up was as follows:—

Fish Scallops. Cold Salt Beef. Cannelon and Tomato Sauce. Potato Chips. Salad. Hot Apple Tart. Lemon Creams. Custards. Cheese. Biscuits.

The maid was despatched with orders for the milkman and greengrocer, and a basket in which to bring back a pound of cold salt beef in slices from the pastrycook’s, half-a-dozen scallop-shells, and two lemons.

In the meantime Nellie began the creams, which she knew must have plenty of time to cool, and for this reason decided to make them in cups. There was only a quart of milk in the house; a pint of it she put into a bowl with half an ounce of gelatine, and left it to soak for half an hour, whilst she made the rest into a custard, and stood the jug containing it in cold water to facilitate its cooling.

She next prepared a small bowl of breadcrumbs, and finely flaked the whiting, removing the bones. Then Mary having returned with the things, Nellie peeled a small quarter of one of the lemons very thin, and put milk, gelatine, lemon-peel and five ounces of white sugar into a lined saucepan on the fire.

During the time it took to bring it to the boil, she buttered the scallop-shells and proceeded thus:—A layer of breadcrumbs, a layer of fish, salt and pepper to taste, a layer of breadcrumbs, sprinkled with small lumps of butter, and so on, taking care to heap the materials well up in the centre of the shell, and to scatter the last layer of breadcrumbs liberally with butter; the scallops were then placed on a baking-sheet ready for cooking, twenty minutes being sufficient to brown them nicely.

After boiling for five minutes, the contents of the saucepan were strained into a jug with a lip, and when sufficiently cool to prevent curdling, the well-beaten yolks of two eggs were stirred in. The directions, Nellie knew, were to pour constantly from one jug to another till nearly cold, but she had to content herself with doing this occasionally, whilst making the pastry for the tart.

A ring at the bell announced the arrival of the greengrocer with the apples and lettuces. As Mary was busy in the upper regions, Nellie answered the door herself, returning quickly to prepare the apples, which she quartered and cored before peeling them, to keep the pieces whole.

By this time the lemon-cream was cool enough for her to add carefully the strained juice of the lemons, stirring briskly the while, after which it was poured into the cups, and these were surrounded with cold water to set the cream quickly.

“Now for the mutton,” said Nellie to herself, proceeding to cut up the joint. “No wonder the boys said it was like ‘old boots,’ and I fear its toughness isn’t entirely due to under-cooking! Well, ‘cannelon’ is a splendid way of using tough meat,” she thought, first reserving several thick slices to be converted into mock cutlets next day, and then grinding the rest in the mincing-machine. The minced meat was well seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley, thyme, and a dessertspoonful of Harvey’s sauce, adding a _soupçon_ of finely-chopped onion, half a cupful of breadcrumbs and a well-beaten egg. She made the mixture into balls rather larger than a walnut, and placed them, wrapped in oiled paper, on a tin, to be baked in a moderate oven for half an hour. The tomato sauce was put in a lined saucepan ready to be heated, and the potatoes which Mary had peeled for that “early dinner” she cut into slices to be fried crisp and brown.

Mary was a tolerable plain cook; therefore, after directing her, Nellie was free to arrange fresh flowers in the dining-room, and to make the necessary additions to her toilet, before laying the luncheon, which she did herself, in order to send the handmaiden up to dress at a quarter to one.

The salad was soon made and prettily decorated, the beef arranged tastefully on a dish and garnished with parsley, and then Nellie whisked the whites of two eggs with a little sugar to a stiff froth, piling it in snowy billows amongst the golden creams, previously turned out into a glass dish. To this the custards in dainty little cups made an excellent _vis-à-vis_, the salad occupying a central position on the table.

Mr. Vernon, entering the dining-room with the guest, was abundantly satisfied with the result of Nellie’s busy morning. Spotless damask, bright electro-plate and glass, go far to making up for costly dishes or priceless silver, and the luncheon-table, decorated by an old gold centre-piece, with sprays of fiery Virginia creeper, and vases of citron chrysanthemums, was a picture. He could not but observe the quick look of admiration his daughter called forth when he presented Mr. Laurence.

She presided at lunch with a gentle dignity, conversing with the visitor, her father and the two boys, and betraying no anxiety about the arrangements, which _insouciance_ Mary tried to deserve by changing the courses as deftly as she could. Mr. Vernon, perhaps for the first time, realised what a treasure he possessed in one who, at such short notice, could provide a luxurious meal, and have house, servant, herself and her little brothers, looking the pink of neatness to do honour to any friend of his.

Possibly Mr. Laurence was clever enough to read between the lines, for the lawyer’s modest circumstances were well known; at any rate, the luncheon-party, which Nellie triumphantly assured her father had only necessitated the outlay of four shillings, was the means of introducing the Squire of Templemeade to his future wife.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.