CHAPTER XIX.

CHRISTMAS AGAIN.

The missive in Lucy’s hand was no simple workman’s clumsy bill. It was a sheet of blank paper.

“What can this mean?” said Lucy, turning it about, while Miss Latimer and Tom watched her.

“You may be sure it ought to be the bricklayer’s bill, but that he has put in the wrong piece of paper,” observed Miss Latimer.

“Or it may have come from that stupid fellow we found in the area,” said Tom. “Perhaps his next tipsy fit has taken this form, and he is under the delusion that he has written a letter to Jane Smith.”

“That is not unlikely,” Lucy admitted, still turning the paper about. “The letter has been posted at this district office, and there is no maker’s name on the envelope. Anyhow, there it goes,” and she tore it in two and dropped it into the waste-paper basket.

“I wonder if Clementina would notice the strange-looking letter,” said Miss Latimer. “I’m always afraid of something stirring her superstitions and making her take flight to her Highland hills on the score that ‘Babylon’ is too terrible a place to stay in.”

That was all. It was but a nine minutes’ wonder. Yet they remembered it afterwards.

Early in December there came a letter from Mrs. Grant in Peterhead. Lucy and the captain’s wife had kept up a slight correspondence during their husbands’ absence on the _Slains Castle_. Each had always written to apprise the other of any news she had received. Once or twice, indeed, when unexpected opportunities for ship’s letters had arisen, the busy captain had contented himself with sending a message to his wife _viâ_ his passenger’s home epistle. Mrs. Grant had always promptly and cordially acknowledged these curtesies on Lucy’s part. But she was not naturally a letter-writing woman. Her missives were always of the briefest, and never until now had she taken the initiative.

Mrs. Grant’s letter seemed, on the face of it, both as cheerful and as brief as usual. She “supposed Lucy had heard nothing lately, as she knew she would have let her know if she had.” “Sailing vessels are often out of their reckoning for weeks and weeks,” she added. She dropped a word of congratulation that Lucy’s own welcoming day was assuredly near at hand now, and of half-comic self-condolence that hers was so much farther off. “In my case, too, one suspense is no sooner over than another begins,” she wrote. “But that’s the lot of the sailor’s wife, and I know it was all in my bargain when I took the captain.”

There certainly seemed nothing in that letter to alarm Lucy, and she marvelled at a strange uneasiness which she felt stirring within her. Was she intuitively aware of some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Grant, which she had studiously kept out of her words? Lucy wrote a prompt reply, saying that she had heard nothing yet, but was daily looking for tidings. She tried to make her letter cheerful, and wondered whether Mrs. Grant, in her turn, would read anything between the lines.

Lucy scarcely liked to think of the approaching Christmas Day. If Charlie had returned, it would be a day of supreme joy; if timely sea news came in, it would be one of gladdest thanksgiving. But if——! There Lucy paused, and turned aside as from a great mist advancing to enfold her. Yet she must make her little plans to be fit for the fulfilment of her hope. Not to do so, would seem like creating an omen of prolonged separation and anxiety. So she and Miss Latimer sent out a Christmas bidding to Mr. Somerset, Lucy saying with pathetic playfulness that under the circumstances she scarcely knew whether she ought to issue her invitations in her own name only or with Charlie’s joined thereto. “For he may be among us on that day yet,” she added. Writing down her hope seemed to make it more tangible.

Mr. Somerset called in reply to Lucy’s invitation. He told her that in accepting it, he was accepting a real kindness. Without it, this Christmas might have been very lonely and desolate for him. His old landlord lay at the point of death, and consequently the whole household was saddened and absorbed.

“How much sadness there is in the world!” sighed Lucy. “And how terrible it is that there is a sort of consolation in realising that one is not the only burdened and anxious soul. It seems a selfish and cruel feeling to find comfort in that thought!”

Mr. Somerset looked up brightly.

“Yes, it seems so,” he said. “I used to think so, and probably it is so in the spirit in which the idea may sometimes be suggested and received. Yet I have learned to understand that it does not have a selfish and cruel origin. I think I have discovered what the idea springs from, and how it is that such a thought may really soothe and strengthen. After all, what is the very depth of woe—its unendurable sting?”

Lucy mused.

“I think it is the failure of our faith,” she said gently. “The chilly feeling that God has let go of us and that there are none to help.”

“Exactly so,” answered Mr. Somerset, “and I daresay all of us have known that feeling more than once. It calls our very humility and littleness to its aid, so that we ask, ‘Who am I that God should remember me?’ But can any sane mind look upon another, the lowest, the worst and the most abject, and deliberately say, ‘Who is he that God should remember him?’ I think not. We can feel that would be the vilest blasphemy against God. It would at once strip God of all that makes Him good, ay, or great either, with that wonderful greatness, before which earth’s highest and lowest and best and worst are all the same. No, Mrs. Challoner, in realising the fellowship of others in suffering, we at once realise that God must know all about it, and that there must be some wise purpose in it, and if so for that other, then for ourselves too.”

“Did not some philosopher say that death, being universal, could be no evil?” asked Lucy.

“I think it was the poet Schiller said so,” returned Mr. Somerset, “and I believe it is the consciousness of this, however little realised, which keeps life brave and bright and sane in the perpetual presence of death. The ‘solidarity of humanity,’ though the phrase is one which they may scarcely understand, is the secret treasure of the humble. It never occurs to them to be surprised and shocked when those evils befall them which they always knew befell others. In their eyes ‘it is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him _good_,’ always ‘good,’ you may observe. ‘It is all in the day’s work,’ they tell one, when their lot is hardest.”

Lucy thought of Mrs. May, and of the strength and comfort she had gathered, more than a year ago, from that good woman’s calm outlook on events, and her fixed conviction that there is inward strength at command sufficient to lift us elastic after any outward blow. It seemed to Lucy that she too might rise equal to the sublime suspenses and sorrows of life if only her strength and spirits were spared the perpetual corrosion of petty cares and worries which fretted them away as moths consume a garment. Then the wiser reflection came—that neither were such petty cares and worries special to her; they too entered into every lot; one could not doubt that brave cheery Mrs. May had her full share. The same inward strength must be as ready and able to bear the perpetual little trials as the occasional great ones, if only we invoke it and know how to use it. The great ocean of Divine love and strength is always waiting to flow into our smallest trials, if we would but hold them ready.

Once more the Institute holidays began. Lucy had now made arrangements for continuing her services there into the next year, under a running “quarter’s notice.” She had in readiness all her little gala preparations with which to greet Charlie’s return, however unexpected it might happen to be.

Of late she had seen very little of the Brands. She knew that Jem had made a great success in some of his speculations. In newspapers she saw that his name was held in prominent place at “financial” meetings, and she noticed mention of Florence as among the guests at showy social functions. Taking up a “society paper” by chance, she actually read an account of her sister’s toilette! To Lucy’s ideas, such a thing was an indecent intrusion into the affairs of a private lady. When Florence called on her, elate over all these things, she could not congratulate her, and Lucy felt that her simple silence chafed Florence. Even as the boy-boarder, poor Tom, “degraded” Lucy in Florence’s eyes, so, from Lucy’s standpoint, these vanities degraded Florence. The sisters were drifting ever further apart. Lives with aims and aspirations diametrically opposed cannot keep together, however household love and the memory of old associations may yearn that they should do so. Nay, the more these struggle against the separating tide, the more ghastly is their shipwreck likely to be. There is “a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” The most poignant tragedy of life comes in just here. For whatever love has ever been, will persist, and has to learn to rest patient in the faith that “God seeketh again that which is passed away.”

Christmas morning came. Miss Latimer had her Christmas offering of daintily hemmed net ruffles, just the sort of thing which Lucy had now no time to make. There was the usual budget of Christmas letters and parcels. A book for Hugh, from “his father’s friend Wilfrid Somerset,” sent by post, because Mr. Somerset knew that a “post parcel for his very self” would bulk so largely in a child’s delight; and a magnificent hand-painted glove and handkerchief sachet in white satin from Jem and Florence.

What significance there was in those gifts! Miss Latimer and Mr. Somerset gave with theirs a wee bit of themselves, the kind consideration for a tired woman’s inability to serve herself, and for the eager vanity of a little child. But that costly and delicate sachet could have had no proper place in the little house with the verandah at any time, and certainly could have no function in the life of a working woman-artist, who bought no gloves but dark “suedes,” and who could scarcely find time or spare energy to dust her books! Lucy expressed a desperate admiration of the thing’s delicate beauty, and so did Miss Latimer. There was nothing else to say. Each knew the other was not deceived as to her estimate of the thoughtlessness of such a gift.

“But poor Florence means to be so kind,” Lucy urged upon herself. “That is in her taste, and it would suit her own white-and-gold bedroom. She cannot realise the difference between us! We always used to have everything alike. And she means to be kind!”

Lucy secretly pressed a yearning kiss on the soft white thing, ere she refolded it in its dainty papers, from which, she knew, it would not be taken again for a long time. They rend us terribly, do these thoughtless favours in which a kind intention seems to blunder. Possibly this pang of remorse for seeming ungraciousness and ingratitude might sometimes be lessened if we could look deeper into the matter. It might have been spared to Lucy had she known that Florence had neither chosen nor even bought this gift. It had been sent to Florence herself, but she had just received another, much handsomer, so after writing a gushing note of thanks to the donor, she had promptly forwarded it to Lucy!

Mr. Somerset himself arrived in due time. Lucy sat amid her little circle with a smiling face, but they all felt that she must feel a keen disappointment that, after all, she still remained the sole head of the household. They pressed upon her all the cheer possible.

“After all, the weary waiting time is all behind you,” said Mr. Somerset. “Only fancy if last year you could have felt as you may now, that all which remains is but a few days more or less.”

“We’ll have to be quite sure that we recognise Mr. Challoner when he appears,” put in Miss Latimer playfully, pointing to Charlie’s portrait over the fireplace. “Remember he has had long voyagings through sunny seas even since that was taken, and his present self may be as much of an improvement on that as that is on the pale invalid who went away.”

“You have made a supreme effort to win this triumph, Mrs. Challoner,” remarked Mr. Somerset. “It may all seem easy to you now it is ending so beautifully. But you made the effort in the dark, not knowing how it might end.”

“But it was right to do, and that was Lucy’s part, and the disposing of it is God’s,” said Miss Latimer. “We must not do evil that good may come. But we must do right, however its ending may seem to us.”

“But possibly right is somewhat different with different people,” remarked Mr. Somerset. “What was right for our friend here to do was an action right only in those as brave and capable as she is.”

“I am no casuist,” returned Miss Latimer. “My idea of right is that it is what each person knows he or she ought to do and can do.”

“Ah, but there is a great deal in that ‘can do,’” smiled Mr. Somerset.

“None know what they can do till they try,” retorted Miss Latimer.

“Dr. Ivery has been so kind,” said Lucy. “He had sent two or three times to inquire after Charlie’s progress. So when I got that photograph I thought I ought to let him see it. I said I hoped he would excuse me for bringing it, but I thought it might help him what to advise in similar cases, and he said, ‘Yes.’” Lucy broke off abruptly with a little laugh and a heightened colour.

Mr. Somerset and Miss Latimer also laughed. They both guessed what Lucy did not choose to tell them, that the doctor had said he would often be happy to prescribe such a cure if the patient were but provided with such a wife to help him to carry it out!

“All this is very well,” said Tom Black, assuming a grumbling tone. “But I should look forward to Mr. Challoner’s coming with much more delight if I did not fear that it will end my days here; he will want all his house for himself!”

Lucy laughed very sincerely now.

“Charlie’s coming will bring you nothing but good, Tom,” she observed, “and you know that well enough. You have been a great help to me, and Charlie will be even more grateful than I am. But there is something for which we can all be grateful together, at the very present moment—to wit, that no poor Jessie Morison is spoiling the peace of this Christmas Day. I was in the kitchen half an hour ago, and Clementina has got everything most conscientiously in order.”

“Nevertheless she’s something of a spoil-sport,” put in Tom. “I wonder if it takes any nourishment out of one’s food when the cook is always sighing?”

Hugh had been perched up in the window, watching cabs which were bringing Christmas guests to the neighbours. At this instant he turned, crying—

“Something is the matter opposite. Policemen!”

They all rushed to the window.

“Is it a chimney on fire?” asked Miss Latimer.

“There is no smoke,” said Lucy.

(_To be continued._)

SUNSHINE: A SUMMER SERMON.

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

“Catch, then, O catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies, Life’s a short summer, man a flower, He dies—alas! how soon he dies!”

* * * * *

I will not begin by saying—as so many people do—that the small amount of sunshine we get in this country is not worth mentioning. This is not the case. Would you be surprised to learn that we have enough for health’s sake, and that when we do not get actual summer sunshine, we get the summer light all around us out of doors? That this light is diffused, filtered for us through the clouds that float high above, and that many people of wealth who leave this land of ours to seek for sunnier soils and sunnier shores, about the Riviera, the isles of the blue Levant or Madeira and the Canaries, make a most egregious mistake, and their health would be vastly improved were they to spend their time in the cool green midlands of England, on the sunshiny braes and hills of majestic Scotland or even down at our own seaside watering-places—quiet ones, mind you—where the wavelets ripple with gladsome laughter as they break on the golden sands?

The maids of merry England seldom need the dry hot sunshine of the Soudan or banks of the gliding Nile. Our maidens, I maintain, are flowers, and beautiful flowers too, but not like those on far southern shores that can without hurt or harm stare the sun in the face. There is as much difference indeed between an English, Scottish, or Irish girl, and an Italian or Spanish as there is between the violets blue and the crimson flower of the cactus.

Our sunshine—our own _own_ sunshine—is best for _us_, unless our lungs and blood are weakened by the on-coming of ailments like the deadly and all too fatal disease we call phthisis.

Well, all my readers, even the youngest I hope have heard of the sunshine bath. It is a very old form of bathing indeed. It is said to have been invented by the Romans in their palmiest days, but it was used by Indians and Africans or Egyptians long long before Rome or Greece itself was very much of a country or kingdom. And they no doubt were but following the example set to them by the birds and beasts in forest and wildery.

The Romans before they became demoralised and effete had special baths in which they could revel in the sunshine. These were very luxurious, and splendidly draped apartments open only to the sky, in which one could sit or lounge uncovered save by garments of gauze, and where, with the head alone protected at times by a shade, one could benefit in a most especial way from direct sun-rays. We have none such in our day.

The strong need none such, and may best take the sunshine out of doors when it comes, not even troubling themselves to go in search of it.

But so convinced am I of the benefits of sunshine that I confidently advise girls—young or not quite so young—to court it, to enjoy it all they can, to sit or recline in it, to hang their hammocks in it, and with or without a sunshade to dream and revel, laugh and live in it, for verily, verily, to the delicate, summer sunshine is life itself.

Yes, and if it makes them drowsy when in their hammock, let them place the magazine they have been reading over brow and eyes and go to sleep in it.

But supposing the sun is not shining but the day is dry, well, you still have light. And a bath of diffused light is a bath of health. Don’t swing your hammocks under trees except in too bright sunshine. Only beetles and toadstools can flourish under a cedar or spruce.

But what I want you, reader, specially to remember, and I’ll be fearfully cross and grumpy if you do not remember it, is this: don’t take your sunshine bath in a window or even a verandah. This is altogether too one-sided an affair. The light or the sun-rays must be all around you. All around you too must circle the fresh air.

Reverting to the Romish bath: I must say that if we had at sunny seaside places institutions where we could enjoy such a thing nearly or quite unclothed, with the sky alone above us, it would be a really good thing, but following the example of the less endowed animals we see in fields and woods we shall benefit by being out in the sunshine simply lightly dressed. The sun can penetrate like Röntgen rays through and through our garments and bodies if we but expose ourselves thereto.

Mere animals, as we are all too fond of calling them, appear oftentimes to know what is good for them better than we do.

“Reason raise o’er instinct if we can, In this ’tis God directs,—in that ’tis man.”

When a favourite animal belonging to our domestic circle, such as a dog or cat, is weak because well-stricken in years, you may always notice that he courts the sunshine whenever he has a chance, and with it the fresh air.

A question which naturally enough often recurs to one is this: What is the difference between indoor heat and that obtained from the sunshine? Well, apart from the fact that sunshine, whether clearitically or otherwise, exerts a very powerful influence for good on the animal and vegetable creation, it has a hundred times more of penetrating force than that which comes from a fire or that which we find in a room heated by steam or hot water pipes. Moreover, the heat which is artificial is all too often decidedly one-sided, and many a most disagreeable cold has been caught on a chilly night from hugging the fire, by which one portion of the body is heated at the expense of the other. There is less oxygen to be breathed indoors, and a dangerous amount of carbonic acid and other deleterious gases.

Again, all nature shows us that sunshine and light permeate every tissue of the animal or vegetable structure, so that they may be considered synonymous with the term life itself.

And the purer the air we breathe when out of doors the greater the effect for good sunshine will have.

But if we are to benefit thoroughly by summer sunshine, we must be out every day and, if possible, at the self-same hours of the day.

Walking in moderation will be found far more advantageous to the delicate girl who would regain health than cycling. It must not be carried to the boundary line of fatigue, however. One should be just nicely pleasantly tired. Here, for instance, is a _régime_ that would suit many a lassie who had gone to some bracing delightful spot to live for the sixty or one hundred days of summer. She ought to adopt it from the very second day.

Having retired early on the previous evening from quiet but non-exciting employment, having neither talked nor laughed nor sung much for the two hours previous, let her pull the window down, have sufficient bed-clothing and a not too soft mattress, and easy yielding pillows. Let her go to bed, and having done so—think of nothing. If this plan is adopted sleep will soon waft her away to the beautiful Land of Nod, and if she is breathing pure air all night she will awake betimes, refreshed and as happy as the birds on the lawn. But this awaking betimes is a _sine quâ non_ of this health-giving _régime_, so if not sure of being called by seven o’clock, she ought to have an alarm.

The first thing on getting up is tonic, bracing, cold sponge-bath followed by a thorough towelling. She should not dawdle in dressing, but get out into the garden for a fifteen minutes’ walk as soon as possible. After a solid breakfast with not too much coffee or tea, the forenoon may be said to be fairly begun. And the whole of this should be spent out of doors in the sunshine or light. Even rain must not confine her to the house. If she could live in a tent entirely it would be better than a house. She ought to be back home to wash hands and face and rest a little, a good half-hour before the 1.30 dinner. Rest for half an hour after this. No wine or stimulant of any kind, and just enough solid food to satisfy the needs of nature. Soup is a mistake and so is cheese, and, as a rule, salad. Pudding is not to be eaten if there is the slightest inclination to _embonpoint_.

Fruit may be partaken of at any time so long as it is quite fresh and seasonable.

A little rest should be taken for say half an hour after dinner, then out again for pleasant exercise or non-exciting games. One cup of the very _best_ tea about five, and supper at seven. If sleepless and thin, a little food should be taken the very last thing, a biscuit or two with butter, and a large tumblerful of hot milk with sugar and flavouring to taste. Then meditation and bed.

Really and truly a summer spent thus in fresh air, sunshine, or light will cure seventy per cent. of all chronic ailments, quite bring back appetite and happiness to the dyspeptic and gloomy, and even eradicate the first seeds of consumption itself.

But one word in conclusion: if everything is not done day after day with method and regularity, if late hours be kept, or the evenings spent too excitedly, then you need expect but little benefit from even the summer sunshine. I hope to have a paper very soon on the “_Fresh Air Treatment of Consumption_.”

GRILLING AND DEVILLING.

BY DORA DE BLAQUIÈRE.

I have taken the trouble to look in the dictionary for the word “grill,” and I find it is derived from the French word “grille”—a grate or gridiron—and it means to broil on a grate or gridiron. But to-day, in point of fact, grilling is rarely performed in this manner, few people having the gridiron; and if not done in the oven, it is performed in an open frying-pan.

I have begun with this piece of information because some of my readers may say on seeing the word, “Oh, we can’t grill! We have no means of using a gridiron!” And as all devils must be grilled or fried quickly, without burning them in a hot oven, it is well to understand exactly what is meant. To my mind a frying-pan is better than an oven, because you can watch the process and see that the gravy does not waste. And the very first thing you have to guard against with an inexperienced or poor cook is her either wasting all the mixture for the gravy, or else her drying it up and burning the meat, or scorching the bones, and making them uneatable. The operation of grilling must be performed quickly, and needs the best attention of the operator.

Now I must tell you what I daresay you may already know, _i.e._, that all the great cooks, like Francatelli, give you a recipe for what they generally call “devil’s mixture”; and the following is the composition of that renowned master in the art of cooking. Mix well upon a plate a spoonful of either French or English mustard, a spoonful of Oude sauce or chutney, the same of anchovy, two spoonfuls of olive oil, and a little cayenne pepper. This should be used to cover whatever you are about to grill.

In the _Pytchley Cookery Book_, which is so celebrated, you will find two or three recipes for devil sauce. The first is the simplest. Warm and blend together a teaspoonful of mixed mustard, a tablespoonful of Worcestershire sauce, an ounce of glaze, an ounce of butter, a saltspoonful of cayenne pepper, one of salt, and a tablespoonful of chopped parsley. Mix, warm up, and rub the meat well with the mixture, serving it as gravy, should any remain after the broiling.

The second Pytchley recipe is intended to be poured over the meat when broiled. A tablespoonful of mustard, a teaspoonful of curry paste, a tablespoonful of Worcestershire sauce, two tablespoonfuls of mushroom ketchup, a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce, a teaspoonful of salt, the yolk of an egg, and half a pint of thick soup from the night before, if a thin soup. Then thicken it with some brown thickening, boil up, and pour over the broiled bones.

Thus, you see, there are really two methods of devilling; the one first-mentioned when you pour the sauce over the meat before broiling, and the second when you put it over afterwards, which really takes more the form of a gravy, though it is not intended to be too plentiful, nor to surround the devilled meat in the dish. For the first intention of devils is, that they should be dry, rather crisp, and savoury, not wet and soft in the slightest degree. This you must be pleased to remember if you would make them successfully, and one of your great difficulties will be to have the dish dry, yet not dried up, which is the test of a good devil.

What is known as Indian devil mixture is made as follows: To one tablespoonful each of vinegar, ketchup, and chutney paste, add an ounce of dissolved butter, a dessertspoonful of made mustard, salt, and a small cup of good gravy. Mix all together, and rub them into the meat either cooked or uncooked. Make all hot slowly together. They will take ten minutes to make hot. Serve in the dish in which you have cooked them.

This recipe is one which was left to the cooking world by Admiral Ross, and it is an excellent one, quickly and easily made. In all those I have given you will see that either mustard, mixed or unmixed, is made use of; but I myself dispense with it, as I like the mixture better without it for ordinary use.

What is known as a Cambridge devil was given to me long ago by a Fellow of St. John’s, and dates certainly from the very last days of the last century, or the early days of this one—which, if we all live long enough, will soon be spoken of as “the last century” too! This can be employed with any kind of meat, but I have chiefly used it with ham, and it is very excellent in helping to use up the remains of a ham, which is rather difficult to deal with when you do not turn it into potted ham, which is, perhaps, the most sensible way of all.

The rough and ready way of making a Cambridge devil is to take the mustard pot, and with the mustard spoon to smear over the slices of ham on one side as much mustard as you think you are likely to stand, and then to add some vinegar—perhaps two tablespoonfuls—just enough to make a thickened gravy with the mustard you have put in. You have first laid the slices of ham neatly on an old plate, or, at least, on one plate which you do not mind putting into a very hot oven, and when you have added the mustard and the vinegar, you must put the plate into a hot oven. When it gets very hot, take a fork and turn about the slices of ham until they be covered with vinegar, and the vinegar and the mustard have amalgamated in some measure, then put back into the oven, and let it brown well and frizzle up, and then serve in the same plate in which it has been cooked. But you should stand it, of course, on another one, so that it may not do any damage, nor burn people’s fingers.

I learned years ago a very nice and simple method of preparing slices of cold meat of any kind by rubbing them with curry powder and then frying them, or, better still, grilling. When you have cut the slices of meat (mutton, I think, for choice), pour some curry powder on a plate, and roll the slices in it; but if you do not like things very hot and fierce, then mix the curry powder with flour in the proportion of half and half, and this will make the dish more suitable for the family. I am inclined to think that all these dishes of an extremely savoury description are more suitable for the “grown-ups” than the smaller fry.

Cold meat may be also simply devilled by shaking over it a mixture of cayenne, black pepper, and salt, and sometimes a little French mustard is added at the last before the meat is made hot. I have also seen the above mixed with butter into a paste, the meat slightly scored, and the mixture rubbed into the scorings. Amongst the most delightful of breakfast dishes are those made of drumsticks of fowls, turkeys, or ducks. These should be scored lengthways, and the mixture inserted; then you should put on some tiny bits of butter (if you do not use oil) and grill.

Now I must enter on the very important subject of bones (I am sure it ought to have a capital B), grilled and devilled bones constituting one of those delicacies which are always associated with club suppers, or the midnight meals of celebrated eating-houses. In private houses, devilled bones are not so well known, nor so successful, perhaps, when done; and this is generally owing, as I have said before, to the carelessness or to the inexperience of cooks, who may never have been taught how to do them.

The bones most used for grilling and devilling are from the sirloin of beef, or the shoulder or leg of mutton. Of course, when we speak of “bones,” we do not mean that they are “bare bones”; they must of necessity have a certain amount of meat left upon them—that is to say, enough to be scored with a sharp knife, if to be devilled as well as grilled. If to be grilled only, and you be fortunate enough to have a gridiron, they need nothing but a little pepper and salt, and sometimes not even that.

The bones require a fierce, hot, and clear fire, and the epicure of grilled bones prefers that the meat should be black. If the fire be not fierce enough, you can make it more so by throwing a little fat upon it, either in the form of dripping, or of odd pieces of fat that may be cut off from the meat. This will make a sufficient blaze, and you will attain without trouble to the coveted degree of blackness, which really is more smoke and scorch than burn, and gives with the grease that kind of smoky taste to the grill that we enjoy so much with ham and any other smoked meats.

_Grilled Kippered Salmon._—Cut some dried salmon into small long pieces—about four inches long and two inches wide; broil them over a clear fire, then rub them over with fresh butter seasoned with lemon-juice and cayenne, and serve very hot.

_Grilled Cod Cutlets._—One ancient recipe for grilling will serve to explain the process, and will enable anyone to perform the operation without difficulty. The first thing to do is to dry the cutlets or anything else in a clean cloth, and then to brush them over lightly with fresh olive oil, place them on a hot gridiron, and grill for about ten minutes; turn them on both sides, and, when done, sprinkle with pepper and salt, squeeze lemon-juice over them, and serve very hot. This is the usual process, and everything—fish, mutton, beef, mushrooms, and chicken or turkey—can be done by it.

And now I hope that you will have quite comprehended from what I have written the difference between grilling and devilling, and can see that grills need not be devilled, but that devils must always be grilled. So I will finish up my subject by discoursing on the things to which you may apply the latter process, which are so many that you will find your list of breakfast and supper dishes greatly enlarged.

I hope you are not foolishly prejudiced against tinned foods, because they are very excellent if you do not try to purchase them cheaply, and always go to good and reliable shops for them. Thus the matter is in your own hands completely; and you have no one to blame but yourself if they turn out unsatisfactorily.

I hope you understand also that devils must not be black as grills are, and not be placed over a too hot fire; but must be well browned and frizzled. And while there are some people who like dry ones, there are other people who prefer that the devil mixture should be thickened round them like a rather thick gravy. In fact, this process rather repeats that of curry-making, as there are dry curries, wet curries, and very wet ones.

And now I shall finish with a few more available dishes, which are simple and easily made by any cook, whether good or bad, who can at least read a recipe and follow it.

_Devilled Lobster_ is one of the things that can be made with tinned lobster. You must first prepare a paste of salt, dry mustard, curry powder, black pepper, and salad oil. Spread it over the lobster, then melt an ounce of butter in a fire-proof dish, put in the fish, and heat it well through, browning the top. If you are using fresh lobster, it will require fully ten minutes in cooking.

Tinned salmon, or the remains of a tinned tongue, may be used in the same manner, and so may the Australian beef.

The remains of a cold roast duck are suitable for a most excellent devil. To make it you must remove the bones and cut the meat into rather small pieces, but not too small. (This is better made in a small enamelled saucepan.) Take a tablespoonful of dry mustard, a teaspoonful of salt, a little cayenne, and two tablespoonfuls of lemon-juice. Mix these ingredients gradually and very thoroughly together, and add two tablespoonfuls of butter melted, and two tablespoonfuls of water. When this gets hot, put in the pieces of duck and also a gill of some white wine—Sauterne—or even a light claret, or, if you do not like wine, use a gill of good stock instead. Place the saucepan over the fire and stir it carefully till smoking hot, then turn it on to a hot-water dish, if you have it, and serve as hot as possible.

Now, the next dish that occurs to me is devilled kidneys. For a large dish, twelve sheep’s kidneys will be required; but, of course, you must be guided by the number of people for whom you are catering. Cut the kidneys in half, remove the centres and white tubes, and then scald them, removing also the skin. Put two ounces of butter into an enamelled saucepan; and, when it is hot, throw in the kidneys and cook them quickly. Dust them over with salt and white pepper, and then pour over them a tablespoonful of onion juice, one of Worcestershire sauce, and four teaspoonfuls of light sherry. Serve smoking hot, and, if possible, in a hot-water dish, for I hope you understand that everything in this way must be served and kept hot while at table.

Sardines may be either grilled or devilled. If the former, scrape them free from skin and oil, and wipe them in a clean cloth. Oil a little butter and roll them in it, powder them with cayenne pepper and salt, and cover them with some finely-chopped parsley and chopped mushrooms. Wrap each sardine in oiled paper, and put in the oven till hot; and serve in the same papers in which they were cooked without unfolding them, and lay each on a slice of toast.

_Devilled Sardines_ are done in quite the same way. To begin with, they are scraped and wiped, and rolled in a mixture of mustard, Worcestershire sauce, anchovy sauce (be sure to shake both the bottles), and four tablespoonfuls of melted butter, and lay each on a slice of toast in the oven, and serve very hot. It should not take more than five minutes to cook them in a very quick oven.

Eggs devilled with anchovy toast is another good supper dish. You must first put a little butter in the frying-pan, and afterwards a mixture of half a teaspoonful of dry mustard, two tablespoonfuls of tomato sauce, one of Worcester sauce, and one of mushroom ketchup. Put into this four hard-boiled eggs, sliced, salted and peppered, and when heated through, place the egg on toasts which you have previously spread with anchovy paste.

In conclusion, I will say that I find Worcester sauce my greatest reliance in devilling bones, in making that thoroughly delightful dish—a devilled shoulder-bone of either mutton or lamb, or, indeed, where anything in the way of meat is concerned. I do not shake the bottle; but that is a matter of individual taste. I have tried Harvey sauce, which also answers; but we at home prefer the former.

Tomato sauce is very excellent for some things—like pork—and is also good with veal; but you cannot mix other sauces with it. And, unless very very sour, I would counsel you to avoid the sugar so freely recommended in most books on cookery.

And I had nearly omitted to mention a very important item, viz., devilled biscuits, which are so much enjoyed by many people. These are done either dry or buttered. What are called American toast biscuits, or soda biscuits in America, are the nicest; but they need a light hand, as they break easily. Dip them twice into warm water, then pepper them with cayenne pepper, and bake till quite crisp in a slow oven. Serve hot in a toast-rack.

In the other way, you must knead together an ounce and a half of butter, a saltspoonful of cayenne, and a saltspoonful of flour of mustard. Dip the biscuits twice into warm milk, spread them with the mixture, and bake in a slow oven till crisp. Serve very hot.

VARIETIES.

LOTTERIES IN GREAT BRITAIN.

In the close of last century and the beginning of this the lottery system prevailed in Great Britain to a surprising extent. From 1785 to 1823 there was a Lottery Act every year which brought in the State over a quarter of a million a year.

Independent of the State lotteries there were lotteries for houses and lands, jewels and plate, merchandise and ships, and even advowsons and presentations. Tailors advertised their business by means of lotteries; so did hatters and glovers. Even the bootblacks gave away coupons, entitling their customers to a share in lotteries. A plate of meat at an eating house gave the purchaser a chance of sixty guineas. Threepennyworth of oysters included a ticket in a five guinea lottery. Even a sausage stall had a lottery attached, offering the chance of a five shilling prize to every one who ate a farthing’s worth of sausages.

The whole system—and a demoralising one it was—had an end put to it by the Lottery Act of 1823.

THE WEDDING-RING FINGER.—The origin of wearing the wedding-ring upon the fourth finger of the left hand has been much disputed even from very ancient times. A Latin writer of the fifth century gives the following matter-of-fact reason. The fourth finger was chosen, he says, “as being least used of any, as being guarded on either side, and having in most this peculiar feature, that it cannot be extended alone and by itself, but will in all its movements be accompanied by some finger placed on either side.”

THEY DID NOT GET HIS FORTUNE.

One of the great benefactors of the City of Bristol in bygone days was Mr. John Whitson, a merchant of that place, who by his life afforded a pleasing example of the success which in general accompanies diligence and honesty.

The following anecdote told of him is worth repeating:—

As he was one day busy in his office he overheard his nephews talking loudly in another room, and found the subject of their discourse turn upon himself and the great fortune they would inherit at his death. They declared they would spend it like men of fashion, in pleasurable and expensive pursuits.

The good old gentleman upon this burst in upon them, and with honest indignation said that since he had heard from their own mouths their resolution with respect to his fortune, they should now hear his. He had long been a witness, he told them, of the abandoned course of life into which they were plunging themselves, and had often remonstrated to no purpose against it. They now stood self-convicted, and to prevent the infamy which they might entail upon him, themselves and the public by such irregular excesses, he was resolved to put it entirely out of their power.

He accordingly made his will immediately afterwards, and after the death of his wife left the whole of his money to charitable purposes.

COURAGE.

If courage is gone, then all is gone! ’Twere better that thou hadst never been born.

_Goethe._

AN INDIAN SONG OF WELCOME.

When Lord Reay was governor of Bombay a few years ago, in the course of a tour he visited the native state of Morvi.

Amongst other institutions shown to his Excellency was the telephone exchange, which connects various public buildings as well as the towns lying round about. Here the Thokore Saheb had a microphone attachment so arranged that from a school fourteen miles off some of the scholars sang a song specially composed for the occasion by the chief judge of the state.

The words of the song were as follows:—

“Reay, the lord, our Governor good, Eternal be your fame; First-class State of Morvi made, Increased thus far its name; Visit now our capital town, With condescension kind, And view Sir Waghji’s works of art, Which surely please your mind. Tram, telegraph, railway choice, And many another thing, To your Excellency’s ears Telephone by which we sing.”

CALCULATING HER AGE.

An indiscreet young man once asked a lady her age.

“Wait till I count,” she replied. “I married at eighteen, my husband was then thirty. Now he is twice that—then I must be thirty-six.”

“Is it possible,” ejaculated the other, amazed at this method of feminine computation. “Well, I should never have expected it.”

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HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS.

BY Mrs. FRANK W. W. TOPHAM, Author of “The Alibi,” “The Fateful Number,” etc.