CHAPTER I.

The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the large bay window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was a tall, thin man, with a close shaven face, which had no beauty of feature, but which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not an old face, but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved him best could tell the history and meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep vertical mark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped there for ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been brought back, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forth but an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood, in his white boating flannels. The Vicar's brow had been smooth enough before that day; the furrow was graven to the memory of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of fatherhood. The network of little lines about the eyes were caused by the hundred and one little worries of every-day life, and the strain of working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many a slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters one by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to the nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpled up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all was reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low whistle of surprise--

"Edith! This is from Mrs. Saville. Just look at this!"

Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end of the room; a wicker-work basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy table, and the Vicar's wife walked hurriedly towards him, rolling half-a-dozen reels of thread in her wake, with an air of fine indifference.

"Mrs. Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and without waiting for an answer she seized the letter and began to devour its contents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor picking up the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully back in their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, and kept turning amused, tender, little glances at his wife as she stood in the uncarpeted space in the window, with the sunshine pouring in on her eager face. Mrs. Asplin had been married for twenty years and was the mother of three big children, but such was the buoyancy of her Irish nature and the irrepressible cheeriness of her heart, that she was in good truth the very youngest person in the house, so that her own daughters were sometimes quite shocked at her levity of behaviour, and treated her with gentle, motherly restraint. She was tall and thin like her husband, and he, at least, considered her every whit as beautiful as she had been a score of years before. Her hair was dark and curly; she had deep-set grey eyes and a pretty fresh complexion. When she was well and rushing about in her usual breathless fashion, she looked like the sister of her own tall girls; and when she was ill, and the dark lines showed under her eyes, she looked like a tired, wearied girl, but never for a moment as if she deserved such a title as an old or elderly woman. Now, as she read, her eyes glowed, and she uttered ecstatic little exclamations of triumph from time to time, for Arthur Saville, the son of the lady who was the writer of the letter, had been the first pupil whom her husband had taken into his house to coach, and as such had a special claim on her affection. For the first dozen years of their marriage all had gone smoothly and well with Mr. and Mrs. Asplin, and the vicar had had more work than he could manage in his busy city parish; then, alas, lung trouble had threatened; he had been obliged to take a year's rest, and to exchange his living for a sleepy little parish, where he could breathe fresh air, and take life at a slower pace. Illness, the doctor's bills, the year's holiday, ran away with a large sum of money; the stipend of the country church was by no means generous, and the vicar was lamenting the fact that he was shortest of money just when his children were growing up and he needed it most, when an old college friend, Major Saville, requested, as a favour, that he would undertake the education of his only son, for a year at least, so that he might be well grounded in his studies before going on to the military tutor who was to prepare him for Sandhurst. Handsome terms were quoted, the vicar looked upon the offer as a leading of Providence, and Arthur Saville's stay at the Rectory proved a success in every sense of the word. He was a clever boy who was not afraid of work, and the vicar discovered in himself an unsuspected genius for teaching. Arthur's progress not only filled him with delight, but brought the offer of other pupils, so that he was but the forerunner of a succession of bright, handsome boys, who came from far and wide to be prepared for college, and to make their home at the vicarage. They were honest, healthy-minded lads, and Mrs. Asplin loved them all, but no one had ever taken Arthur Saville's place. During the year which he had spent under her roof he had broken his collar bone, sprained his ankle, nearly chopped off the top of one of his fingers, scalded his foot, and fallen crash through a plate-glass window. There had never been one moment's peace or quietness; she had gone about from morning to night in chronic fear of a disaster; and, as a matter of course, it followed that Arthur was her darling, ensconced in a little niche of his own, from which subsequent pupils tried in vain to oust him.

Mrs. Saville dwelt upon the latest successes of her clever son with a mother's pride, and his second mother beamed and smiled and cried, "I told you so!" "Dear boy!" "Of course he did!" in delighted echo. But when she came to the second half of the letter her face changed, and she grew grave and anxious. "And now, dear Mr. Asplin," Mrs. Saville wrote, "I come to the real burden of my letter. I return to India in autumn, and am most anxious to see Peggy happily settled before I leave. She has been at this Brighton school for four years, and has done well with her lessons, but the poor child seems so unhappy at the thought of returning, that I am sorely troubled about her. Like most Indian children, she has had very little home life, and after being with me for the last six months, she dreads the prospect of school, and I cannot bear the thought of sending her back against her will. I was puzzling over the question yesterday, when it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps you, dear Mr. Asplin, could help me out of my difficulty. Could you--would you, take her in hand for the next three years, letting her share the lessons of your own two girls? I cannot tell you what a relief and joy it would be to feel that she was under your care. Arthur always looks back on the year spent with you as one of the brightest of his life; and I am sure Peggy would be equally happy. I write to you from force of habit, but really I think this letter should have been addressed to Mrs. Asplin, for it is she who would be most concerned. I know her heart is large enough to mother my dear girl during my absence, and if strength and time will allow her to undertake this fresh charge, I think she will be glad to help another mother by doing so. Peggy is bright and clever like her brother, and strong on the whole, though her throat needs care. She is nearly fifteen--the age, I think, of your youngest girl, and we should be pleased to pay the same terms as we did for Arthur. Now, please, dear Mr. Asplin, talk the matter over with your wife, and let me know your decision as soon as possible."

Mrs. Asplin dropped the letter on the floor and turned to confront her husband.

"Well!"

"Well?"

"It is your affair, dear, not mine. You would have the trouble. Could you do with an extra child in the house?"

"Yes, yes, so far as that goes. The more the merrier. I should like to help Arthur's mother, but----" Mrs. Asplin leant her head on one side, and put on what her children described as her "ways and means" expression. She was saying to herself, clear out the box room over the study. Spare chest of drawers from dressing-room--cover a box with one of the old chintz curtains for an ottoman--enamel the old blue furniture--new carpet and bedstead, say five or six pounds outlay--yes! I think I could make it pretty for five pounds. The calculations lasted for about two minutes, at the end of which time her brow cleared, she nodded brightly, and said in a crisp, decisive tone, "Yes, we will take her. Arthur's throat was delicate too. She must use my gargle."

The vicar laughed softly.

"Ah! I thought that would decide it. I knew your soft heart would not be able to resist the thought of that delicate throat! Well, dear, if you are willing, so am I. I am glad to make hay while the sun shines, and lay by a little provision for the children. How will they take it, do you think? They are accustomed to strange boys, but a girl will be a new experience. She will come at once, I suppose, and settle down to work for the autumn. Dear me! dear me? It is the unexpected that happens. I hope she is a nice child."

"Of course she is. She is Arthur's sister. Come! the young folks are in the study. Let us go and tell them the news. I have always said it was my ambition to have half-a-dozen children, and now, at last, it is going to be gratified."

Mrs. Asplin thrust her hand through her husband's arm, and led him out of the room, down the wide flagged hall, towards the distant room whence the sound of merry young voices fell pleasantly on the ear.

(_To be continued._)

SOLUTION.

PREPOSITIONS.

A preposition is a word Which other words with nouns relates, And as its name denotes is heard Before the noun it dominates.

The noun, poor thing, objects in case, And this may partly be because It much dislikes the minor place Assigned to it by grammar's laws.

But if you take away its noun, The preposition's altered quite, Into an adverb has it grown Which puts things in a diff'rent light.

For now this lordly part of speech Which erstwhile governed, needs must be Slave to a verb, and this should teach A lesson in humility.

PRIZE WINNERS

_Ten Shillings Each._

Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire. Isabel Borrow, 219, Evering Road, Upper Clapton. M. A. C. Crabb, c/o Miss May, 10, Beaufort East, Bath. Edmund T. Loader, 5, Richmond Terrace, Brighton. Nellie Meikle, 2, Newsham Drive, Liverpool. M. Theodora Moxom, Hillside, Ilfracombe. Hilda Pickering, 42, Linnæus Street, Hull. Elizabeth Yarwood, 59, Beech Road, Cale Green, Stockport.

_Five Shillings Each._

Eliza Acworth, 9, Blenheim Mount, Bradford. Nannette Bewley, 40, Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin. M. S. Bourne, 14, The Broadway, Bromley, Kent. Ellen H. Kemp, Haughley Vicarage, Suffolk. Ethel C. McMaster, 23, Ross Road, Wallington, Surrey. Mabel Wheeler, Holmesdale, Winkfield, Windsor.

_Very Highly Commended._

Rev. S. Bell, E. Blunt, J. A. Center, Edith Collins, R. D. Davis, E. M. Le Mottee, Jas. S. Middleton, Alice M. Motum, H. W. Musgrave, J. D. Musgrave, Mrs. Nicholls, Gertrude Smith, Ellen C. Tarrant, Violet C. Todd, Horace Williams.

_Highly Commended._

Guy Baily, Elizabeth A. Collins, Eva Gammage, Mrs. A. D. Harris, Edward St. G. Hodson, Edith L. Howse, Annie G. Luck, May Merrall, F. Miller, Margaret G. Oliver, E. Phillips, M. G. Phillips, Alice M. Seaman, Katie Whitmore.

_Honourable Mention._

Mrs. Adkins, Muriel V. Angel, Mrs. Astbury, Mrs. L. Bishop, M. Bolingbroke, Louie Bull, Helen M. Coulthard, Constance Daphne, B. Duret, Annie K. Edwards, C. M. A. Fitzgerald, Edith E. Grundy, Edith M. Higgs, S. D. Honeyburne, J. Hunt, Ethel L. Jollye, Edith B. Jowett, Carlina V. M. Leggett, Mrs. R. Mason, Wm. E. Parker, A. A. L. Shave, Helen Singleton, Clara Souter, W. Fitzjames White, Emily Wilkinson, Henry Wilkinson, Amy G. Wiltshire, Emily C. Woodward, Diana C. Yeo, Sophia Yeo.

EXAMINERS' REPORT.

The general opinion seems to be that "Prepositions" was a very difficult puzzle. It was certainly unpopular, judging by the number of solutions sent in, but we were inclined to think that this was accounted for by the subject. Who wants to learn anything about prepositions in the middle of summer, and who would be so extremely foolish as to spend any of the precious--not to say "honied"--hours over a grammatical puzzle? In the summer of 1897 about fifteen hundred individuals tried to unravel a page full of curious suppositions. But then suppositions are always dear to the girl mind, while prepositions seldom are, because they pertain to a science which the girl mind (as a rule) little understands. So the subject repelled, and as the difficulty also repelled, we begin to be surprised that there were any solutions at all.

With these unpopular features to contend with, it was particularly unfortunate that the puzzle should have been marred by two serious mistakes. In line 11 no amount of solving ingenuity could convert gr divided by rown into "grown," though a shrewd guess helped nearly all the solvers to the right word. In line 15 the minus sign should have been the sign of division, giving hold divided by u. The point of this mistake was not so widely apprehended, and no wonder.

Of the rest of the puzzle little need be said. Probably the ninth line was the most obscure, and it needed a truly expert solver to discover that _lake_ plus a short line (inserted in the right place) becomes _take_. The _waits_ were now and then taken for a German band, giving the quaint reading, "But if you take a German noun." Obviously, the alteration that an English preposition would undergo if tacked on to a German noun would be extremely serious, though the precise nature of it would not be easy to define. Many solvers failed to notice that an e was left out of different in line 12. The word was intended to be so written, with of course the addition of an apostrophe, because of the rhythm.

We must not fail to thank M. T. M. for her exceedingly kind and encouraging letter. Referring to our puzzles generally she writes: "I am an invalid, and the diversion of thought and interest is very welcome to me." It is indeed good for us to know that even our more frivolous efforts can be so helpful, and no form of commendation could give us more sincere pleasure.

We append our foreign award on Fluctuations. It is rather late, but we have been anxious to include solutions from the remotest parts of the world. One comes to us from Coomooboolaroo, wherever that may be, and the author mildly suggests that she is afraid her solutions do not arrive in time as she has never had honourable mention. Now that we allow a reasonable extension of time, we hope the writer will continue to solve, for if THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER can reach even a place with eight o_s_ in it so can a Puzzle Poem Prize.

It is very odd, but a puzzle which is popular at home is certain also to be popular abroad.

FOREIGN AWARD.

FLUCTUATIONS.

_Prize Winners (Seven Shillings Each)._

Charles Glasgow, 6A, Sleater Road, Tardeo, Bombay. Clara and Edith Hardy, Finch Street, East Malvern, Victoria, Australia. Ada F. Sykes, 1, Grant's Lane, Calcutta.

_Very Highly Commended._

Ivie D. Ashton, Gertrude Burden (Australia), Ethel Danford (Canada), Lillian Dobson (Australia), Aveline Gall (Demerara), Maggie Glasgow, Mrs. Hardy (Australia), Mrs. Manners, Maud C. Ogilvie (India).

_Highly Commended._

Evalyn Austin (Australia), M. C. C. (Ceylon), Mrs. F. Christian, Lily Harman, Harry John (India), Philippa M. Kemlo (Cape Colony), Elizabeth Lang (France), Frances A. L. Macharg (S. Africa), Grace Rhodes (Australia), Frances E. Scott (Austria), Mrs. Sprigg, Mrs. F. H. le Sueur (Cape Colony), A. G. Taylor (Australia), Dora M. C. Webbe (New York).

_Honourable Mention._

Mrs. G. Barnard (Australia), Annie Barrow (Switzerland), Winifred Bizzey (Canada), Mabel E. Broughton (Australia), Marcelle Crasenster (Belgium), Elsie V. Davies, Barton Egan (Australia), Hattie L. Elliot (Canada), Lena Gahan (Burma), Ethel L. Glendenning (New Zealand), Dora von Grabmayr (Austria), Agnes Henderson (S. Africa), Violet Hewett (Canada), A. Hood (France), Annie Jackson, Mabel C. King (Canada), Blanche Kirkup (Russia), Mina J. Knop (India), Percival Laker (Australia), Mrs. J. R. Lee (Burma), Annie Leipoldt (S. Africa), Mrs. G. Marrett (India), Gertrude E. Moore, Amy F. Moore-Jones (New Zealand), Annie Orbiston (Australia), E. Nina Reid (New Zealand), Hilda D'Rozario (India), A. Shannon (Australia), Laura O'Suleivan (Burma), J. S. Summers (India), Gladys Wilding (New Zealand), Elsie M. Wylie (New Zealand).

TAME VOLES.

One day last August, when strolling in a secluded part of my garden, I was surprised to see some little brown mice playing about and racing after each other without at all regarding my presence.

I stood and watched these playful gambols, and soon discovered that the little animals were short-tailed field-mice, or voles, as I believe they ought to be called. Some differences in structure separate the voles from the true mice and rats; they also differ in their food, the voles being almost entirely vegetable feeders.

The water-rat, so called, is a vole and a perfectly harmless little animal. I often endeavour to explain this fact to farmers and working-men, who seem to think they have done something meritorious when they have hunted to death one of these voles, whose harmless diet consists chiefly of duckweed, flag, rushes, and other water-plants; but, unfortunately, it looks like a land rat, and so it has to suffer for the evil reputation of its relative.

There are two small voles, the red field-vole and this commoner short-tailed species which inhabits my garden.

I had often wished to catch and keep these little animals as pets for purposes of study; and, finding some specimens already so tame, I began to entice them to come to a special place under a stone archway by daily strewing at exactly the same spot some oatmeal and canary seed.

Very soon the tiny creatures would allow me to stand and watch them feeding, and I drew nearer and nearer until I could almost touch them.

I then put a mouse-cage under the arch in the hope that they might accept it as a home and thus be led into voluntary captivity. This new idea met with a measure of approval, for one little vole scooped out a small cavity beneath the cage and appeared to make itself quite at home there, even allowing me to lift up the cage without moving, gazing curiously at me with its small black eyes.

This went on from August until October. The voles and I grew to be quite good friends; but, as the colder weather would soon be hindering my daily visits, our friendship would have to cease unless I could bring my small pets indoors.

It struck me that they might be coaxed into captivity by another device. I placed a glass globe under the arch, containing their favourite food, and a piece of wood leaning against the globe to enable the mice to climb up and leap in.

When I went next morning there was a little vole inside the globe and by no means frightened, for it allowed me to stroke its soft fur without alarm.

I have had great pleasure in watching the graceful attitudes of this small creature. It sits up like a squirrel holding a grain of wheat in its paws; then, its meal over, it thoroughly cleans its fur, brushes its whiskers, and performs a careful toilet before going to sleep, curled up in a lump of cotton wool and moss.

My ultimate aim being to obtain some baby voles to be trained into absolute tameness, I set to work to secure a mate, and placed the globe as before, baited with tempting food.

In a few days' time I caught a second vole, and now Darby and Joan live happily together in a square glass case where they have room for exercise and where I can see and record their doings.

All this may seem to some readers exceedingly trivial and not worth writing about; but, seeing that we cannot be all day out-of-doors making observations about these and other subjects of study, there seems some use in keeping creatures in happy captivity, because one can thus become ultimately acquainted with them and learn many facts about their life and habits which would otherwise be difficult or impossible to observe.

I am now testing their liking for various plants, and after a time I may be able to make a list of the weeds they consume which may possibly be a set-off to the damage they do in other directions.

Voles have an acute sense of smell, as I learn in this way. The little pair may be sound asleep in their bed of moss and wool, but I no sooner place an earthy root of groundsel or chickweed in their glass case than I see an inquisitive nose at the entrance of the dormitory sniffing the air, and in another minute out comes mousie to enjoy the feast of fresh greenery.

The winter passed by uneventfully, until on the morning of January 26th I heard quite loud growls and squeaks proceeding from the voles' residence.

The cotton-wool quivered and was upheaved by unseen forces. Something serious must evidently be going on, so I cautiously interfered.

In lifting the woollen mass I disturbed four little sprawling infants of a bright pink colour and no particular shape! They were, of course, speedily replaced, and I could well understand the state of affairs.

The father mouse must be removed somehow as he was evidently in the way and quite upsetting the nursery arrangements, but how I was to tell which was which was a real puzzle.

I thought I would try to learn a lesson from the wise king of old and see whether maternal love would not prove a sure test. I thought I would allow the vole that first returned to the nest to remain and place the other in a separate globe.

The plan was successful, for the mother mouse went back to the nest at once and set to work to repair the dwelling which I had somewhat disarranged.

The young voles were by no means beautiful. Bright red in colour, the thin hairless, almost transparent, skin allowed one to see the beating of the heart and its circulation very plainly.

The head was nearly half the length of the body, and the eyes were, of course, closely shut, yet, feeble though they were, when only two days old the small creatures were full of life, and resented being touched by giving angry little kicks and plunges. Indeed, I never knew any family so forward.

I purposely stroked and handled the four small mites daily so that they might grow up to be perfectly tame from their babyhood. In doing this I noted one or two rather curious traits of instinct.

Whilst still quite blind, the young voles, if placed on a table, would invariably creep backwards and continue a retrograde movement, until at last they would have fallen over the edge of the table if I had allowed them to do so.

I imagine nature teaches this evolution so that, in their native burrow, these defenceless weak young creatures may invariably retreat as far back as possible out of the reach of danger.

About ten days later, whilst I was holding one of the young voles in my hand in order to take its portrait, it surprised me by sitting up and beginning to clean its fur and whiskers as carefully and neatly as if it had been a cat by the fireside, even licking each little paw in succession until its toilet was complete. The creature was only thirteen days old and still quite blind, so it shows how soon instinct teaches the important lesson of cleanliness.

On the morning of the fourteenth day the little mice could see and became quite enterprising, nibbling lettuce leaves and oatmeal and roaming about their small domain. A little later on they could feed themselves, and I believe I ought then to have taken away the hard-worked little mother, for I imagine family cares and worries must have accounted for my finding poor Joan had died on the very day when I purposed letting her and her mate have their liberty.

I set Darby free in his old home under the archway, where no doubt he will soon find another mate, and I shall probably discover by their depredations in my garden that he has reared strong and healthy families to prey upon my cherished plants and trees.

At present the young voles are by no means tame, and still indulge in kicking, squeaking, and scratching if I attempt to stroke them, but I have learnt a good deal about their domestic life and derived a great deal of amusement from my experiment in vole-rearing.

ELIZA BRIGHTWEN.

"OUR HERO."

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.