CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE YEAR 1807.

More than eighteen months had slid away since the day when Denham Ivor had been summarily despatched with other détenus to Valenciennes. Once or twice a letter from him had reached the Barons, but it was now long since the arrival of the last. Whether Denham remained yet at Valenciennes was a matter of supposition, not of certainty. For aught that his friends knew to the contrary, he might have been passed on to the grim fortress, Bitche, to Sédan, or elsewhere.

Roy continued to live at Verdun with his parents, for the long-desired passport to England had never been granted. Though not compelled to give his parole, or to sign his name twice daily at the _maison de ville_, as were all détenus who did not care to pay a monthly tax for freedom from this bugbear, he was practically as much one of Napoleon’s prisoners as any man in the place.

One day in the spring of 1807 he stood upon the ramparts, gazing eagerly towards the nearest town gate. Roy at sixteen was much the same that Roy at twelve or fourteen had been, only decidedly taller and broader. He looked almost as boyish as ever, with the same curly fair hair and honest grey eyes. Not so good-looking, perhaps, as in more childish days, but attractive enough.

To some extent habit does and must mean use. Four years out of a boy’s life are a goodly slice of time, and Roy had now been four years a captive, banished from England, and separated from his twin-sister. He might and often did chafe and fume, and it had been a sore disappointment not to find himself on his sixteenth birthday an officer in the English Army. Still, he had good health and unquenchable spirits, and however impatient he might be by fits and starts, no one could have described him as unhappy. He had the gift of making the best of things; and a certain breezy spirit of philosophy stood him in good stead. Hard as it had been to find himself cut off from Molly for an indefinite period, harder still to lose Denham, he managed on the whole to enjoy life, finding entertainment in everything and everybody.

“I say. Hallo! There’s something going on,” he exclaimed.

Roy gazed with widely-opened eyes, trying to make out the cause of that gathering throng.

Colonel Baron had gone into a neighbouring street on business, telling Roy that he would meet him presently on the ramparts. Roy supposed that he would be expected to remain where he was till his father should return. But as he watched, the pull became too strong. Something certainly was happening. What if Colonel Baron had forgotten all about him, and had gone in that direction to discover what was being done?

Roy could endure himself no longer. He descended to the ground, set off full tilt, and speedily reached the outskirts of the crowd, running plump against the Rev. Charles Kinsland, who received the onslaught with a “Hallo, Roy!”

“I beg your pardon, sir. What’s up?”

“A party of détenus back from Valenciennes, I believe,” the young clergyman answered. “There was a report this morning that we might expect them; and it seems to be true. Any friends of yours, I wonder? There they come through the gate.”

Both pressed on, but Roy made the quicker advance, edging himself among the crowd with great dexterity. The thought of Ivor had come up like a flash of lightning. Not that he expected to see Denham himself--the chance was too remote, the delight would be too supreme--but that some news of him might now be obtained. Somebody who had arrived would certainly have seen him, have talked with him. Roy might keep up his spirits and enjoy life, despite partings and deprivations; but no one who could have known how the boy’s heart leaped at the very idea of a word about Ivor, would ever have accused him of lack of feeling.

He forced his way to a good position near the gate, and scanned face after face of the returned wanderers. Many were familiar; but it was one, not many, that Roy wanted; and though he had assured himself that he did not expect, yet keen disappointment laid hold upon him when Ivor failed to appear.

Greetings between friends parted for eighteen months passed warmly, and the buzz of voices was considerable. Suddenly his glance fell upon a man standing somewhat apart, leaning against a wall. A little child lay asleep in his arms, and Roy’s first impression was of somebody who was awfully tired with the march. He actually gazed full at the face without recognition, so much was it altered; the features sharpened into a delicate carving in very pale bronze, like a profile on some rare old coin, and the dark eyes set in hollows. “Poor fellow; he does look done!” thought Roy, and he went nearer.

“I say--hadn’t you better give me that little thing to hold?”

“Why--Roy!”

The voice too had a worn-out intonation, but the smile was not to be mistaken.

“Den--you don’t mean to say----”

Their hands met in a prolonged grip.

“You’ve come back! I _am_ glad!”

“Yes. How are you all?”

“Den--I say--what’s wrong with you?”

A man came limping up, in appearance a respectable artisan. He took the child from Ivor’s arms.

“No words can thank you, sir, for your goodness to us,” he said, not noticing Roy. “God will reward you. _I_ never can.”

“I shall be at Colonel Baron’s. Come and see me some day--tell me how you’re getting on.”

“I will, sir. Thank you kindly.”

Ivor remained in the same position, and a hand touched Roy. He turned, to find himself facing the young artist, Hugh Curtis.

“You back too! That’s good. And your wife?”

“Wife and baby coming. Didn’t you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They’re in a cart with others--thanks to Captain Ivor”--in a lower tone. “Never mind about us; get him home”--with a glance towards Denham. “I’ve got to find rooms for ourselves, after I’ve been to the citadel. Must report myself there first, I’m told. And then I shall have to meet my wife.”

Roy moved two or three paces away with him.

“I say, tell me--what’s been the matter with him? He looks as if----”

“Not well for some time, and sharp attack of illness a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey--a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!”

“What for?”

“Child’s father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he’s about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest.”

Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham’s arm.

“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back. There’s one near.”

He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search.

Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.

“Roy--got Ivor? That’s right,” he said in his quick fashion. “Don’t bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and answer for him, and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard what’s been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I’m told, and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a bit of my mind, Ivor, another day. You don’t look up to understanding it now.”

Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they drove off, Roy watching his restored friend with a rapt gaze.

“Den, what was it for? Why didn’t you ride?”

“I did intend. Somebody else was in more need.”

“Couldn’t you have had a second horse?”

“No. The order took everyone by surprise. Most of us were short of cash.”

Roy thought of what Curtis had said. “And I suppose you gave what you had to everybody else, and kept none for yourself.”

“I shared with others--of course--”

“But you ought to have kept enough for riding. You’d no business--Den, you’re awfully used-up.”

“When did you hear from me last?”

“Oh, ages and ages ago. I began to think--Are you glad to come back?”

“To my friend, Roy? Yes,” with an affectionate glance.

“Isn’t it a beastly shame that I can’t be in the Army yet?”

“Ah, that sounds like the Roy of old!”

“But it is. A beastly shame. What made you carry that little girl?”

“Her father fell lame, and she didn’t take to other people, I could not stand the wailing. He’s a good honest fellow--badly off through no fault of his own.”

“Shame!” muttered Roy again. “What is the reason for your all being sent back now, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Ivor seemed incapable of starting remarks himself; and Roy, realising his condition, sank into silence, unable still to take his eyes from that worn face. They reached the house, and he sprang down. “Shall I go and tell them?”

“No--no need. I’ll come. Can you pay the driver? I’m cleared out completely.”

In the salon upstairs were Colonel and Mrs. Baron, and with them was Lucille, as was often now her custom. She had gradually become almost a member of the Baron family, and one and all they were extremely fond of her. When Roy flung the door open, and marched triumphantly in, his arm through Ivor’s, one startled “Ah-h!” broke from her, before the other two had grasped what was happening; and then her face, usually almost without colour, became crimson. Her eyes shone, the lips remaining apart.

“Denham!” the Colonel and his wife exclaimed.

Colonel Baron’s grasp of Ivor’s hand and his fixed gaze were like those of Roy. Mrs. Baron’s delight was even more plainly expressed. She had long been as an elder sister to Denham, and when he bent to kiss her hand, with the grave deference which he always showed towards her, she did what she had never done before--gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek.

“This is joy! O this is joy,” she said. “Nothing else could be so great a happiness--except going home. Welcome, welcome!” Then she held his hand, with eyes full of tears searching his face. “But, my dear Denham, you have been ill--surely you have been ill. How thin!--how altered! What have you been doing to yourself?”

“He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes,” cried Roy, before Denham could speak. “He was to have ridden, and he gave up the horse to somebody else.”

“Was that necessary?” the Colonel asked.

“I thought it so, sir.”

“Papa, he had no money left. That was why. He gave it all away. He couldn’t even pay the driver, coming up here.”

“But you could have borrowed from somebody--you would know that I should repay!”

“If I could have been sure, sir, that you would still be here--but there was no certainty. And so many now are in difficulties, that it is no easy matter to borrow--except by going to those whom I will have nothing to do with.”

“How did you manage about food? My dear, make him sit down. How did you manage?”

The question was disregarded. “Any letters?” Ivor asked.

“One from Mrs. Fairbank a few weeks since. That is all. Good accounts of Polly and Molly. Have you not heard from them?”

“Not since leaving Verdun.”

“They may not have heard of your going to Valenciennes. Did you see a statement in the _Moniteur_ not long since, as to correspondence with England? To the effect that more than a hundred thousand letters had been taken possession of by the French Government, and bills to the value of millions of pounds sterling.”

“No wonder we détenus are not flush of cash! No, I did not see it. That may have been when I was ill.”

“You have been ill, then?”

“Yes. Nothing to signify. How did Mrs. Fairbank’s letter reach you? Post?”

“Through M. de Marchand--under cover to him. We have advised her repeatedly to try again that mode, since it seems the most hopeful. But doubtless our letters don’t reach them.”

Lucille, after exchanging a warm English handshake with Denham, had held back, waiting her opportunity to slip away. She glided now towards the door, unseen by Ivor, who was gazing thoughtfully on the ground. Roy ran to open it, and she said softly as she went out, “Do not be merciless to your friend. Give him some small repose. He is what you call--dead-beat.”

Roy nodded. “You always did seem to see exactly how Den was, didn’t you?”

Lucille made her escape promptly, with heightening colour, and Ivor asked, “Where is the letter?”

“Roy has it, put away,” Mrs. Baron said. “It is partly to Roy and partly to my husband. But you need food and sleep before anything else.”

“Nay, if you knew how we have travelled and slept at night, you would allow the more pressing need to be for a bath and a change of clothing,” Ivor said, rather drily. “Well, since you can assure me that ’tis all good news, I will wait half-an-hour.”

“And then I’ll read it to you, if you like,” observed Roy. “It isn’t very interesting, Den. More than half is from my grandmother to my father; and you know how she writes always of the things which nobody wishes to near. And the rest is from Molly to me. But as for Polly, my grandmother does not say much--does she?” with a look at his mother. “Save that Polly is well.”

“Which point settled, I will beg, if I may, for a supply of water,” Ivor replied.

(_To be continued._)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

MANY people think night air injurious and carefully close their windows even in hot weather, whereas, in towns, the night air is the purest and best, free from smoke and other impurities. And the sleep is more restful where there is some fresh air coming into the room of the sleeper.

A LITTLE powdered borax on a damp flannel cleans dirt off white marble and china basins.

WHEN the edges of palm leaves in pots get torn and unsightly, they can be cut and trimmed with a pair of scissors.

WHEN tortoiseshell combs get to look dull, polish them with a little olive oil with the hand. If very bad, soak them in oil for a few hours.

IN case of fire in a house, if the staircase be alight and retreat that way be impossible, the inhabitants should shut all the doors behind them and wait in a front room till help comes. A window that is over a doorway is preferable as there is then foothold for the firemen. If it is possible to escape otherwise, crawl on hands and knees on the floor rather than walk upright, for smoke rises and the nearer the floor the clearer the air. In any case doors and windows should be shut to prevent a draught.

IF you do not want the smell of dinner all over the house, see that the slide over the kitchen range is open for the smell to go up the chimney. You will also save your coal bill largely if you keep this slide open except only when it is wanted closed for a short time to make a fire fiercer.

THE seeds of the first blossoms on a plant or flowering shrub grow into the best plants.

BREAD AND CAKES.

HOUSEHOLD BREAD.

_Ingredients._--Three pounds and a half of flour (household), about one pint and a quarter of warm water, one dessertspoonful and a half of salt, one ounce of dry yeast, one ounce of moist sugar.

_Method._--Put the flour and salt in an earthenware pan, and mix well together; put the pan to warm; work the yeast to a cream with the sugar, and add to it a gill and a half of the warm water. Make a well in the flour and mix in the yeast and water, so that there is a soft batter in the middle of the flour; sprinkle flour over this, lay a cloth over the pan and put it in a warm place for fifteen minutes to set the sponge; then stir in the rest of the water; flour the board and knead the dough for about twenty minutes until very elastic; replace it in the pan with a deep cross scored on the top to help it to rise, cover up and put in a warm place to rise one hour and a half. Make into loaves and bake; the oven should be very hot at first and moderate for the rest of the time. A quartern loaf will take nearly two hours to cook. If the water used is hot instead of warm, the yeast will be killed and will not act.

GINGERBREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, six ounces of golden syrup, four ounces of brown sugar, four ounces of dripping, one ounce of ground ginger, two teaspoonfuls of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of mixed spice, two-thirds of a gill of milk.

_Method._--Put the flour, sugar, ginger and spice in a basin and mix well together; put the treacle, milk, soda and dripping in a saucepan and melt over the fire; pour the contents of the saucepan into the contents of the basin, mix well, beat for five minutes, pour in a greased tin and bake in a moderate oven.

SCONES.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, two ounces of dripping, three ounces of sugar, half an ounce of cream of tartar, one teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, milk to mix, a few sultanas (floured and picked).

_Method._--Mix the tartar and the soda well with the flour in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the sugar and sultanas, mix with milk rather more soft than for pastry, roll into two thick rounds, cut each into six equal pieces, lay on a floured tin, brush over the top with milk and bake in a good oven twenty minutes. Plain scones can be made by leaving out the sultanas and the sugar. These scones are best made with milk that is slightly sour.

PLUM CAKE.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, six ounces of dripping, six ounces of brown sugar, six ounces of sultanas (floured and picked), four ounces of currants (washed and dried), one teaspoonful of baking powder, two eggs, one gill and a half of milk.

_Method._--Put the dripping in a basin and work it to a cream with a wooden spoon; mix the flour with the baking powder and stir it into the dripping; stir in the currants, sultanas and sugar, and last of all the eggs beaten up with the milk. Put in a well-greased cake tin, and stand the tin on a thickly-sanded baking sheet. Bake in a hot oven for an hour and then in a cooler oven for another half an hour.

SEED CAKE.

_Method._--Make like plum cake, using an ounce of caraway seeds for the sultanas and currants, and a little less milk.

UNFERMENTED BREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, one tablespoonful of baking powder, milk and water to mix, one teaspoonful of salt.

_Method._--Mix together to a soft dough; make into six rolls, brush with milk and bake in a sharp oven fifteen minutes.

POTATO CAKE.

_Ingredients._--Three-quarters of a pound of mashed potatoes, half a pound of flour, two ounces of butter, one teaspoonful of salt, one small teaspoonful of baking-powder, one egg, half a gill of lukewarm milk.

_Method._--Melt the butter, and mix it with the mashed potatoes, mix in the flour and baking powder, add egg well beaten and the lukewarm milk. Flour the board, roll into a thick round, lay on a floured and greased tin, and bake in a good oven about three-quarters of an hour.

ROCK CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, two ounces of currants (washed and dried), two ounces of sultanas, two ounces of dripping, two ounces of brown sugar, one ounce of candied peel, one teaspoonful of ground ginger, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk.

_Method._--Mix the flour and baking powder in a basin, rub in the dripping, add the currants and the sultanas, sugar, peel and ginger, mix very stiffly with egg and milk; pile in little rough heaps on a greased tin with two forks and bake in a good oven ten minutes.

CITRON BUNS.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, two ounces of margarine, two ounces of brown sugar, one teaspoonful of baking powder, one egg, a little milk, three ounces of citron.

_Method._--Mix the flour with the baking powder, rub in the margarine with the tips of the fingers, add the sugar; cut eight good-sized pieces of the citron peel and chop the rest small; mix the chopped citron with the other ingredients, and then add the egg beaten with a little milk. Mix rather wet; divide into eight, lay on a greased tin, lay a piece of citron on each cake and bake for fifteen minutes in a good oven.

SHORTBREAD.

_Ingredients._--One pound of flour, three-quarters of a pound of butter, half a pound of castor sugar.

_Method._--Rub six ounces of the butter into the flour and sugar, melt the rest and mix it in; work a little with the hands to form a dough; roll into two thick rounds and pinch them round the edge with the fingers to ornament them. Prick over the top with a fork or a biscuit pricker; put two or three large pieces of candied peel on each and bake about half an hour in a moderate oven.

RICE CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Three ounces of ground rice, two ounces of flour, three ounces of butter, three ounces of castor sugar, two eggs, vanilla.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, add the sugar and cream to that; stir in the ground rice with the flour by degrees; add the eggs well beaten and the flavouring; fill greased patty pans and bake in a moderate oven fifteen minutes.

ALMOND CAKES.

_Ingredients._--Eight ounces of flour, four ounces of butter, five ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, three ounces of almonds, half a pound of icing sugar, a little almond flavouring, a little water.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream with a wooden spoon, stir in the sugar, beat in the eggs one by one, putting a little flour with each to prevent its curdling, stir in the rest of the flour after the eggs are beaten in, lastly the almonds blanched and chopped. Brush some little cake moulds with clarified butter and dust them with mixed castor sugar and flour; fill these three-parts full with the cake mixture and bake in a good oven a pale brown, turn out on to a sieve, and when cold ice as follows.

_Icing._--Sift half a pound of icing sugar and mix it very smoothly with a little cold water and enough almond essence to flavour it until it is just thick enough to coat the cakes, pour over and let it set. Put a crystallised cherry on each, and arrange strips of blanched almonds to ornament.

CHOCOLATE CAKE.

_Ingredients._--Half a pound of flour, quarter of a pound of grated chocolate, three ounces of butter, six ounces of castor sugar, four eggs, one small teaspoonful of baking powder, vanilla flavouring, a little browning.

_For the Icing._--Half a pound of icing sugar, three ounces of chocolate, a little water and browning.

_Method._--Beat the butter to a cream, add the castor sugar and the grated chocolate; beat the eggs in one at a time, putting a little flour with each; add the flour, the vanilla flavouring and a little browning. Have ready a cake tin brushed out with clarified butter and lined with buttered paper; put in the mixture, which should three parts fill it, and bake in a good oven about one hour and a half.

_For the Icing._--Melt three ounces of chocolate; mix the icing sugar with about four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir in the melted chocolate; work well with a wooden spoon and pour over the cake when it is cold.

ROSCOMMON LOAF.

_Ingredients._--One pound of wholemeal flour, quarter of a pound of household flour, one ounce and a half of butter or dripping, half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, one teaspoonful of salt, sour milk to mix.

_Method._--Mix the flour, salt and soda well in a basin, rub in the dripping, mix to a rather soft dough with the sour milk; make into a flat loaf, score across with a knife, and bake in a good oven one hour and a half.

WANTED: A LITTLE MORE IMAGINATION.

BY JAMES AND NANETTE MASON.

Do you think we are going to advocate that all of us should retire to dreamland to pass a drowsy existence there with the creations of our fancy? Who thinks that is mistaken. It is not possible to put everything in the title, otherwise we might have made this one run, “Wanted: a little more imagination for those who, at the right times, have not enough, and a little less for those who, on all possible occasions, have too much.” But it is the “too little” which is of most importance for the purposes of ordinary life, and that is why the title stands above as it does. Our first business is to be practical and to speak of imagination as an aid in the work and conduct and duty of every day.

Of all powers possessed by our minds this is perhaps the most wonderful--the power of making pictures inside our heads, seeing there what eyes know nothing of and what outside ourselves has really no existence. It gives an importance--a glory even--to the most obscure and solitary lives. Possessed of a vivid and healthy imagination, a girl may live very much alone and yet be full of company, entertaining a ghostly good society that in some respects is even an improvement on that frequented by her less isolated friends.

Everything is the better for being shone on by its magic light--even love. Imagination, someone says, is to love what gas is to the balloon--that which raises it from the earth! It is, as we all know, the test of genius; but it is found, too, in ordinary people as a useful servant. Indeed, take imagination altogether out of our inner life and we would be very poor creatures.

However, as we have said, we have sometimes not enough. This happens, for example, when we fail to look at things in a spirit of kindliness, and give utterance to criticism on other folk, hard, harsh, and unreasonable.

Matter-of-fact minds usually fail to realise that all are not alike and that allowance--and a wide allowance too--should be made for differences both in thought and action. For this reason we find them often wanting in sympathy and sometimes even cruel.

This the imaginative seldom are. “Put yourself in her place” is their golden rule--the best rule that was ever devised for enabling us to go through the world adding daily to the happiness of it.

Only have a little more imagination and you will be tolerant and kindly and ready to make excuses not only for those you love, which is easy, but for those you dislike, which, as everyone knows, is a much harder matter. The “little more” will make Kate shut her mouth again the next time it flies open to let out a rude, abrupt, or unreasonable word. It will make Eliza pay that little account she has been owing for the last six months without a thought in all that time of the dressmaker needing the money. It will make Maggie give up grumbling that Beatrice writes to her so seldom, as if Beatrice has the leisure,--she the eldest of a great bunch of sisters and her mother an invalid. It will make Eva cut her visit short next time she calls on Alice, so leaving hard-worked Alice to get through her school tasks for the morrow without sitting up to all hours of the night. In fact, what will it not do in the way of giving smoothness to the wheels of life?

Imagination is a first-rate faculty by which to obtain a look at ourselves, and when we get a little more of it, it is like turning up the gas to get a clearer view. We see ourselves then as others see us, and a pretty exhibition it sometimes is. If a girl is vain, frivolous, whimsical, selfish, vulgar, mean, she in this way gets to know it. There is thus always hope for the imaginative--they can realise what they are, and, without self-knowledge, what chance of reformation is there for anybody?

Our friend Josephine, for example, came to us the other day, keen on being an authoress; but Josephine, it is clear, has next to no imagination. With only a few grains of it, she would have seen that becoming an authoress is for her impossible, because what she wants is publishers’ and editors’ cheques and what she does not want is trouble.

A well-trained imagination--not one inclined to run riot; no, certainly not that sort of a one--is of great assistance in enabling us rightly to sum up people and things. Our critical faculties are worth little and only lead us into mischief and mistakes without it. Possessed of only a “little more,” not a few of us would often be saved from being misled by appearances and enabled to steer clear of the troubles that come from drawing wrong inferences. The world is a difficult enough world to live in, for things are but seldom what they seem, and some art, like this one we are talking about, is needed by which we can illuminate life and get at the real essence of all that interests us.

Another use of imagination is in the reading of books, and on this subject no one has written better than the late Professor Blackie, who held very decided opinions about the importance of having the imaginative faculty properly trained.

“As there are many persons,” he says, “who seem to walk through life with their eyes open seeing nothing, so there are others who read through books, and perhaps even cram themselves with facts, without carrying away any living pictures of significant story which might arouse the fancy in an hour of leisure or gird them with endurance in a moment of difficulty.

“Ask yourself, therefore, always when you read a chapter of any notable book, not what you saw printed on a grey page, but what you see pictured in the glowing gallery of your imagination. Have your fancy always vivid and full of body and colour. Count yourself not to know a fact when you know that it took place, but then only when you see it as it did take place.”

These words form as valuable a note on the art of reading as we are likely to meet with for many a day.

To train the imagination adequately, the Professor points out, it is not enough that pictures be made to float pleasantly before the fancy--that is merely the amusement of the lazy. We should call upon our imagination to take a firm grasp of the shadows as they arise, and not be content till we see them with our minds almost as clear, distinct, and life-like as we might have done with our eyes.

For the culture of the imagination, works of fiction are no doubt of great service, but the most useful exercise of this faculty is when it buckles itself to realities.

“There is no need,” says the Professor, “of going to romances for pictures of human character and fortune calculated to please the fancy and to elevate the imagination. The life of Alexander the Great, of Martin Luther, of Gustavus Adolphus, or any of those notable characters on the great stage of the world who incarnate the history which they create, is for this purpose of more educational value than the best novel that ever was written or even the best poetry. Not all minds delight in poetry; but all minds are impressed and elevated by an imposing and a striking fact. To exercise the imagination on the lives of great and good men brings with it a double gain; for by this exercise we learn at a single stroke, and in the most effective way, both what was done, and what ought to be done.”

What is true of the value of imagination to the student of books is equally true of its importance to all who devote attention to music and art. Without imagination, the pursuit of either is little better than a waste of time, and the more of it we bring to their culture, the more successful we shall be. Let girls, then, and their parents and teachers, look to it and do what they can to encourage this most spiritual of all our faculties, the very life of artistic effort, and a magician to whom everything is possible.

A great and good use of imagination is to reproduce to us our past lives. It is something more than memory. Memory says I was at such a place on a certain day, but imagination brings up the place--the Highland loch, it may be, in the glory of an autumn morning, the purple heather on the hills, the steamer at the pier, the hotel overlooking the steamer, the young man in the coffee-room smiling to the landlord’s daughter, the taste of the fresh salmon, the very smell of the burned oat-cake.

“All that is past,” says Bacon, “is as a dream,” and by imagination we can dream it all over again. And the recollection is sometimes better than the reality, just as in moonlight our village looks more lovely than in sunshine. Sentiment whispers then in our ear, and a halo is thrown over the unsightly and disagreeable.

An additional charm too is that many a problem which may have puzzled us when things actually happened, is solved before we begin to look back. The relationship of people, lovers and lasses, friends and foes, sharpers and simpletons, has been made plain; the foolish have got their deserts and the wise have got theirs; the envious have grown lean and the good-natured and kindly have become fat; the wasters have fallen to poverty and the industrious have risen to fortune.

Such changes as these give value and interest to our recollections when we wake the ghosts of the past and make them parade before us. We are able in a way which was impossible before to be actors, spectators, and enlightened critics--all three rolled in one.

Girls who have now but little short lives, with comparatively few incidents to recall, can hardly realise what a gratification this wandering over the enchanted ground of imagination imparts to mature years. If they did they would often be saying to themselves, How will this look in recollection? And such a thought would keep them from many a frivolity and many an error. But, short lives or long lives, let us go over our past often if for no other reason than that we may understand ourselves, not to speak of our gaining such knowledge as will enable us to steer a safe course through the perils of the future.

Speaking of the future reminds us that that is a great territory of the imaginative. By imagination girls are witches to foretell what is to happen the day after to-morrow.

Now we spend our time ill if we build castles in the air and trust to them as if they were substantial edifices. But, for all that, to let the imagination dwell on what is yet to come has its uses and may be a valuable help to conduct.

Castles in the air and dreams, too hopelessly extravagant ever to be realised have brightened many dull and monotonous lives, and for that reason alone, within bounds, are to be encouraged. Besides this there is an important gain resulting from our projecting the imagination into the future--we are thereby prepared for many events which now find us quite unprepared.

The grasshoppers were wanting in imagination who danced and sang all summer-time. They should have pictured to themselves the snow on the ground, the pools frozen over, and the wind whistling through the bare branches.

A well-to-do man once said to us, “I have all my life had a vision of a workhouse door open to receive me if I did not plod on, rising early and working hard. It is that which has made me saving and prosperous.”

A similar vision might work a change on some people we know. Bring your own self forward, Louisa, in the glittering hall of that imagination of yours, picturing yourself as old and disinclined for work, and see if ever after you will not be industrious, wise, and prudent.

“For age and want save while you may, No morning sun lasts a whole day.”

A little more imagination may often be recommended to the good looking, not forgetting all who think themselves so. Perhaps we should rather say a little more of the right sort, for they indulge in flights of fancy enough when it is a matter of picturing those brought into captivity by their charms. They should leave considering their conquests and captives and make an effort to realise what they themselves will be, say, at fifty or sixty, if they live so long. The beauty and attractiveness of youth will then be over, and unless they have something else to recommend them, their place will be on one of the back seats of human life.

This should set them furnishing the inside of their heads as richly as Nature has done the outside. Beauty vanishes, but mental culture endures and is found attractive, and even charming, to the very end of the chapter. There are few sadder sights than that of a beauty in ruins with an untrained intellect and none more refreshing than that of a bright old wrinkled face, with a mind behind it stored with information and animated by shrewdness and good nature.

There is danger in all things, for all--yes, even the best--may be misused. Imagination is a friendly help to elevate, direct, and brighten our lives as we have seen, but that does not happen with the foolish. Instead of occupying this wondrous faculty with what is profitable and beautiful, they devote it to what is degrading and mean, and thus become a great deal worse with imagination than they would be without it.

And, even where its subjects are not positively objectionable, imagination sometimes wastes its energy on whimsicalities and runs riot in the broad fields of extravagance and nonsense. Of such a nature was the fertile fancy of an old friend of ours who, to the end of her days, showed great reverence for dogs and cats because she believed them animated by the souls of her ancestors.

A very silly use of imagination is to picture to ourselves suspicions, dangers and misfortunes. Some of us have a great deal of ability in this line, and endure torments daily over evils that never arrive.

“Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you” is a safe rule, and only a stupid girl will set her imagination working so as to make herself miserable. Caroline, we fear, is of the stupid class--no doubt, Caroline, it is on this occasion only--or she would at once get rid of the dreadful thought she imparted to us last Tuesday that the letters sent to her by her sweetheart were detained at the post office and read. As if the postmistress, even in her country place, had not something better to do!

Another danger of the imagination is that we are apt to take refuge in it against the duties of real life. In real life there is friction, and there is nothing of that in dreamland. We can make that pleasant country to suit ourselves, without irritation, without contradiction, without mishaps, everything coming just right. Our business, however, in the world is not to dream but to act, for which reason this great gift of imagination must be kept in its proper place. It is a good servant, but, by foolish indulgence, may become a very bad master.

But, after making all allowances for dangers--those we have named and others that might be stated--the fact remains that to the greater number of us a little more imagination would not come amiss. It would make our lives richer, and happier, more useful, more kindly, more sensible. It is only a “little more” that is wanted. That any of us are entirely destitute of it is improbable. To be “dry sticks” is not common for girls.

AN EMBROIDERED BABY’S CARRIAGE COVERLID OF HOUSE FLANNEL.

I was recently asked by a lady friend to design her a simple piece of embroidery for her child’s pram. The chief thing was, that the design was not to be elaborate, as there was very little time to work it.

The illustration here given is the design I made, but it has a very different appearance in black and white to what it had when worked in two tones of blue worsted on house flannel. Still, those readers who do embroidery will know what allowances to make.

I sketched the design right away in charcoal, and anyone at all accustomed to using a pencil will have no difficulty in doing this. Divide your material in half, and then draw a line in the middle horizontally, and others above and below this. These lines will guide you in getting both sides fairly alike, for, so long as the principal lines are symmetrical, it is enough. I found you can easily sketch in vine charcoal (that is the fine kind) on flannel and it easily dusts off afterwards.

The whole of the forms were produced in outline, and to show the sort of stitch, I have given a leaf full size. The ground is soon covered in this way, and it hasn’t a cheap look either. The fault many embroiderers make in carrying out a design is that they miss the “swing” of the lines, get broken-backed curves and clumsy-looking details. To obviate this you ought to keep looking at your work as a whole. Dwelling too long on any part of the design is likely to upset the balance of the whole.

It is obvious that in the design given the stems are the first features to be worked, as the leaves and flowers merely grow from them and are of secondary importance. It will add to the grace of the design to get the lower part of the stems gradually thicker, say two strands wide towards the base, just as in nature we find a plant gradually thickening as it nears the root.

It will be noticed that a separate border is designed for the piece at the top which turns over. The coverlid should have a worked edging, and to get this even a few niches should be spaced out and drawn on a piece of tracing paper and then pricked over with a coarse needle.

All you have to do is to rub a little crushed charcoal, tied up in a piece of coarse linen or muslin, on the reverse side, when the powdered charcoal will pass through the holes leaving an impression which can be worked over at once.

Where a border is distinctly geometrical, it should be done evenly, and the eye is not quite correct enough if left to itself, and much of the workmanlike look of the whole would be marred if this edging were badly done. The right initial or name can be added or left out if desired. In the latter case put in a flower and a leaf or two.

Those readers who have never worked on house flannel will find it a pleasant material, and for portières and short curtains very excellent both in effect and for wear.

A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.

BY C. A. MACIRONE.