CHAPTER XX.

A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY.

“Now, my dear Polly, I pray you make the very most this evening of your charms. For somebody will be there whom you little think to see.”

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to the Bryces in London, looked up sharply.

“Yes, indeed, and you may guess, but I vow you’ll never guess the truth. Two young maidens to have such good fortune! Had it come to me in my young days, why, I think ’twould have driven me out of my senses with joy. But you may conjecture—you may conjecture, Polly. Who in the world can it be?”

Polly was seated upright on a straight-backed chair, looking as usual exceedingly pretty. Her eyes, softer and more than ever like brown velvet, took a faraway expression, and the delicate tinting of her cheeks grew roseate. She said demurely, after a pause—

“If I might conjecture that which my desires would prompt, ma’am, I would say—Captain Ivor!”

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently with her slippered and sandalled foot.

“Pish-pshaw! To be sure, that is proper enough, my dear. But now you may rest satisfied that you have said what propriety demands. And since Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign parts, and likely so to remain for many a long year to come, being therefore out of the question, we’ll e’en dismiss the thoughts of him, and I’ll ask Molly whom she would most desire to meet at the dance to-night.”

Molly sat upon a second high-backed chair, busily netting. At sixteen—close upon seventeen, indeed—she was more altered from the child of twelve than her twin-brother in the same lapse of time. She had not grown tall, and she was more rounded than in earlier years. Her black eyes looked less big and less anxious, partly because the face had lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion and an expression of straightforward earnestness served in place of good looks. Molly Baron would never be a “belle,” but she might become a woman to whom men and women alike would turn, with a restful certainty of finding in her what they wanted. Her reply was more prompt than Polly’s had been, and it consisted of one single syllable.

“Roy!”

“But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a prisoner, child. Like to remain so also. Who next?”

“Jack!” Molly said, with equal rapidity.

“Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one of ourselves, and is in and out perpetually. Jack’s a genteel young fellow enough, I make no question, but somewhat better than Jack awaits you this evening. Eh, Polly—what if it be—no other than Captain Peirce?”

“Captain Peirce better than Jack! Nay!” Molly said indignantly.

Polly’s colour went up again, as it was wont to do on slight provocation, delicately and prettily. Polly also tossed her head, and arranged the light scarf, which covered her shoulders.

“Captain Peirce is welcome enough, ma’am,” she made answer carelessly.

“I do not like Captain Peirce,” murmured Molly.

“Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce’s affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite with everybody, especially, I can assure you, with all the young women of _mode_. And he has eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”

Polly looked studiously down, offering no remark; and Molly frowned.

“If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is engaged to another, and he out of reach!”

“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of you! Why, you’re scarce out of the nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married. No, nor no chance to be married, while old Nap lives; and depend on’t, he’ll not die yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to wait and wait, till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man of _ton_ will ever deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?”

Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face. “But Polly knows Captain Ivor better!” she suggested.

“Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be?” demanded the vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted closely with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable. And I have said the same before, Molly.” Which certainly she had.

“Polly is still a long way off from growing old,” persisted Molly.

“Well, well, that’s as may be. But you’ve not divined my secret yet,” pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night; and ’tis not Jack of whom I speak. Captain Peirce will be there; and ’tis not Captain Peirce. The Admiral will be there; and ’tis not the Admiral. Somebody else also will be there—and ’tis he.”

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. “Who was it that read last week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ and that said she would give half she was possessed of to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?”

“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid Mrs. Bryce, who, whatever her faults might have been, did dearly love to give pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.

“Mr. Walter Scott is now in London, and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s assemblage. So now, Miss, what say you to my promise of somebody that shall be worth seeing?”

“Really and truly?” questioned Molly, half incredulously. “May we in truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott himself to-night? That will be worth going for, were there naught else. Think, Polly, Mr. Walter Scott himself, that writ all about William of Deloraine and the ‘Fair Ladye Margaret of Branksome Hall.’”

“You may count yourself a fortunate young woman, Molly,” complacently observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early age of sixteen, not only to have a personal acquaintance with so distinguished a martial hero as Sir John Moore, but also to have had a sight of Mr. Southey, the author of ‘Thalaba,’ as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr. William Wordsworth, and now to be brought face to face with Mr. Scott himself—I give you joy of such good fortune.”

“And the last will be the best,” remarked Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure, ma’am, so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never yet been known.”

“If the public voice be true, ’tis even so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of his ill-luck in the poor sale of his poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth has much to boast of. Whereas Mr. Scott’s poems go off by the myriad, and are read of all. I’m informed that Mr. Constable is this year paying him one thousand pounds in advance for a poem not yet completed—a poem about a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And ten thousand people are on the look-out for its appearance. But now ’tis full time you began to prepare yourselves; and Polly must look her best this night.”

Polly was in no wise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest; and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly’s abundant mane needed attention, though crowned with a fantastic hat, which carried lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ball-room equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was in itself a sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded room, without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was quite content to have it so. While amused with the scene, she did not expect admiration.

The one thing on which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott, the future “Wizard of the North.” His real work in life, the writing of the “Waverley Novels,” had not then been so much as begun; but he was already well known as the very successful author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm. When he came from his Scotch home to London, he was fêted and made much of to any extent.

Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and flowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. And “immortal” Scott doubtless is, in the literary sense, with still no peer, but hardly as a poet. Popular judgment made a mistake there—not for the first or the last time in its existence.

“Where, where, is he of the radiant brow, The faulchion glance and the flashing eye, Whose lofty mien and dazzling air Bespeaks——” etc.

This is not a quotation; it is merely a specimen of the kind of thing that our great-grandmothers and grandmothers in their early youth admired and doted on. The bump of veneration must have been more highly developed on people’s heads in those days than in these. And how they did admire and did dote, the dear young things! Just as Molly Baron did that evening. She sat upon her quiet seat, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious poet-form, which her gaze was soon to rest upon. She did not care to talk. She did not wish to dance. She was wrapped in a dream, from which Mrs. Bryce’s decisive finger-tips aroused her.

“Wake up, my dear. Are you asleep, Molly? Here he comes.”

Molly looked rapturously around and about in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous human form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, of good height, rather robust in make, healthy, but scarcely “elegant,” with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a frank genial expression—no, that was not Molly Baron’s ideal of an immortal poet. His eyes were only light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet’s should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet; and he said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad to know always that she had seen and spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.

Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded by a host of friends; and Molly retreated again to her seat. Plenty was going on to amuse and interest her. She had danced twice, and now a rather long pause had come, no fresh partners turning up. Molly was of course under Mrs. Bryce’s wing, but that lady had too many irons in the fire to spare much time for the quiet country girl at her side. Molly cared little. She liked to look and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Mrs. Bryce’s gay talk was entertaining enough, as the good lady expatiated on this person and that, flirted her fan at one elderly gentleman and captured another, dissected theoretically one lady’s “bewitching gown,” and descanted on the “superb equipage” possessed by another, reverting then to the “London Particular Madeira” which had been served at a recent grand dinner-party, and hoping for some of the same at supper.

Growing surfeited with this, Molly turned her attention elsewhere, and descried Admiral Peirce close at hand, button-holing another gentleman, and holding forth to him in a loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence.

“Why, sir,” he was saying, “why, sir, there’s nothing after all like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a landsman—why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking-water in the world! Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then it’ll keep as long as ever you want it.[1] Yes, sir, it will indeed.”

Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking-water, which in those days was not considered a question of pressing interest, wandered farther afield. A slight pucker came between her brows, as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Albert Peirce in close attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice; and it was impossible from Polly’s look to know whether she were pleased or displeased.

The gay scene around faded from Molly’s vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan; but she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around in their low dresses and hats or turbans, scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by; and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss.

“All right, Molly!” he was calling gaily. “It’s only for two weeks, you know, and then we shall be back again.” And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly’s hands in a firm clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was downward bent and blushing. But it was not Polly who in one moment had left an indelible impression upon Molly’s childish memory. When she thought of that day it was always Ivor’s face—the young Guardsman’s look of silent grave devotion—which unbidden came up.

“How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget!” murmured Molly, her lips unconsciously moving with the energy of her own thoughts.

“Molly, this is sure scarce a place for audible meditation,” a voice said at her side.

“Jack!”

Molly’s whole face grew bright. Now she had all, or nearly all, that she wanted. She was extremely fond of Jack, and Jack of her. They were exactly like brother and sister, so Molly, not Jack, often stated. He was quite next to Roy in her estimation. Roy held inviolate the first place in his twin-sister’s affections; but Jack came closely after.

“Were you spouting Mr. Scott’s last new poem, Molly?” demanded Jack, as he deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.

“You love to plague me, Jack! Why should I be spouting aught?”

Jack gave her a quizzical look.

“’Tis dull work for a young maiden to be seated here. What may Mrs. Bryce be after, not to find you partners?”

“Jack, be cautious, she is near. See!”—with a motion of her fan. “And I am not dull. I am never dull. I have danced two whole dances, Jack.”

“And three with me to come. You do not forget.”

“Two,” corrected Molly. “And they will be the best of all”—with childish frankness. “But my grandmother desired me to dance no more than two with any one man. And what news of Sir John?” Molly had a quick womanly instinct, which not all women possess, as to what people would like to speak about, and she generally managed to hit the mark, whence her quiet popularity in the little circle of those who knew her well.

“I went to Cobham but a week since, and saw his mother. She fears Sir John is sorely worried by these Sicilian complications. The Queen of Sicily must be a strange personage. She detests the English, and gives all her confidence to Frenchmen—so says Sir John—yet our government fights in defence of the King, her husband, and pays him too a subsidy.”

“And ’tis but a year since Sir John was all on the alert to be sent to India.”

“Ay; so he told me, and his mother speaks of it still. She says that Sir John deems India to be by far the most important colony our nation has ever had. He thought then that he might well be spared for a while from Europe, matters being somewhat at a standstill. Since Trafalgar there can be no further dread of an invasion, and little was doing or is doing on the Continent, to check the Emperor’s advance. For my part, I doubt not that Sir John would prefer above all to be at the head of affairs in India. I have heard him say that that was the greatest and most important command which could fall to a British officer. But Mr. Fox refused to spare him, saying that England could not do without him in Europe.”

Jack had always plenty to say, when once he got upon the subject of his Hero.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Actually said early in the century.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

EXILE OF ERIN.—We must offer you the same advice as we gave to “An Ardent Admirer” (No. 995), though it seems ungracious thus to respond to your very pleasant letter. The thought that breathes through your composition is touching, and it is natural that a gift of primroses should suggest the picture of a woodland dell. But your lines halt occasionally: _e.g._—

“Celandine and pale wind-flower, these the dark blue violet greet.”

Again, we should be disposed to question whether the anemone and all the other flowers you mention bloom at once. In the woodland region we knew best the anemone preceded the “bluebell” or wild hyacinth.

M. B. (Rosario).—Many thanks for your kind and grateful letter.

ASPHODEL CRAVEN.—1. The word “xystos” is not generally used, but it is doubtless the English form of the Greek word ξυστὁς, from the verb ξὑωξὑω to smooth, polish, or work delicately. In the connection you give, the term probably was applied to a piece of sculpture very highly wrought. In Greek (Lat. _xystum_) the term was used for a colonnade or covered terrace, with a polished floor.—2. Your writing is fairly good; but if you made your turns less pointed, and did not leave a margin at the end of your lines, it would look better.

LEONORE CRISTABEL.—Your poem is touching, and we sympathise with you in the loss of your little brother. Your letter is modest, and the thought of your verses, if not original, is sweet and comforting. The first three verses are quite correct as to metre and rhyme; but afterwards you occasionally introduce a syllable too many, as in

“Trials might have formed his earthly lot.”

CHEREA.—We fancy that you would hear of an Early Rising Society from Miss Isabella E. Kent, Lay Rectory, Abington, Cambridge; but if not, perhaps one of our readers would suggest an address. You might consult our back numbers, where such societies have occasionally been mentioned.

DAFFODIL.—1. The lines

“I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more,”

are from a poem by Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) “To Lucasta, on going to the Wars.”—2. Joan of Arc was called “La Pucelle,” because it means “The Maid,” and if you read her history, you will see why she, above all others, was called “The Maid of Orleans.” The Italian word for maid is also _pulcella_; Latin, _puella_.

JULIA INA FRASER.—1. We believe Pitman’s method of learning shorthand is more popular than the one you name.—2. We have never offered prizes for exactly the sort of thing you describe; but we offer prizes monthly, as you will see, in our “Supplement Story Competition.”

PETER DAVID (ISÈRE.)—We thank you for your kind letter, and are sorry that, as this is a girl’s magazine, we cannot comply with its request. You write English tolerably well. Do not say, “I have already written to you four months ago,” but “I wrote,” and “be so kind as to insert,” not “for inserting.”

COPPER BEECH.—1. You will find the recitation “King John and the Abbot of Canterbury” in “The Popular Elocutionist,” compiled by J. E. Carpenter, Warne & Co., Bedford Street, Strand. It comes from Percy’s _Reliques of English Poetry_.—2. The lines of the little girl are fairly good considering her age.

M. H. T.—1. We have inserted your request in “Our Open Letter Box,” and also suggest that you should apply to some London firm where second-hand books can be procured, such as Messrs. Sotheran, Strand.—2. Your writing is good, although a little cramped, and your lines are uneven. With a trifle more care, you would write remarkably well.

KING LEAR.—1.—There are many commentaries on Shakespeare’s plays—by Gervinus, Cowden Clarke, Dowden, Miss Rossi, and so on. The plays are also published separately, with notes, at a very low price: see for instance those in the Clarendon Press series; those edited by the Rev. John Hunter (Longmans & Co.), or Chambers’s School Edition of Shakespeare.—2. There is an excellent _Life of Shakespeare_ by Sidney Lee, just published by Smith and Elder.

CORRIGENDA.—The sentiment of your poem, “The Power of Love in the Home,” is good, but the form is faulty. “Home” and “alone” do not rhyme, and we think you must have omitted a word in

“O wond_e_rous this love can hold.”

“As if” takes the subjunctive—“were” led. It is not quite true that in time of deep sorrow “Love will chase away all gloom,” though it undoubtedly can do much to relieve the sufferer.

A CUMBERLAND LASSIE.—Many thanks for your letter with its pretty view of Derwentwater. We have just been staying at Keswick, and saw the two lakes become one in the flood of early November. We are glad you can appreciate the beauty of your home, and hope the loveliness of Nature will teach you many lessons. Your request is inserted below.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

MISS MARTIN, The Hawthorns, Sandyway, Lichfield, Staffordshire, informs “Ninette,” Budapesth, that “Somebody’s Darling,” and Hood’s “Song of the Shirt,” are to be found in the “Royal Reader,” Part VI. If “Ninette” likes, Miss Martin will forward her a written copy of each poem on receipt of her address.

WINTON asks where the following verse is to be found—

“Come tell all that ye have said and done— Your victories, failures, hopes, and fears— I know how hardly souls are wooed and won, My choicest wreaths are always wet with tears.”

M. H. T. inquires for a series of books, entitled respectively, _The Heir of Lugna-Quilla_, _Sister Ursula_, and _Dicky’s Secret_. _Sister Ursula_ appeared as a serial in _The Children’s Own Paper_ about ten years ago.

HOPE wishes to know the publishers, or the author, of a piece for recitation entitled, “Trouble in Amen Corner.”

GOWAN will be obliged if any reader can send a copy of the words of the recitation “The Women of Mumbles Head.”

INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.

“AN INQUISITIVE GIRL,” who expressed a wish for a “nice girl correspondent in a distant land,” has two answers. GIGIA RICCIARDI, aged eighteen, Chiatamone, Palazzo Arlotta, Naples, Italy, volunteers to write to her in Italian, French, German, or English. Should “Miss Inquisitive” not accept this offer, our “Faithful Italian Reader” would nevertheless like to correspond with an English girl of the upper classes, who is invited to send her full name, address, and age. MISS ALICE VERENA AHERNE, 712, Walnut Street, Columbia, Lancaster Co. Pa., U. S. America, aged seventeen, will be glad to hear from “Miss Inquisitive,” and observes, “Whether I am nice or not, she will find out.”

MISS FRANÇOIS wishes to correct an error in printing her address. It should be Anzin (Nord), France, not Auzier.

“O MIMOSA SAN” has answers from “HIGHLAND LASSIE” (whom we thank for her enthusiastic letter), Post Office, St. Cyrus, Kincardineshire, Scotland; Miss A. Van der Meersch, 8, Rue de la Reine, Anvers, Belgium; and Mrs. Newman, King Street, Emsworth, Hants. These ladies all collect “view post cards,” and if “O Mimosa San” will send “Highland Lassie” her address, a number shall be forwarded at once.

“LOVER OF LITERATURE,” aged sixteen, who does not give her address, would like to correspond with either P. or H. Pierson. She is not very proficient in the French language, but wishes to become so.

MISS ELSIE HIGHTON, Brigham, Keswick, Cumberland, would like to correspond with a French girl of sixteen or seventeen, each to write in the language of the other. Miss Highton is a pupil teacher; she writes a neat and interesting letter.

GRETE FROMBERG, Kurfürstenstrasse 132, Berlin, a German girl, would like to correspond with an English girl of good family, who takes great interest in music or painting, about sixteen or seventeen years of age; each writing in the language of the other, or both in English.

WHITE ASTER.—An English girl of fifteen would like to correspond in English with an Italian girl about her own age, or a year or two older.

KATE M. BUTTIFANT, 49, Minet Avenue, Harlesden, London, N.W., aged fourteen and a half, desires to correspond with a well-educated French girl of about the same age.

LAURA would like to correspond with a French, Dutch, or Russian girl, over twenty years of age, in English or in French.

MARGARET M. S. CATTON, aged sixteen, would like to correspond with a French girl about the same age, or a little older. Address, Belmont, Honolulu, Hawaiian Island, viâ San Francisco.

UNE PETITE JERSIASE (17) has the same wish, but gives no detailed address.

ETHEL G. CARELESS, Stream Vale, Clonmel, Co. Tipperary, Ireland (an English girl, aged seventeen), would like to correspond with Miss Valentine Massaria.

MEDICAL.

PETUNIA.—Menthol is not likely to do much harm if taken internally for a length of time. Its action is mainly one of stimulation. But what do you take it for? The habit of taking any medicine regularly is greatly to be deprecated. And unless you have some very strong reason for taking menthol, we would advise you to discontinue the practice. Menthol is not a mixture of camphor and peppermint, but is the solid part of the oil of peppermint. It is what is called in chemistry a stearoptene—_i.e._, a solid volatile oil. Camphor and thymol are other examples of stearoptenes.

CAMELIA.—That tea-drinking in excess is harmful is unquestionable, and it is for this reason that the medical profession has had its knife into tea for so long. But the dangers of tea-drinking have been grossly exaggerated. Tea in moderation is one of the best drinks for a person with a healthy stomach. It is the best drink for breakfast; and though dyspeptics must be cautious in their use of the beverage, it is a drink which can safely be recommended to everybody—and everybody drinks it, and quite rightly too. Of course tea is harmful when taken in excess; but what on this earth is not? It is not an easily digested drink—nor is any other fluid easy to digest (except milk, and that does not agree with all stomachs). Freshly-brewed tea is the most digestible of fluids which we habitually drink hot. We are quite sure that it is more easily digested than cocoa. Second brews and tea that has been allowed to draw too long are not easily digested, for they contain a very large quantity of tannic acid. China tea is preferable to Indian tea. You should never drink tea, nor any other drink, without eating something before it. Of course, you must be moderate in tea-drinking. It is the excessive tea-drinking by women in the afternoon which causes most of the dyspepsia due to tea which is so very common. It is said that cocoa is more digestible than tea, and that persons who drink cocoa rarely take more than half-a-pint of it at a time. We believe the latter; the fulness and nausea produced by one cup of cocoa, is quite sufficient—in our case, at all events—to enforce moderation, if not total abstinence.

REBELLIOUS.—In the case of cancer, heredity plays an extremely unimportant part. But there are certain families in which cancer seems to run as a family disease. You say your mother died of cancer, and that other relatives on your mother’s side have also died from that disease. How many of your relatives? Here it is a question of percentage. Cancer is a very common disease, and therefore the fact that two or three of your relatives have died of cancer may simply be a coincidence, and not a case of hereditary influence at all. As we see the case, we would not prohibit a woman from marrying because one or two of her relatives have died of cancer. If she is a member of one of the families in which cancer is the usual termination of its members, then the question must be looked at in another light. Still, even here we would not discourage marriage, for even in these cases the hereditary influence is doubtful. Where, however, the disease has been very rife, the woman must consider from a very wide standpoint whether she is justified in marrying and thus spreading this fearful disease; but in nine cases out of ten the answer will be “Yes, it is justifiable.”

DONA ANNA.—We can quite understand your alarm when you found that you coughed up blood, and that you came to the conclusion that you had consumption is also not unnatural. But why did you not go to a doctor at the time? You say you had a bad cough at the time which kept you awake all night; but that you are not particularly subject to coughs, and that you have been perfectly well since. This subject of blood-spitting is very important, so we will briefly mention its chief causes. The blood may come from a tooth, from the gums, from the nose, or from the lips or tongue as a result of injury. It is frequently due to inflammation about the throat, especially of the tonsils. It occurs commonly in nearly all acute diseases of the lungs, especially in bronchitis and inflammation of the voice-box. These are the common causes. In all the amount of blood spat up is very small—usually merely streaks. In consumption and some forms of heart disease blood-spitting is common and is often very profuse. Other causes of profuse bleeding are the rupture of an aneurism and some diseases of the vessels of the lungs. Or the blood may come from the stomach. This is a formidable list, but we have no doubt whatever which of these caused your blood-spitting. It was acute bronchitis and not consumption.

GERTRUDE.—1. Tomatoes are a very good article of diet if they are fresh. Bad tomatoes are the cause of a large number of cases of summer diarrhœa at this time of the year. It is better to eat them cooked than raw. No, tomatoes have nothing to do with the development of cancer. Where did you hear that they contained “cancerous matter”? We think your informant must have been joking.—2. Fruit is much better in the morning than at night. One reason for this is, that fruit is not easy to digest, and therefore may interfere with sleep.

MISCELLANEOUS.

R. P. S.—To remove stains from marble take two parts of soda, one of pumice-stone, and one of finely-powdered chalk, sift through a fine sieve and mix into a paste with water. Rub well with it and then wash it with soap and water. This process will both remove the stains and also produce a fine polish. If the general colour of the marble be deteriorated, mix a quantity of the strongest soap lees with quicklime to the consistency of milk, lay the wash on the marble for twenty-four hours, and wash it afterwards with soap and water, and you will find the colour restored to its original hue.

SATURDAY’S CHILD.—The duties of a lady’s maid vary of course in different houses. As a rule she must be a good hairdresser and dressmaker, and know enough of millinery to alter or re-arrange a hat or bonnet, be able to pack, to wash lace, clean hairbrushes, and do all needful mendings. If a travelling maid she must understand packing, and travelling and foreign shopping, and must speak French well. The wages vary from £20 to £50 or even more, and if a competent woman, there is no more difficulty in finding this situation than in finding any other first-class place, such as governess or companion.

MRS. B. (Ireland).—You do not give us a _nom de plume_, so we hope you will recognise this heading. There is no alteration in the rules about such presents. When a girl is _not_ engaged to a man, the presents she may accept from him are flowers, books, or music, certainly not jewellery nor clothes. The former should never be accepted unless from an accepted suitor, and must be returned in case of a rupture between the parties. There could be no alteration in these laws, and every nice girl should know and abide by them, as the question is one of self-respect and propriety.

CARRIE.—There is no objection to a girl playing the clarionet nor flute, only they somewhat spoil the beauty of the performer during a performance, to which some would take exception. The former is an ancient instrument invented by Denner, at Nuremberg, 1690; but the flute still more so, being mentioned in the Book of Daniel. An oboe is a hautboy, and is also one of the reed wind instruments of which the bassoon is the bass. The former, the hautboy, was much used by itinerant English musicians as early as in the fourteenth century, and formed one of the instruments played by the Court band, _temp._ Edward III. It was invented by Anfranci, an Italian, A.D. 1539. An ophicleide is the bass of the horn, and is a brass wind instrument invented by Frichot in 1790. The trombone may be had of four kinds, soprano, alto, tenor and bass, the best amongst them being the tenor.

CORNISH GIRL sends us the address of Miss C. Flower, 14, Norfolk Crescent, Hyde Park, W., who collects used stamps, and sells them for the purpose of helping poor and sick members of The Girls’ Friendly Society. Miss Flower sells foreign stamps at 7d. for fifty, and is very successful in making money out of them. She has sent eight sick members to the sea, and paid for two beds for two months in the Eastbourne House, Durnford Lodge.—2. Black currant acid is made as follows:—three pounds of black currants, one and a half ounces of tartaric acid, to one pint of water. Put the water and the tartaric acid into a deep pan, let the latter dissolve, add the fruit, and let it stand covered for twenty-four hours. Then strain it off and add to every pint one and a half pounds of loaf sugar. Stir it well, and when the sugar is dissolved, bottle it and seal it up. This would be enough for three bottles. A dessertspoonful will be needed for a tumbler of water for drinking. This recipe can be used for other fruits—strawberry, raspberry, mulberry and red currants as well.

DOLLY.—The origination of the harp on the ancient Irish National escutcheon, on the authority of tradition, is attributed to one of the early Irish kings, called David, who took a harp as his heraldic device from the harp played by his namesake, the Psalmist. It was first placed on Irish coins by Henry VIII. Paper money owes its origin to the Chinese, some 2697 years B.C. The early issues in that country are said to have been, in all essentials, similar to modern bank notes. A specimen of a Chinese bank note is preserved in the Asiatic Museum, St. Petersburg, bearing date 1399 years B.C.

BEGADKEPHATH.—It is a rule to which all the best English stylists conform, that “very” shall not be used to modify a verb, even when the verb is used adjectivally, while it may be used to modify an adjective or an adverb, as thus—very pleasant, very pleasantly. With “pleased,” the correct phrasing is “much pleased,” or “very much pleased.” The foremost reviews of this country—the _Athenæum_ and the _Spectator_—are loud in denunciation of “very pleased,” “very gratified,” and so forth. It has been made the subject of comment that Thackeray upon occasion writes “very pleased,” and “different to” for “different from.” His superb gifts make good such lapses, just as Shakespeare’s genius lifts him above criticism, even when his grammar is faulty. The average English girl, however, should beware of using ungrammatical phrasing, and when she is not of ingrained vulgarity, we have always found her willing to do so.

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[Transcriber’s Note—The following changes have been made to this text:

Page 315: of to off—“cut off”

Page 320: intruments to instruments—“wind instruments”]