{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_43642/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_43642","id":"gutenberg_43642","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43642","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Art","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Religious newspapers and periodicals"],"text":"Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustrations.\n      See 43642-h.htm or 43642-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/43642/pg43642-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/43642/43642-h.zip)\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\n      Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).\n\n      Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.\n\n      The carat character (^) indicates that the following\n      letter is superscripted (example: M^r).\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER 2/1900\n\n[Illustration: (_By permission of Messrs. Henry Graves and Co., Pall\nMall, S. W._)\n\nTHE LOST PIECE OF MONEY.\n\n(_By the late Sir John E. Millais, P.R.A._)]\n\n\n\n\nPICTORIAL SERMONS.\n\n[Illustration: (_By permission of William Coltart, Esq._)\n\nJOSEPH INTRODUCING JACOB TO PHARAOH.\n\n(_By Sir Edward J. Poynter, P.R.A._)]\n\n\nWith truth and beauty as the objects of his art, the painter,\nwhatever be the subject he is endeavouring to depict, becomes a\nguide and helpmeet to his fellow-men. His art is \"twice blessed,\"\nblessing \"him that gives and him that takes.\" The contemplation\nof a beautiful and pure work of art acts as a charm upon the\nmind oppressed with care and trouble. A landscape on canvas,\nreflecting the sunshine of the countryside, suggesting its freedom\nof atmosphere, its \"fair quiet and sweet rest,\" when seen in the\nmidst of the toil and grime of a great city, is a sedative to the\njaded nerves of the busy worker; it reminds him of the glories of\nnature which lie outside the boundaries of the man-made wilderness\nof houses, and brings him for the moment into close commune with\nNature herself. A glimpse of blue sea, of clear running stream, or\nsome sweet pastoral scene, carries with it a breath of fresh air,\ninvigorating and refreshing, to those who gaze upon its brightness\nthrough the murky atmosphere of the city streets.\n\nThe painter, indeed, has a power which competes closely with the\neloquence of the preacher, or the soothing rhythm of the poet; it\nraises the man who approaches his work with a receptive heart from\nhis own petty self, enlarges his sympathies and his hopes, calms\nhis troubles, and sends him back refreshed and invigorated to his\nstruggle with the cares and troubles of his daily life.\n\nA great picture is not so much one that displays the technical skill\nof the painter as his power to appeal to the emotions of those who\nlook at it. Truth is at all times simple, and he who would expound\nit, either in sermon, poem, or picture, must do so in language which\ncan be readily understood of the people. This does not make his\ntask any the lighter, for any straining after effects of simplicity\nbetrays his own lack of truth; simplicity must be spontaneous--from\nthe heart.\n\nJudging a picture, then, by this standard of simplicity and truth,\nwe look first of all for these qualities; we look to see if the\nartist is sincere in his representation of the scene he presents\nto us. If we find this to be so, then we receive the work as a\ncontribution to the truth we are seeking. Some painters force\nus to recognise their skill as colourists, as draughtsmen, as\narch\u00e6ologists--they have insisted upon their accuracy in these\nrespects, but oftentimes at the sacrifice of all spirituality; their\npictures are representations of costume, of architecture--what\nyou will--but the true spirit of art is lacking; they are merely\nskilfully painted canvases.\n\nIn no direction is this more apparent than in pictures dealing\nwith religious subjects. In such works we especially want to feel\nimmediately we look at them, \"Here is an honest effort to realise\nthe true spirit of the subject: here is something which is helpful,\ninspiring, _good_.\" We do not want to be forced to admire the\naccessories before we realise this; that should follow in due\ncourse, and will, if the picture has been designed and executed\nin the right spirit. As in a spoken sermon we fail to grasp the\nteaching as we should if we see the framework upon which the\npreacher has built up the fabric of his oration, so in a pictorial\nsermon we lose the good that is in it if we are impressed first of\nall with the details of technique or composition. The appeal to the\nheart should come first--that to the head should be secondary.\n\n[Illustration: (_By permission of the Artist. Copyright reserved._)\n\n\"AND THERE WAS A GREAT CRY IN EGYPT.\"\n\n(_By Arthur Hacker, A.R.A._)]\n\nThe helpfulness and interest of Biblical pictures to young and old\nis acknowledged by all. The pictorial Bible is a never-ending source\nof delight, and its influence is extraordinary in its extent and\npower. Our ideas of Scriptural scenes and incidents have often been\nformed more by the illustrations than by the Biblical narrative\nitself, and we have often been almost pained in after-life on\nseeing the attempts of other artists to depict scenes which differ\nmaterially from those for which we acquired a fondness in our\nearly days, although we recognise the fact then that many of these\nfavourite pictures are in no wise worthy of their subjects. After\nall, pictorial Bibles are, as a rule, unsatisfactory. More's the\npity! The range of subjects is so vast, and the artists employed\nhave seldom succeeded in impressing their representations with any\ndegree of the dignity attaching to them. Even the versatile genius\nof Gustavo Dor\u00e9 could not respond successfully to the gigantic work,\nalthough of the few artists who have grappled with it, he creates\nthe greatest amount of interest.\n\n[Illustration: (_From the Fresco in the House of Lords._)\n\nMOSES' DESCENT FROM SINAI.\n\n(_By J. R. Herbert, R.A._)]\n\nAn interesting volume has recently been published in which are\ngathered together pictures, by modern artists of varied nationality,\nwhich illustrate the Bible story from Genesis to Revelation, and\nwhich affords an excellent opportunity of studying the manner\nin which Biblical subjects have impressed artists of different\ncountries and temperaments.[1] Each has chosen to illustrate\nthe portion of Scripture which appealed to his own particular\ninclination, and the result is a collection of pictures which\ncannot fail to interest all who examine it. There are reproductions\nof the vast conceptions of John Martin, which so impressed his\ncontemporaries--\"Belshazzar's Feast,\" \"The Fall of Babylon,\" and\n\"The Fall of Nineveh\"--with their hundreds of figures struggling,\nwrithing, fighting, and dying amid the gorgeous palaces and the\nbuildings of those wonderful cities of old. The curiously eccentric\ngenius of Turner is shown in his \"Deluge\" and \"Destruction of\nSodom\"--in the one, the swirling rush of the destroying torrent\nsweeping away crowds of doomed humanity; in the other, the glare and\nsmoke of the burning City of the Plain, the tottering columns of\nthe buildings, and the wild hurryings of the affrighted citizens.\nNow the sensuous dancings and frivolities of \"The World before\nthe Flood,\" by William Etty, R.A.: and now the grim pictures of\nthe Biblical tragedies from the brushes of the masters of the\nFrench School. Here the calm, peaceful creations of Burne-Jones\nand Rossetti--decoratively beautiful--and then the prettily human\npictures of Dyce and Herbert. The modern German artists who\ndelight in representing Christ living among and appealing to the\npeople of our day--the school in which Herr Fritz von Uhde stands\npre-eminent--are represented by \"Christ's Call to the Sick and\nWeary,\" by Herr A. Dietrich.\n\n  [1] \"Sacred Art: The Bible Story Pictured by Eminent Modern\n  Painters.\" Edited by A. G. Temple, F.S.A. (Cassell & Co., Ltd.)\n\nFrom this series of pictures we have selected some typical works\nwith which to illustrate this article, and these will serve to show\nthe variety and interest of the whole.\n\nThe President of the Royal Academy, Sir Edward J. Poynter, delights\nin rendering classic scenes and stories on his canvases, and of late\nyears has turned his attention almost entirely to such; but twenty\nor so years ago he painted several religious pictures, and was one\nof the artists chosen by Messrs. Dalziel to illustrate their great\nedition of the Bible. Egypt seems especially to have fascinated\nhim, for, in addition to the picture of \"Joseph Introducing Jacob\nto Pharaoh,\" he painted another large canvas dealing with the\ncaptivity, in which crowds of Israelites are dragging a great,\nclumsy trolley on which is placed an enormous stone lion for the\ndecoration of a temple. In this picture, as in the one illustrated\non page 387, the artist has exhibited his love for Egyptian\narchitecture, with its massive pillars covered with mysterious\nsymbols. But in the latter work Sir Edward Poynter has made the\nhuman element predominant; and the simple, pathetic figure of the\npatriarch, leaning heavily on his staff and on the shoulder of his\nlong-lost son, stands out in contrast with the languorous splendour\nof the Pharaoh.\n\n[Illustration: CHRIST IN THE HOUSE OF HIS PARENTS.\n\n(_By the late Sir John E. Millais, P.R.A._)]\n\nVastly impressive and weird is Mr. Hacker's \"And there was a great\ncry in Egypt.\" This artist has on more than one occasion exhibited\nworks of a religious nature at the Royal Academy; but none better\nthan the one before us and \"The Annunciation,\" purchased for the\nChantrey Collection, and now in the National Gallery of British Art.\nThe picture reproduced on page 388 illustrates the passage in Exodus\n(xii. 30): \"And there was a great cry in Egypt; for there was not\na house where there was not one dead.\" It is in its suggestiveness\nthat the picture tells: we see none of the horrors of the last\nplague; they are only suggested in the title. The silent, sorrowing\nfigure of the Angel of Death, sweeping through the city with flaming\nsword in hand and trailing robe of black--symbol of the train of\nsorrow he leaves behind him--is noble and dignified. Carried along\non swift wings through the deserted streets of the stricken city,\nthe destroyer touches in each household the doomed \"first-born,\" and\nonly that weird, heart-breaking cry rising on the night air tells of\nthe sorrow and misery that mark his track.\n\nThe next illustration (page 389) deals with the incident of Moses'\nsecond descent from Sinai, bearing the re-written tables of the law,\nand is the work of J. R. Herbert, R.A. It forms one of the series of\nfrescoes in the House of Lords.\n\n\"Ruth and Naomi\" (page 393) is one of the best of the Scriptural\nsubjects treated by the late P. H. Calderon, R.A., and hangs in the\nWalker Art Gallery at Liverpool. The passage illustrated is that in\nwhich Ruth makes her impassioned appeal: \"Intreat me not to leave\nthee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou\ngoest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people\nshall be my people, and thy God my God\"; and the artist has imparted\nto the beautiful figure of Ruth all the intensity and passion to\nwhich the words give utterance.\n\n[Illustration:  (_By permission of Miss Armitage._)\n\nFAITH.\n\n(_By the late E. Armitage, R.A._)]\n\nWe now pass on to the New Testament--the section most favoured by\nartists, for the attraction of its central Figure is as overpowering\nfor the painter of to-day as it has been to those of the intervening\nages. The picture on page 390 of \"Christ in the House of His\nParents,\" by the late Sir John Millais, is one of the earliest and\nmost noted of the painter's works. When exhibited at the Royal\nAcademy in 1850 (Millais was then but twenty years of age), it had\nfor its inscription, \"And one shall say unto him, What are these\nwounds in thine hands? Then he shall answer, Those with which I was\nwounded in the house of my friends\" (Zechariah xiii. 6). The picture\naroused a veritable storm of hostile criticism, scorn and contumely\nbeing poured on painting and painter alike. Charles Dickens, in\nhis _Household Words_, pronounced it as \"mean, odious, revolting,\nand repulsive,\" and other critics found fault with it in equally\nstrong language. It was then that the title of \"The Carpenter's\nShop\" was scornfully bestowed upon it, and by which it has since\nbeen generally known: it has, however, long been recognised as one\nof the most wonderful contributions to modern British art, quite\napart from any consideration of the age of the artist when he\npainted it. The perfect draughtsmanship, the wonderful colouring,\nthe marvellous skill displayed in the whole composition, were all\noverlooked by the contemporary critics; all they considered was\nthe--to them--execrable taste of the artist in representing Christ\nin an ordinary carpenter's shop! The beautiful allegories contained\nin the work were all ignored, and abuse for the conception alone\ngiven place.\n\n[Illustration: \"ECCE HOMO!\"\n\n(_By Professor Ciseri._)]\n\nAnd yet, when it is examined, what is there to find fault with in\nthis respect? Absolutely nothing. The artist set himself to paint\nfrom nature; the work appeals directly to the observant eye by its\nsimple force; even the symbols are not intricate when carefully\nconsidered. The Child, whilst playing with the pincers in His\nfather's workshop, has injured His hand on a rusty nail protruding\nfrom the wood on the bench. Joseph draws back the fingers to examine\nthe wound (the symbolism of which is obvious enough), and Mary,\nwith grief and motherly anxiety portrayed on every line of her\nface, seeks to soothe the Boy, and with a piece of linen prepares\nto bind up the hand. St. John is coming with a bowl of water with\nwhich to bathe the injury, and St. Anne leans forward to remove the\ntool which contributed to the hurt. On the ladder against the wall\nrests a dove--the emblem of peace--and through the open doorway can\nbe seen a flock of sheep huddled close to a fence, emblematical of\nthe faithful, the Church of Christ. Farther out in the meadow is a\nwell--the well of Truth.\n\n[Illustration: (_Reproduced by permission from the Original Painting\nin the possession of the Liverpool Corporation._)\n\nRUTH AND NAOMI.\n\n(_By P. H. Calderon, R.A._)]\n\nThe picture was painted on commission for Mr. Farrar, the well-known\ndealer, for the sum of \u00a3250--a large sum in those days for a work\nby a young man.\n\nThis picture will form the subject of one of the fine art plates\noffered to readers of THE QUIVER, on conditions which are\nstated elsewhere in this number. Lord Leighton's well-known painting\n\"The Star in the East,\" and the masterpieces of four other eminent\nartists, will also be included; the whole forming a set of sacred\npictures, suitable for framing, of permanent value and interest for\nevery Christian home as well as every Sunday school and mission hall.\n\nThe other picture by Millais, which is reproduced as the\nfrontispiece to this number, was based upon a drawing which the\nartist made for Messrs. Routledge, in 1853, for a series of \"The\nParables of our Lord.\" The painting, however, was not made until\n1862, when it was exhibited at the Royal Academy. It was afterwards\ntotally destroyed in a gas explosion at Baron Marochetti's house.\n\nThe picture \"Faith,\" by the late E. Armitage, R.A. (see page 391),\nis an excellent illustration of the passage, \"For she said within\nherself, If I may but touch His garment, I shall be whole.\"\n\nThe tragedy of the betrayal, and the perfidy of Judas, have been\nthe subjects of innumerable pictures; and that of \"Judas,\" by\nHenry Tidey, which we reproduce, is typical of many. The betrayer\nis represented here when leaving the house in which is being held\nthe sacred feast on the night of the betrayal. The pose of the man\nreveals the shame which he is feeling; hesitating yet as to whether\nhis fell purpose shall be accomplished.\n\n[Illustration: (_In the possession of Mrs. Noble._)\n\nJUDAS GOING OUT.\n\n(_By Henry Tidey._)]\n\nThe illustration on page 392 shows us the memorable scene when\nPilate exclaims to the multitude surrounding the palace, \"Behold\nthe Man!\" The work of a modern Italian artist, this picture is an\nadmirable rendering of the tragic event, the subdued patience of the\ncentral Figure contrasting strongly with that of the subservient\nprefect.\n\n  ARTHUR FISH.\n\n\n\n\n[NEW SERIAL STORY.\n\n[Illustration: FOR THE SAKE OF HER CHILD]\n\nBy Scott Graham, Author of \"The Link between Them,\" Etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nDependent upon Charity.\n\n\nIt was a radiant June morning, and the fashionable\nwatering-place--Beachbourne--was looking its best in the brilliant\nsunshine. Smart carriages dashed past, well-dressed cyclists\ncareered gaily along, and the High Street shops were thronged with\nfashionable customers.\n\nA tall, refined-looking girl, whose exquisitely fitting garb lent\nadditional elegance to her graceful figure, came along the pavement,\nholding by the hand a pretty, fair-haired child of six, likewise\nbeautifully dressed. At a confectioner's window the child suddenly\nstopped. \"Oh, mummy, do buy me one of those dear little chocolate\npigs! I haven't had any sweets for ever so long!\"\n\n\"Don't tease, Doris. I have no money to buy sweets.\"\n\nThe child opened great eyes of wonder.\n\n\"Why, mummy, you've got shillings, sovewins, great heaps of them,\nin your purse! I saw them!\" she remonstrated. And, indeed, Mrs.\nBurnside's dainty, silver-mounted purse was literally bulging with\ncoin.\n\n\"They all belong to auntie, and she wants them to pay her bills.\"\nAnd she turned resolutely from the enticing window, whereupon Doris,\nwho was tired with the walk and the heat, burst into loud crying.\n\nAs her mortified mother strove to check her, a young man in a\nprofessional frock-coat and tall hat, who was passing, turned to\nsee the cause of the uproar. Mrs. Burnside's fair face flushed. \"My\nlittle girl is very naughty this morning, Dr. Inglis,\" she said,\nanswering the inquiry in his grey eyes. They were but slightly\nacquainted, occasionally meeting in society.\n\n\"I want--a choc'late pig,\" wailed Doris. \"Mummy won't buy me\none--unkind mummy!\"\n\n\"Hush, Doris,\" rebuked the young doctor. \"A chocolate pig! If that's\nall the trouble----\" and he fingered the few coins in his vest\npocket. \"May she have one, Mrs. Burnside?\"\n\nSo Doris got her wish; and, once inside the confectioner's, she\nfancied so many things that very little remained to Dr. Inglis out\nof a shilling; and he needed all his shillings badly. But he loved\nchildren, and already May Burnside's blue eyes had begun to haunt\nhim, She held out her beautifully gloved hand with a grateful smile;\nand he noticed how thoroughbred she looked as she went with the now\nhappy Doris down the sunny street.\n\nThere was a shadow on the young man's face as he sped home to his\nscanty luncheon. He was too poor to take a house, so he rented\nthree rooms in a sedate-looking villa in a side street. Doctors\nsimply swarmed at Beachbourne, and sometimes Harold Inglis doubted\nthe wisdom of trying to work up a connection there. The eldest\nson of an impoverished country squire, he had to depend upon his\nown exertions; and, after a brilliant college career, came to\nBeachbourne, hoping to work up a practice, as he was too poor to buy\none. Could he have taken a fine house and kept a carriage, he might\nhave succeeded; for he was a gentleman to the backbone, and had a\npleasant face and manner. But he remained almost unknown, and, after\na year of heart-breaking disappointments, found himself barely able\nto live.\n\nBefore sitting down to the bread and cheese awaiting him in the bare\nlittle sitting-room, he thriftily changed his frock-coat for an old\nboating blazer. Dress was a terribly heavy item in his expenditure;\nthe well-cut clothes, the glossy hat, and the snowy linen\nprescribed by medical etiquette being only procured at the cost of\nsemi-starvation. To the hungry labourer or vagrant many people will\ngive a meal; but, to my mind, the gentleman who has to go hungry\nthat he may be well-dressed is far more deserving of pity. And many\na professional man _has_ to go hungry in these sad days when \"all\nthe markets overflow.\"\n\nMeanwhile May and Doris Burnside were bound for Victoria Square,\nthe most fashionable locality in Beachbourne. Mrs. Burnside resided\nwith her aunt, Miss Waller, a sprightly spinster of fifty, who\nlived at the very top of her handsome income, and was a leader of\nlocal fashion. A smart footman opened the door, and the beautiful\ndrawing-room they entered was a great contrast to Dr. Inglis's bare\nsitting-room.\n\n[Illustration: \"I want a choc'late pig,\" wailed Doris.--_p. 395._]\n\nMiss Waller, a good-looking woman with white hair, and very richly\ndressed, turned round from a fine old Chippendale writing-table.\n\"Oh! there you are.\" Then, as Doris began some childish babble about\nthe chocolate pig, she added impatiently, \"Ring for Mary to take\nthat child upstairs. I wish you wouldn't bring her in here!\"\n\nMiss Waller had no love for children; and Doris was too well\ntrained to defy her great-aunt. Still hugging her precious sweets,\nshe was whisked away; whilst the spinster, producing a gilt-edged\naccount-book, methodically entered the sums paid by her niece that\nmorning out of a twenty-pound note. Every halfpenny was accounted\nfor, and when May closed her purse just one solitary sixpence\nremained in it which she could really call her own. Sometimes she\nhad not even that.\n\n\"I've ordered the carriage for three,\" announced Miss Waller. \"We\nmust call on Lady Lee, and the Amberys, and it's Mrs. Edgell's 'at\nhome' day. Put on your grey dress and your new hat.\"\n\n\"Yes, aunt,\" meekly responded May.\n\n\"And to-morrow you must unpick my green dinner-dress. I intend to\nhave it dyed.\"\n\n\"Yes, aunt,\" repeated Mrs. Burnside, as she went to the door. \"Yes,\naunt,\" was what she was obliged to say all day long; to have said\n\"No, aunt,\" would have been a complete reversal of all the Victoria\nSquare traditions.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo do good by stealth is unfashionable nowadays, and when Miss\nWaller, to her great disgust, found herself obliged to offer a\nhome to her widowed niece and her child, she took care that all\nBeachbourne should know and extol her generosity.\n\n\"How delightful for Mrs. Burnside to have such a luxurious home!\"\nremarked many people who saw the aunt and niece that afternoon,\ngorgeously arrayed; for it was known that, but for Miss Waller, May\nwould have been obliged to earn a living. Many a tired governess or\npoor shop-assistant looked enviously at the pretty girl dashing by\nin the smart carriage--the pretty girl who was dressed in silk and\nchiffon, but had only sixpence in her pocket!\n\nThe daughter of a struggling country doctor, May had fallen in\nlove at eighteen with a handsome but dissipated assistant of her\nfather's, who persuaded her into a clandestine marriage. She knew\nArthur Burnside was far from steady, but it seemed noble and heroic\nto marry him that she might undertake his reformation. Poor foolish\nchild! she failed to realise that if a man is too weak to stand\nalone, without some woman to prop him up continually, the chances\nare that he will bring ruin upon both. May shuddered to recall those\nfour miserable years of ill-treatment, disgrace, and privation,\nwhich ended in the death of her husband, and left her absolutely\npenniless. Her father was dead, his other children were scattered,\nand, but for Miss Waller, she and Doris might have starved.\n\nYet, despite the outward prosperity of her new life, she found the\nbread of dependence so bitter that, but for Doris, she would have\ntried to earn her living. She was not highly educated, and could\nonly have hoped for a subordinate post; but it was so galling\nnever to have a garment to wear or a coin to spend, save through\nher aunt's bounty, that she often thought she would be happier\nas a nurse or parlourmaid. She mixed as an equal with rich and\nfashionable people, and had to talk as if want of money were\nabsolutely unknown, though she could not even afford to buy her\nchild a few sweets. She dared not ask her aunt for pocket-money, for\nshe well knew that, though Miss Waller supplied her with fashionable\nclothes, it was only because she could not bear to be disgraced by\nshabby relations, and she secretly grudged every penny spent on\nher niece. Yet she dared not quarrel with her aunt, who was her\nonly hope for a good education for her child. May was resolved\nthat Doris should be so accomplished that, if needful, she could\nearn her bread. \"Oh, if only I had not been so idle at school! If\nI had practised, and talked to Fr\u00e4ulein more!\" poor May thought to\nherself, with unavailing regret, as the country roads flitted by.\n\nBut she had little leisure for these sad thoughts. She had to brace\nherself to play her part in three crowded drawing-rooms, as if she\nhad not a care in the world. Miss Waller was well pleased with the\nadmiration her graceful niece always excited in society; and, thanks\nto May, the spinster received many invitations which might not\notherwise have arrived. Miss Waller had a horror of being classed as\na frump; instead, she prided herself on being exceedingly modern and\nup-to-date.\n\n\"Just fancy that plain little Daisy Edgell being engaged to a\nLiverpool man with heaps of money!\" she remarked as they rolled\nhomewards. \"We met him at the Hubbards' last year, if you remember.\"\n\n\"I thought him very ugly and commonplace.\"\n\n\"Perhaps--but so rich! I wish _you_ could be as lucky, May. What a\npity there are so few really eligible men at Beachbourne!\"\n\n\"If there were ever so many, aunt, I couldn't bear to marry again.\"\n\n\"And, pray, why not? You're only twenty-five; surely you are not\ngoing to mourn all your days for that precious husband of yours?\"\ncried the spinster sharply.\n\n\"It is just because my first marriage was so unhappy that I never\nwish to marry again. As to marrying for money--I couldn't do it!\"\n\n\"What nonsense! Isn't it done every day? It's all very fine to\ntalk, May, but you know my income is only for my life, and I've\nhardly saved anything, so that when I die you'll be left without a\nhome; and then what's to become of you and Doris? You _must_ marry\nagain--there's nothing else for it.\"\n\nIt was not the first time May had listened to such counsels; and she\nwas well aware that, should her aunt die prematurely, she herself\nwould again be homeless. Miss Waller was not the woman to deny\nherself in order to save money for her niece. She must have the fine\nhouse and carriage, the handsome dress, and the dinner-parties which\nher soul loved; and she found May very useful in arranging flowers,\nwriting letters, and making not a few articles of personal adornment\nfor her aunt with her clever fingers.\n\nTheir nearest way home lay through the quiet street in which Harold\nInglis lived--or, rather, starved--and, as he chanced to be at the\nsurgery window mixing a powder, he saw the carriage driving by. The\nsinking sun was burnishing May's golden-brown hair; and her profile,\nbeneath her gauzy hat, looked very fair and sweet. He sighed, as he\nwent back to his powder, for the contrast between her lot and his\nown seemed a little too glaring. He did not know that all the time\nshe had only sixpence in her purse, while he could actually boast of\nhalf-a-crown!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTwo Heavy Hearts.\n\n\nDoris was never allowed to partake of meals with Miss Waller,\nwho disliked having to regulate her conversation according to\ninquisitive childish ears. The little girl lived in the upper\nregions with Mary, who divided the duties of lady's maid and nurse.\nAfter breakfast one morning, May, having done what was required by\nMiss Waller, went upstairs to give Doris the lessons which, so far,\nformed her sole instruction. She found the child flushed and heated\nafter a combat with Mary.\n\n\"She's that cross, I can't do anything with her,\" grumbled the\nmaid, who dutifully imitated her mistress in hating children. \"She\nwouldn't eat her nice egg at breakfast, and she's pulled all her\ndolly's hair off--see.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid she's not well,\" said the mother gravely, as the child\nburied her face in May's skirt, sobbing fretfully. Her little hands\nwere burning, her cheeks flushed, and red spots showed on the\npeach-like skin. \"Ask Miss Waller if Jane may go for the doctor,\"\nMay continued, dreading lest she had taken measles.\n\nMiss Waller gave permission to summon the family physician, Dr.\nEllis, who was the most fashionable practitioner in Beachbourne, and\ndrove his carriage and pair; but Jane returned to say that both the\ndoctor and his partner were out.\n\n\"Then go and fetch the nearest doctor at once!\" commanded Miss\nWaller. \"I must know whether it's infectious or not, so that I may\ntake precautions. How vexing it will be,\" she complained to her\nniece, \"if Doris is laid up for weeks, and the house placed in\nquarantine, just as all the gaieties are beginning! There's the\nMowbrays' dinner next week, and Lady Lee's picnic, and the Clares'\nmusical party--oh, dear!\"\n\nNot a word of sympathy for the poor child! May clenched her hands\npassionately in her struggle to restrain an angry reply. It was in\nmoments like this that her shackles seemed absolutely intolerable.\n\nPresently Jane returned, followed by Harold Inglis, the first\ndisengaged doctor she could find. May was glad not to behold an\nabsolute stranger, and stood by anxiously until he had examined\nthe little patient, whose malady he pronounced to be chicken-pox.\nHe wrote a prescription, gave a few simple directions, and then\nfollowed May downstairs to reassure Miss Waller, who was eager \"to\nknow the worst,\" as she put it.\n\nShe was very gracious at being relieved from anxiety, and remarked\nblandly, \"It was very kind of you to come so promptly, Dr. Inglis.\nOur usual medical attendant is Dr. Ellis, but he was out. As it's\nsuch a trifling matter, don't trouble to see Doris again. If you\nwill be good enough to send in your account for this visit, I will\nsettle it at once.\"\n\nAnd she bowed him out, as if determined to quench any hope he\nmight entertain of being privileged to attend in Victoria Square.\nAlthough, of course, medical etiquette forbade his interfering with\nDr. Ellis's patients, he felt somewhat disappointed as he went\naway. He was so weary of waiting in his dingy sitting-room for the\npatients who never came!\n\nMay ventured a word to her aunt when they were alone. \"I wish we\ncould help Dr. Inglis to find a few patients, aunt! He seems so nice\nand kind.\"\n\n\"There are far too many doctors in Beachbourne!\" pronounced the\nspinster. \"I shall certainly not leave Dr. Ellis--he gives such\ndelightful dinner-parties!\"\n\nHarold plodded dejectedly home, to learn, as usual, that nobody had\ncalled during his absence; and, after thriftily changing his coat,\nhe entered his little surgery, to find a packet on the table which\nhad come by post. It was the manuscript of an article on throat\naffections, which he had sent to a medical paper in the hope of\nearning a little money. It had entailed great labour and research,\nonly to be rejected with the curt intimation that the editor had no\nopening for such a subject.\n\n\"What _can_ I do?\" he distractedly asked himself. \"I've called on\neverybody I can scrape acquaintance with; I've joined the local\nclubs; I'm a Volunteer and a Freemason--what more can I do to bring\nmyself into notice?\"\n\n\"A note for you, sir,\" said the maid-of-all-work, appearing at the\ndoor.\n\nHe snatched it eagerly, hoping to find a summons; but, alas! it was\nonly a bill from a jobbing-tailor whom he had employed to renovate\nvarious garments _sub rosa_. He had no money to pay it; although it\nwent sorely against the grain to keep the poor man from his due.\nHe paced in distress up and down the narrow room, wishing he dare\nstart out for a long walk, to distract his thoughts. But he dreaded\nto leave, lest in his absence some desirable patient might send for\nhim. And so, hanging about listlessly, unable to settle to anything,\nthe dismal morning passed, like too many others; and Ann brought in\nhis meal of bread and cheese, from which he rose nearly as hungry\nas he sat down. He looked at himself in the spotty pier-glass. His\ncheeks were falling in, and there were hollows beneath his eyes, due\nentirely to insufficient nourishment.\n\nA card stuck in the frame reminded him that Mrs. Ormsby-Paulet was\n\"at home\" that afternoon. \"It's a tennis party--shall I go?\" he\ndebated. It seemed a mockery to mingle in a scene of gaiety with\nsuch a leaden weight at his heart; but a prosaic consideration\ndecided him. \"There'll be a good tea, at least, and if I make myself\nvery agreeable, perhaps they'll ask me to stay to dinner. Besides, I\nmay get to know some people who'll employ me.\"\n\nHe dressed himself carefully, and sallied forth; informing the\nservant of his destination, in case anybody should send for him.\nDespite his thin cheeks, there was not a better-looking man at \"The\nDene\" that afternoon; for he looked a gentleman to the backbone, and\nas such, his hostess--who was very short of men--smiled upon him\ngraciously.\n\n\"So glad you were able to come,\" she cooed. \"Miss Waller,\" to the\nspinster, who had just arrived, \"may I introduce my friend, Dr.\nInglis?\"\n\n\"I have already made his acquaintance,\" was the suave answer; and\nthen Harold, to his surprise, was greeted by Mrs. Burnside, looking\nvery fair and sweet in a cool white linen gown. He had not expected\nto meet her; he naturally supposed her place to be by the bedside of\nher sick child. In truth, she was only present at her aunt's urgent\nentreaty.\n\n\"I'm afraid she must be rather heartless,\" thought the young doctor,\nfeeling oddly disappointed. He had not hitherto attributed want of\nfeeling to the owner of those pathetic blue eyes. Nevertheless, as\nsets were being made up, he asked her to be his partner, she being\nfamed in Beachbourne as a tennis-player.\n\nShe complied; but the set was not a success. He could not have\nbelieved that Mrs. Burnside could play so badly; they were beaten by\nsix games to two.\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" she said humbly, as they quitted the court. \"I know\nit was all my fault; but I really couldn't play--I was thinking of\nDoris all the time.\"\n\nHer lips quivered, so that he could no longer imagine her heartless.\n\"Your little girl will be well in a few days--there is really no\ncause for anxiety,\" he answered gently, angry with himself for\nhaving misjudged her.\n\n\"That is what Aunt Caroline says, and she insisted on my coming,\"\nplaintively returned May; but just then Miss Waller appeared,\nresplendent in mauve satin, with a stout, black-haired, middle-aged,\nand shrewd-looking man, very carefully dressed, in tow.\n\n\"I came to look for you, dear,\" she began very sweetly to her niece,\nmerely giving a cold bow to Harold. \"I want to introduce Mr. Lang to\nyou. He knows our friends the Wingates in town.\"\n\nWith that, the excellent spinster turned away; and May, finding no\nresource save to accept the basket-chair in the shade proffered by\nthe stranger--as Harold had prudently effaced himself--prepared for\na _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ with a man she had never seen before in her life.\n\n[Illustration: \"It was very kind of you to come so promptly, Dr.\nInglis.\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\"Manners Maketh Man.\"\n\n\n\"Do you mind my smoking?\" began Mr. Lang, after a moment's keen\nscrutiny of the graceful figure beside him. Hardly waiting for\npermission, he produced a gold case and lighted a cigarette. \"Been\nplaying tennis, haven't you?\" he continued in an off-hand way.\n\"Stupid game, not half so good as golf--you should try golf.\"\n\n\"I have tried it, and I don't like it.\"\n\n\"Beginners seldom do. It's a fine game, for all that. You live with\nyour aunt, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, in Victoria Square.\"\n\n\"Do you like Beachbourne?\"\n\nShe hesitated a moment before replying, \"Yes.\"\n\n\"I suppose it's like all these provincial towns--heaps of gossip\nand scandal, eh? But you should be in London now, Mrs. Burnside.\nThere hasn't been as gay a season for years. I shouldn't be here\nnow, I can tell you, but I got a touch of fever last time I was at\nJohannesburg, and, as I can't quite shake it off, my doctor ordered\nme complete rest for a fortnight. So I came down here to stay with\nthe Stevensons. I met them last year at Homburg, and ever since\nthey've been pestering me with invitations to Beachbourne.\"\n\n[Illustration: The set was not a success.--_p. 399._]\n\n\"Oh, have you been out in Africa?\" returned May, thinking it best to\nignore his flattering reference to his entertainers.\n\n\"Spent nearly twenty years there. I can remember when there wasn't\na gold mine on the Randt. And, though I've come back to England\nfor good now, I generally run over about twice a year. It's just\na nice little trip to the Cape, and they really do you very well\non the mail steamers,\" he condescendingly added, as he lighted\nanother cigarette. \"By-the-bye, this case is made of African gold--a\nnugget I found myself in the claim which was the beginning of the\nSpringkloof Mine. You've heard of the Springkloof, of course?\"\n\nShe shook her head, and he looked at her with evident pity for her\nignorance. \"I didn't think there was anybody nowadays who hadn't\nheard of the Springkloof!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid you'll think us rather behind the times at Beachbourne,\"\nshe said, as she rose, hoping to shake off her new acquaintance;\nbut he rose, too, and kept by her side as she strolled through the\nbeautiful grounds, speaking first to one friend and then to another.\n\n\"Not many pretty girls here, I must say,\" he observed disparagingly,\nas they approached the house, in quest of the tea-room.\n\n\"Are you an admirer of beauty?\" asked May, with a rather sarcastic\nglance at his tubby figure.\n\n\"Quite so. I love the best of everything there is. As soon as I\ncan find a girl pretty enough, I intend to marry,\" he replied\nwith perfect gravity. \"It's rather lonely all by myself in Palace\nGardens. Do you like the Palace Gardens houses, Mrs. Burnside?\"\n\n\"I've never been in one, and I don't even know where they are. I\nknow very little about London, and very few people there--just the\nWingates, and one or two others.\"\n\n\"Are the Wingates any relation?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, only old friends of my aunt's. I hardly know them.\"\n\n\"Well, it's not much loss. I don't mean any disrespect to your\naunt, but old Mother Wingate isn't a woman I should ever wish to\nconfide in, myself. She's always trying to catch me for one of her\nplain daughters--dear Maggie or dear Amy! By the way, what's your\nChristian name, Mrs. Burnside?\"\n\n\"May.\"\n\n\"And, by Jove, it suits you! So often girls' names don't. You find\nLily as black as a crow, and Rose as sallow as she can be, and\nQueenie a little, insignificant dowdy with a turned-up nose!\"\n\nHe talked in this carping strain while he consumed a fair amount\nof refreshments, none of which, however, were good enough for his\ncritical taste. He evidently thought a great deal about eating and\ndrinking, for he incidentally mentioned that he gave his _chef_ two\nhundred a year.\n\n\"What a waste!\" was on the tip of May's tongue, as she thought\nhow useful even a tenth of that sum would be to herself. The tea\nwas cosily set out on a number of little tables in the spacious,\nold-fashioned dining-room. Gay groups were seated at each, and not\nfar off was Harold Inglis, talking cheerfully with two of his host's\ndaughters. May glanced from him to her companion, noticing how\ncommon and plebeian Mr. Lang looked when contrasted with him.\n\nAs she quitted the table Harold, who had apparently been lying in\nwait, crossed over to speak to her. \"Would you like to play again,\nMrs. Burnside? I can easily make up a set, if you wish.\"\n\nBut at this moment appeared Miss Waller, apparently from nowhere, to\nthrow cold water on the proposal. \"I think you had better not run\nabout any more this hot afternoon, love. You really must not tempt\nher, Dr. Inglis.\"\n\n\"There's croquet,\" suggested Harold; \"shall we play at that?\"\n\nAnd, though in general she detested croquet, May assented quite\neagerly, only anxious to shake off Mr. Lang. Miss Waller could not\nwell interfere again, and Mr. Lang did not play croquet, but he\nand the spinster sat on a garden seat close by till the game was\nfinished, rendering it difficult for Harold to say a word which\nthe watchful pair did not overhear. Divining from her erratic play\nthat May's mind was still running upon her sick child, he seized\nthe opportunity, when they were both searching for a ball which had\nrolled into the shrubbery, to say kindly: \"Don't fret about Doris.\nI assure you there's no need. The malady must run its course, and\nshe'll be all right afterwards. Only you must be careful she doesn't\nget a chill.\"\n\n\"I wish she could have you to attend her, instead of Dr. Ellis. She\ndetests him because he once deceived her about a powder she had to\ntake. But my aunt likes him----\"\n\n\"I believe he is a very clever man,\" hurriedly interposed Harold,\nmindful of professional etiquette. \"Doris will be quite safe with\nhim; indeed, she hardly needs a doctor.\"\n\n\"My aunt is always at home on Tuesdays--I hope you will come to see\nus,\" responded May, grateful for his manifest sympathy. She knew he\nhad few friends in Beachbourne, and resolved to do what she could to\nintroduce him.\n\nHis face lighted up unmistakably. \"Thank you so much, Mrs. Burnside!\nI shall be delighted to come, and I'll not forget Tuesday.\"\n\nMiss Waller was in a most complacent frame of mind as they drove\nhome through the beautiful June evening. \"What a fortunate thing I\nforbade you to be so foolish as to stay at home to nurse Doris!\" she\nbegan. \"Mr. Lang is a man worth knowing; he made an enormous fortune\nin South Africa--a million at least--and Mrs. Stevenson says his\nhouse in Palace Gardens is simply lovely. I'll ask him to dinner, to\nmeet some nice people.\"\n\nMay's delicate face flushed. \"He's not a gentleman!\" she said.\n\n\"I daresay he was not of much extraction originally, but what does\nthat matter nowadays? Money levels all distinctions; and I can see\nMrs. Stevenson would be only too glad to catch him for Edith.\"\n\n\"I thought his manner insufferably rude!\"\n\n\"My dear, that's because he's so run after in London; it always\nspoils a man to have dozens of girls angling for him. But he was\nundoubtedly struck by you; and I don't think you were very wise\nto go and play croquet with that Dr. Inglis as you did. He has\nagreeable manners, but he has not a penny-piece; and I don't believe\nhe'll ever get a practice here.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry for him, aunt, and--and I thought it only civil to ask\nhim to call----\"\n\nMiss Waller's brow contracted. \"I think you might have consulted me\nfirst. At best he is only a detrimental, and there are far too many\nhere already; but you always _were_ quixotic, May!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nLulu.\n\n\nWhit Sunday--which was late that year--was simply glorious, the heat\nbeing tempered by a delicious sea breeze. A vivacious, dark-eyed\ngirl, who accompanied Harold Inglis along the parade after morning\nservice, stopped again and again to gloat over the sapphire sea,\ntumbling in, foam-crested. \"How jolly for you, Harold, living in\nthis delicious place!\" she exclaimed. \"You ought to look better than\nyou do; you are much thinner than you were.\"\n\nHe evaded the subject, not wishing to sadden his favourite sister,\nLulu, with his shifts and privations. She had come down to\nBeachbourne to spend Whitsuntide with her brother, glad to escape\nfrom the stuffy London office in which she had to work hard for a\nliving.\n\n\"Oh, Harold! who are these smart people coming along?\"\n\nThey had already passed many well-dressed groups of residents,\nbut none presenting so imposing an appearance collectively as did\nstately Miss Waller, in heliotrope, May Burnside, in an exquisite\ncostume of pale grey silk and chiffon, Doris, a vision of childish\nprettiness in white muslin, and two or three equally well-dressed\nmen, conspicuous amongst whom was Mr. Lang. Harold's colour rose as\nhe lifted his hat, whilst Lulu eagerly exclaimed, \"Oh! who is that\npretty girl in grey? She looks quite fit for the Park!\"\n\nHe explained, secretly glad that his sister should admire his\ndivinity; but it was fortunate he could not hear what Miss Waller\nwas meanwhile saying to her niece: \"Who is that common-looking girl\nwith Dr. Inglis? She is most atrociously dressed.\"\n\nIt must be confessed that poor Lulu, who had little money for dress,\nfell far below the Victoria Square standard. \"Looks like a little\ndressmaker,\" sneered one of the men.\n\n\"A dressmaker would have better clothes,\" observed Miss Waller.\nHer eyes dwelt complacently on her niece's graceful figure, as\nshe spoke, and she was pleased to see how close Mr. Lang--who had\novertaken them in coming out of church--kept to May's elbow, despite\nthe black looks of Doris, who disliked him. The child was now quite\nwell again, some days having elapsed since the garden party.\n\n\"What are you going to do this afternoon. Mrs. Burnside? Will you\ncome for a drive?\" presently asked Mr Lang.\n\nBut May did not approve of Sunday driving. \"I promised to take Doris\nto the flower service, thank you.\"\n\n\"Why, you've been to church once already, Doris! You'd much better\npersuade your mother to bring you for a drive with me,\" cajoled he;\nbut the child burst out, \"No, I don't like you, and I don't want to\ndrive with you!\" so resolutely that he could not press it.\n\nMiss Waller frowned angrily. \"Really, May, the way you spoil Doris\nis beyond all reason. She is the rudest little girl I ever saw!\"\nAnd, to soothe the plutocrat's wounded feelings, she insisted upon\nhis coming home to luncheon with her. He was now a constant visitor\nin Victoria Square, for, having terminated his stay with the\nStevensons, he had taken rooms at the principal hotel.\n\nWhilst May, in her costly gown, sat chafing beneath Mr. Lang's\nglances of insolent admiration, at her aunt's luxuriously appointed\ntable, Harold and Lulu Inglis were very merry and happy over the\nplainest fare in his bare sitting-room. They had not met for a\nlong time, and a cheap Whitsuntide excursion was the reason of her\npresence now. As soon as they had finished, they started for the\nshore. Sitting on a big stone, beneath the shade of the cliffs, they\nhad a delightful chat, until Lulu suddenly exclaimed: \"Oh, Harold!\nHere's that pretty girl in grey we saw this morning!\"\n\nDoris, who loved the sea, had coaxed her mother to come down on\nthe shore after the service, and, seeing his companion, May bowed\nto Harold, and would have passed on, but he detained her. \"May I\nintroduce my sister, Miss Lucy Inglis, Mrs. Burnside?\"\n\nThere was something so frank and friendly about Lulu that very\nsoon, as Doris announced she was tired and wanted to rest, they\nwere all seated upon the big stone, upon which Miss Inglis insisted\non spreading her jacket, to protect May's dainty dress. Whilst his\nsister expatiated on the delights of Beachbourne, and wondered why\nher raptures evoked so little response from the young widow, Harold\nsat pondering whether he dare invite Mrs. Burnside to come to tea in\nhis bare and shabby rooms.\n\nTo his delight, she instantly accepted the invitation; eager, in\ntruth, to escape from the hated society of Mr. Lang. Harold then\nturned to Doris, gaily asking whether she would come too.\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" she answered with childish bluntness. \"I like you,\nbut I don't like Dr. Ellis--nasty man!--and I hate Mr. Lang.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't hate anybody, Doris,\" reproved May.\n\n\"But Mr. Lang calls me Little Crosspatch, and it's very rude of him\nto call me names, mummy.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Doris!\" cried Lulu mischievously, as they turned to go.\n\"Stick up for your rights--you'll be a 'New Woman' when you grow up.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" said May, in a low voice, to the amazement of Miss\nInglis, who exclaimed, with a glance at the costly equipment of the\nspeaker: \"I should never have expected _you_ to utter such a wish,\nMrs. Burnside!\"\n\nMay smiled with quiet bitterness. \"I have no wish to see Doris speak\non a platform, or go in for a man's profession; but I do feel, more\nand more, that it is better for women to be independent, whether\nthey marry or not.\"\n\n\"Why, that's just what I always say!\" cried Lulu delightedly. \"All\nwomen can't marry nowadays--there are not enough men to go round.\nBesides, what is more contemptible than to see girls sitting idle,\nwith their hands folded, waiting for somebody to come along and\nmarry them? No, every girl ought to be able to earn her own living,\nand then she's safe, whatever happens!\"\n\nNeedless to say, such maxims would have been entirely abhorrent to\nMiss Waller, who regarded working-girls with detestation, as May\nwell knew.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\"A Beautiful Anomaly.\"\n\n\nArrived at his rooms, Harold did the honours; not without fears lest\nMay should miss the luxuries of her home. But she enjoyed the change\nof surroundings with all the zest of a schoolgirl, and Doris, being\nmade much of, was as good as gold. Harold himself had not spent\nsuch a delightful hour since he came to Beachbourne, but his hour\nof bliss was all too short; for soon a summons came from a patient,\nand, though it was only a greengrocer in the next street, patients\nwere too precious to be slighted. So he departed, begging Mrs.\nBurnside to remain with Lulu until his return.\n\nLeft alone, the two girls settled down for a cosy chat; Doris being\nquite absorbed in an illustrated book Harold had produced picturing\nthe wonders of the microscope.\n\n\"Dear old Harold!\" began his sister. \"Don't think me silly, Mrs.\nBurnside, but I'm proud of him, knowing how hard he worked for his\ndegree. Will he ever get a good practice here, do you think?\"\n\n\"I hope so; but it takes time,\" answered May, rather embarrassed.\n\"Have you many brothers and sisters?\"\n\n\"There are six of us altogether--a formidable number, isn't it? But,\nI'm glad to say, we're all doing something, and don't cost dear old\ndad a penny. I remind Esther of that--she's my eldest sister--when\nshe grumbles, and wishes we were back at Mallowfield Hall.\"\n\n\"That was your father's place, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, our ancestors lived there centuries ago. This is the house.\"\nAnd she produced a photograph of an imposing mansion standing in\na spacious park, a residence which even Miss Waller would have\nacknowledged to be a magnificent property.\n\n\"What a lovely place! And you had to leave it?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"He's not a gentleman,\" she said.--_p. 401._]\n\n\"Yes, my grandfather was dreadfully extravagant, and since father\ncame into power the agricultural depression was the finishing\nstroke. It was cruelly hard to leave the dear old place, but the\nmortgagees foreclosed, and we all had to turn out. Dad and mother\nwent to live in Cornwall, where she owns a tiny cottage. Harold\npassed as a doctor, Jack's at Johannesburg, and Ted's in Australia.\nThen Connie, my youngest sister, is companion to an old lady, and\nEsther and I share a cupboard of a flat with an old schoolfellow,\nMabel Bryan, whose partner I am in a typewriting office. Esther,\nwho's awfully clever, as well as handsome, and knows several\nlanguages, is corresponding clerk to a firm of shippers. She gets a\nhundred a year, and I manage to make about a pound a week; but I'm\nnot clever, and have to do the best I can. We work awfully hard, but\nI really think we are happier than if we had nothing to do.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you are,\" sighed May, as her eye fell upon her own dearly\npurchased finery. \"I must say, I think it very plucky of you to take\nit as you do.\"\n\nLulu opened her eyes, for she was not accustomed to pity. \"I'm\nproud to be a working-woman, and even if I were rich like you, Mrs.\nBurnside, I couldn't bear to sit with my hands folded.\"\n\n\"Rich like me!\" May echoed drearily. \"I'm not rich; I owe everything\nI possess to my aunt.\"\n\n\"But she's rich, so it must be the same thing,\" persisted Lulu.\n\nJust then Harold came hurrying in. \"I was as quick as I could be,\nMrs. Burnside,\" he began, manifestly pleased to find May still\nthere. With an alarmed glance at the clock, she arose to go, and\nsaid cordially--\n\n\"I should be so pleased, Dr. Inglis, if you would bring your sister\nto see me on Tuesday afternoon.\"\n\n\"Many thanks, Mrs. Burnside, but I must return by the excursion\ntrain on Tuesday morning,\" returned Lulu; and May dared not urge the\npoint. To invite the Inglises to any meal but afternoon tea was out\nof her power, for Miss Waller disapproved of promiscuous guests at\nluncheon and dinner. So, bidding a cordial farewell to Lulu, May set\nforth with Doris to Victoria Square, escorted by happy Harold.\n\n\"I call her a beautiful anomaly!\" Lulu observed later on to her\nbrother, when he asked what she thought of Mrs. Burnside. \"At first,\nseeing how she was dressed, I concluded she was only a fashionable\nbutterfly, caring for nothing but amusement. But from her talk I\ncould see I had been unjust, and that there's nothing she would like\nbetter than being useful and independent. Poor thing! Her face is\none of the saddest I ever saw.\"\n\n\"I believe she has a very uncomfortable time of it with Miss Waller,\nwho is a Tartar, from all accounts.\"\n\n\"Then why does she stay with her?\"\n\n\"What else can she do, with that child?\"\n\nAn unpleasant quarter of an hour awaited May within her aunt's\ndoor, which she entered with a sinking heart. Doris was instantly\nbundled off to bed, after which Miss Waller--in thin, high tones,\nvery different from her suave society accents--moralised on May's\nenormities in absenting herself without notice, whilst Mr. Lang\nvainly awaited her return. He had just gone, evidently vexed at her\nnon-appearance.\n\n\"Mr. Lang has no jurisdiction over me!\" May was irritated into\nretorting at last, whereupon her aunt's frown became portentous.\n\n\"Mr. Lang is my friend, and, as such, I insist that you treat him\nwith respect! Pray, who are you, to set your will against mine? I\npaid for the very dress you have on, and every article you possess,\nand but for me you and Doris would be in the workhouse!\"\n\nMay would not trust herself to reply, but went away to her own room,\nthere to shed some very bitter tears. As she eyed her tall figure in\nthe glass, arrayed in the beautiful garments for which she had to\npay so dearly, she heartily envied the three happy girls in their\nflat, as described by Lulu. How fortunate they were, to be able to\ndo as they pleased, and indebted to no living soul for anything!\n\"Oh, to be free!--to be free!\" she panted, realising her slavery as\nshe had never realised it before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nBijou's Mistress.\n\n\nWhen bright-faced Lulu had returned home, brief though her visit had\nbeen, Harold missed her inexpressibly. To vary the monotony of his\ndreary rooms, he paid his promised call in Victoria Square, to find\nhimself promptly relegated to the background by Miss Waller, who\nperfectly understood how to snub people without being unladylike.\nMay, who made tea, hardly uttered a word; and the lion of the\noccasion was Mr. Lang, who expatiated on the riches of South Africa\nand his own importance on the Randt.\n\n\"You're nowhere unless you've got money nowadays,\" he confidently\nasserted.\n\n\"Oh, but\"--expostulated a meek little clergyman's wife, looking\nrather shocked, \"surely culture goes for something--and\ndescent--and----\"\n\n\"Culture, descent, my dear madam! We haven't time to bother about\nsuch things at Johannesburg! They'd be no use to a man there!\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it,\" Harold was provoked into saying. \"My brother\nJack is out there, and I shouldn't like him to come back less of a\ngentleman than he went!\"\n\n\"What's he doing?\" disdainfully drawled the plutocrat.\n\n\"He is in the office of the Victorina Mine.\"\n\n\"Ah! a good property that--not equal to the Springkloof, though. I\nknow the Victorina manager; perhaps next time I go out, I may look\nyour brother up.\"\n\n\"How kind of you, Mr. Lang!\" gushed Miss Waller; but Harold never\nsaid a word.\n\n\"Well now, Miss Waller,\" said Mr. Lang, \"it's time I was returning\nto London, and don't you think you ought to give Mrs. Burnside a\nlittle taste of dissipation before the season closes?\"\n\n\"I should have taken her to London before, but dear May always says\nshe doesn't like town,\" answered the spinster, who always posed as\na most affectionate aunt in public. \"I must leave you to try _your_\npersuasions.\" As she spoke, she darted a glance at her niece which\nplainly said, \"Refuse to go, if you dare!\"\n\n\"London is so hot now--and Doris----\" faltered the girl in manifest\ndismay. The clergyman's wife took her departure, but Harold sat\ndoggedly on, determined to hear the result.\n\n\"Doris could be left behind perfectly well,\" rejoined Mr. Lang, who\ndisliked the child as much as she disliked him.\n\n\"We shall be very pleased to see a little of London under your\nauspices, Mr. Lang,\" interrupted Miss Waller, in a sub-acid tone. \"I\nknow of some nice rooms near Hyde Park, which will be quieter than a\nhotel, and I'll write about them to-night.\"\n\nMay said no more; but Harold perceived an expression of absolute\ndespair flit over her features for a moment, and his heart swelled\nwith pity for her.\n\nHe paced his lonely sitting-room many times that evening, lamenting\nhis own impotence. A few patients, poor people to whom he was at\nhome for an hour, mornings and evenings, came to consult him for a\nfee of one shilling, medicine included; but even these were few in\nnumber. He had the very deepest sympathy with the poor; but to be\nwasting his time here when, in a few days, Mrs. Burnside would be\nstaying close to that man in Palace Gardens!\n\n[Illustration: \"Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey.\"--_p. 402._]\n\nThere was a ring at the bell, and the landlady entered, announcing,\nwith a smile, \"Miss Geare and Miss Pepper.\" A little, round-faced,\nwhite-haired lady, with curiously wandering light-blue eyes, then\ntripped into the room, carrying something carefully in her arms;\nfollowed by a forbidding, tall, dark-haired female, to whom Harold\ntook an instant and hearty dislike.\n\n\"Oh, doctor!\" began the little lady, in a breathless, excited way,\nwith hardly any stops, \"I saw your plate on the door, and I've come\nto see if you can cure my darling little Bijon; a great cruel cabman\nhas just driven over him, and I'm afraid his poor leg's broken. Will\nyou look?\"\n\nHarold could hardly restrain a smile. \"I am not a veterinary\nsurgeon, madam.\"\n\n[Illustration: Harold perceived an expression of despair flit over\nher features.--_p. 405._]\n\n\"I told you it was no use coming here,\" growled Miss Pepper, the\ncompanion, in a voice as unamiable as her face.\n\n\"Oh, but poor Bijou is in such pain!\"\n\nWith that Miss Geare burst into passionate tears and again entreated\nHarold's aid. To end the tiresome scene, he examined the dog,\nunprofessional though it might be, and, finding one of its legs\nwas broken, improvised splints and set it carefully. Miss Geare's\ngratitude was excessive.\n\n\"And you _will_ come and see Bijou, won't you?\" implored the old\nlady. \"He must have attention until he gets well, and I live at\nLyndhurst Lodge, Murray Road.\"\n\nHarold demurred, as being unprofessional.\n\n\"Then come to attend _me_,\" eagerly responded Miss Geare. \"I'm often\nrather ailing; and you can give Bijou a look at the same time.\"\n\nShe looked at him so pleadingly that he could not find it in his\nheart to say no. She brightened up at his consent, and asked for\na cab, in which to take home her injured darling, and then laid a\nsovereign and a shilling on the table.\n\n\"I don't think I am entitled to charge for attending the dog,\" said\nHarold, crimsoning. \"Certainly, this is far too much.\"\n\n\"Watson, the veterinary surgeon, _never_ would have charged a\nguinea,\" indignantly added Miss Pepper; but Miss Geare was resolute,\nand when she had departed, it was certainly pleasant to see the gold\npiece on the table, sovereigns being sadly scarce with him, poor\nfellow!\n\nHe instituted inquiries, and learnt that Miss Geare belonged to a\ngood family, and was well-off, but somewhat \"queer.\" In early youth\nshe was engaged to an officer, who was killed at Delhi, and had\nbecome gradually more and more eccentric, until now she only lived\nfor her dogs and cats. Miss Pepper, it was added, tyrannised over\nher shamefully, as though she were the mistress and Miss Geare the\ncompanion.\n\nThe old lady was warm-hearted, though rather fickle, and, having\ntaken a fancy to Harold, contrived to secure him several fresh\nand welcome patients. Miss Geare herself was far from strong, and\nafforded a legitimate exercise for Harold's skill, which salved his\nconscience in the matter of Bijou. But Miss Pepper remained, from\nfirst to last, distinctly hostile.\n\n  [END OF CHAPTER SIX.]\n\n\n\n\nCHILDISH MEMORIES OF LEWIS CARROLL.\n\nBy One of his Alices.\n\n\nSo many children will grieve over the sad event--the death that\ndeprived them of one of the best and kindest friends that children\never came across--the children who have followed \"Alice\" through\nall the wonderful adventures of \"Wonderland\" will be saddened by\nthe thought that the hand which held the pen that gave them such\namusement is now still for ever; and the children now grown up who\nknew Lewis Carroll personally will look back into the years agone\nand remember his delightful stories, and his never-ceasing kindness\ntowards them in their youthful days.\n\n[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL.\n\n(_At the age of 8._)]\n\nTo my mind Oxford will never be quite the same again, now that so\nmany of the dear old friends of one's childhood have \"gone over to\nthe great majority.\" My poor old father, though always wishing to go\nfor little excursions back to the old University town where so many\nyears of his life had been spent, came back to his country rectory\nin the Cotswold Hills bemoaning the loss of the \"many who had gone\nbefore,\" and how the familiar forms of his old college friends were,\nalas! no more to be seen.\n\nOften, in the twilight, when the flickering firelight danced on the\nold wainscoted wall, have we--father and I--chatted over the old\nOxford days and friends, and the merry times we all had together\nin Long-Wall Street. I was a nervous, thin, remarkably ugly child,\nand, for some years, I might say, I was quite alone in the nursery,\nmy small, fat baby-brother being much more appreciated than myself.\nI was left almost entirely to the kind and gentle mercy of Mary\nPearson, my own particular attendant, and though father, of course,\nhad commenced his friendship with Mr. Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) long\nbefore, I only remember him first when I was about seven, and from\nthat time until we went to live in Gloucestershire, he was one of my\nmost delightful friends.\n\n[Illustration: (_From a Photo by Lewis Carroll._)\n\nTHE AUTHOR AND HER FATHER (THE REV. E. A. LITTON).]\n\nI shall never forget when, sitting on a rustic seat with Mr.\nDodgson under a dear old tree in the Botanical Gardens, I heard\nfor the first time the delightful and ever-entertaining story of\nHans Andersen's \"Ugly Duckling.\" I was devoted to books, and could\nread quite well for so small a child, but I cannot explain the\ndelightful way in which Mr. Dodgson read and told his stories: as\nhe read, the characters were real flesh and blood--living figures.\nThis particular story made a great impression on me, and, being\nvery sensitive about my ugly little self, it greatly interested me.\nI remember his impressing upon me that it was better to be good,\ntruthful, and to try not to think of self, than to be a pretty,\nselfish child, spoilt and disagreeable, and he, from that story,\ngave me the name of \"Ducky,\" which name clung to me for many years;\nin fact, from that day Mary Pearson always called me \"Miss Ducky.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_From a Photo by Lewis Carroll._)\n\nTHE ORIGINAL OF \"ALICE IN WONDERLAND.\"]\n\nMany a time has Mr. Dodgson said, \"Never mind, little Ducky; perhaps\nsome day you will turn out a swan.\"\n\nI always attribute my love for animals to the teaching of Mr.\nDodgson: his stories of animal life, his knowledge of their lives\nand histories, his enthusiasm about birds and butterflies, passed\nmany a tiresome hour away. The monkeys in the Botanical Gardens were\nour special pets, and, oh! the nuts and biscuits we used to give\nthem! He entered into the spirit of the fun as much as \"Ducky\" did.\n\nThen there were the mornings spent in the Christ Church and Merton\nmeadows: Mary and I took our daily walks abroad there. Years have\npassed since then, and I have travelled in many climes, but I always\nthink that the recollections of the days of one's childhood never\nfade. One's views of life, persons, and things were so fresh, so\ndifferent from the judgment of things in later years.\n\nThose meadows were, to me, full of the loveliest\nfield-flowers--daisies, the beautiful \"snake-flower\"--so rare, I\nunderstand now--the golden buttercups, the masses of dandelions with\nthe added, never-failing fun of blowing the downy seeds away.\n\nNurse Mary always took thread and a needle in her pocket; these\nwere for the making of daisy-chains, and, oh! the wreaths we strung\nas we sat in the soft grass, with the dear old Broad Walk quite\nclose, and when we raised our eyes the lovely vision of Merton\nCollege, with its covered walls of Virginian creeper! It all comes\nback to me so vividly, though it is now far away in the past years.\nAnd how delighted we were to see the well-known figure in his cap\nand gown coming, so swiftly, with his kind smile ready to welcome\nthe \"Ugly Duckling\" sitting in the grass! I knew, as he sat beside\nme, that a fairy-tale book was hidden in his pocket, or that I\nshould hear something nice--perhaps a new game or a puzzle--and he\nwould gravely accept a tiny daisy bouquet for his coat with as much\ncourtesy as if it had been the finest hot-house _boutonni\u00e8re_. I was\nvery proud when, between us, we had made a chain of cuckoo-flowers\nand daisy heads long enough to twine round my hat.\n\nThese meadows and the walk along the wall were remarkable then for\nthe quantity of snails of all kinds that, on fine days and damp\ndays, came out to take the air, and to me they were objects of great\ndislike and horror. Mr. Dodgson so gently and patiently showed me\nhow silly I was, how harmless the poor snails were, and told me so\nmuch about the shells they carried on their backs, and showed me how\nwonderfully they were made, that I soon got over the fright and made\nquite a collection of discarded shells; which collection finally\ntook up its abode in a little crimson-paper trunk that Mr. Dodgson\nfound at old Mrs. Green's toyshop and bought for me.\n\nAbout this time also father had added to my nursery literature\n\"Ministering Children,\" \"Sandford and Merton,\" and \"Rosamund; or,\nThe Purple Jar.\" All these were shown in great glee to my kind\nfriend, who (as I knew he would) read to me from them.\n\nTwo or three times I went fishing with him from the bank, near the\nOld Mill opposite Addison's Walk (Oxford), and he entered quite into\nmy happiness when a small fish came wriggling up on the end of my\ncrooked pin and line, just ready for the dinner of the little white\nkitten, \"Lily,\" he had given me.\n\nIn those days Addison's Walk had, in season, its banks covered with\npretty periwinkles--white and blue--and there were strict laws not\nto pick them. I, childlike, could not resist the temptation, and\none day, Mary being seated at work near by, \"Ducky,\" left to play\nalone, gathered a bunch of the coveted beauties, hid them under her\nlittle spencer (a small coat of those days), and trotted by Mary's\nside, half-frightened, to the lodge of the gruff old porter, who\nsat reading his paper, glancing always at the passers through his\ndoorway. Nothing escaped his notice. Mary went through and then I,\nhalf-trembling, with the periwinkles closely clasped to my side.\nThe street gained, I was safe, but (alas! there is always a \"but\"),\nMr. Dodgson, going to see a friend in the college, came up to me,\nsaying, \"Why so flushed, little Alice? And what is that hanging\nbelow your jacket?\"\n\nThe flowers had not gained anything by their hot pressure under my\njacket, and it was a very much ashamed, sad little girl who stood\nconvicted of flower-theft!\n\n\"Ducky, come with me\"; and, taking my unwilling hand, he led me back\nto the grim old custodian of the cloisters, to whom I had to deliver\nup the now faded periwinkles, and promise future goodness and \"never\nto do so any more.\" Then Mary took me in hand, and the quiet little\n\"weep\" I indulged in while going home was much enhanced by the sound\nof Mary's voice telling me: \"Miss Ducky, you are an awful naughty\nchild; you have quite disgusted Mr. Dodgson, and you shall go to\nyour bed without supper.\" This threat she carried out.\n\nOn Sunday afternoons father used to take me for a walk to St.\nJohn's College gardens, or, perhaps, New College gardens, and as\nthey--father and Mr. Dodgson--were great friends, he often joined\nus. And how I enjoyed all the bright sunshine and the shade of the\nmulberry-trees! And then father, tired from his morning services,\nsnatched a \"forty-winks.\" I revelled in stories of small men and\nmaidens, stories so entertaining that I thought I could never read\n\"line upon line\" any more; and then there were the stories of the\nother little Alice who bore the same initials as myself, and who\nwas so pretty and behaved so well; who sat before the wonderful\nphotographing machine and came out a pretty little beggar girl! I am\nafraid I was rather envious of this child and a tiny bit jealous,\nbut I took the greatest interest in what she did and said. And I\nremember all this perfectly.\n\nBefore me, as I write, is a likeness of Mr. Dodgson; in fact, two\nphotographs. These are just as I remember him. It was his sweet\nsmile and face that endeared him so much to his youthful friends,\nhis never-failing interest in their childlike joys and sorrows.\nMr. Dodgson was a very quiet, reserved man, and cared little for\nsociety, such as large parties and receptions; but to come and go\nas he liked in the homes of those with whom he was intimate, these\nvisits were some of the pleasures he allowed himself. He also made\nvery welcome the visits of his child-friends, and it was a great\ntreat to go to see him in his rooms in Christ Church College.\n\nMy dear father (the Rev. E. A. Litton, a very well known man in\nthe old Oxford days of sixty years ago) was much attached to Mr.\nDodgson, and they used to meet frequently to discuss points that\ninterested them both. I was always allowed, if I bore a good record\nin the nursery, to join father when he went to Christ Church, and I\nknew that, sooner or later during the visit, something good would\nbe for me. The delicious slices of cake and bread-and-butter, the\nglass of creamy milk; the soft pile of cushions on the sofa if I\nfelt tired, and the glittering little glass balls of his wonderful\ngame of \"Solitaire,\" for me to play with; the lovely picture-books\nwhich I was so careful not to tear or hurt in any way; and then to\nbe allowed to look at the portraits of other little friends who knew\nand visited him as I did!\n\n[Illustration: _THE FIRST EARRING._\n\n(_From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll._)]\n\nMr. Dodgson was a great admirer of photography and he inspired\nfather with a like enthusiasm, and I am the happy possessor of a\nphotograph (reproduced on page 407) that our dear friend took at\nChrist Church of father and me. Such a good likeness of father\nand me, such a lanky, long-legged, shy child, with very short\npetticoats, low shoes, and a huge flap hat! More than forty years\nhas this been taken--the two dear friends gone for ever and only the\nphotograph remaining as souvenir of the dear old past--it is almost\nas fresh as the day it was taken!\n\nOther likenesses were taken, but, though I have hunted about, I\ncannot find them. Also, to my great sorrow, I have lost several\nlong, illustrated letters written to me with the hope of shaming\nme out of several bad habits and faults. One in particular was the\nsucking of my thumb, and this Mr. Dodgson always teased me about\nvery much. One day I received a long letter with funny little\npictures of a small family of birds who would suck their thumbs\n(claws). They looked so comical in a row, on a branch, with their\nclaws in their beaks, and the father- and mother-birds below with\na pot of bitter aloes, a birch-rod, and long muslin bags to tie up\nthe claws in. The next picture showed the little birds weeping,\nwith their claws in bags, the father and mother enjoying a good\nrepast, and the naughty little birds \"had none\"! And so on all the\nway through this most interesting pictorial letter, till the little\nbirds had no claws left. All sucked away! The story was quite as\ninteresting as the pictures, and I think it did me good, as Mary\nPearson always read this letter to me whenever I sucked my thumb\nmore than usual, and protested my thumbs were disappearing as the\nbirds' claws did, and I was terribly frightened; for Mr. Dodgson\nused to say Mary was quite right, and I should be spoken of as \"the\nlittle girl without thumbs.\"\n\nMy hair was a great trouble to me as a child, for it would tangle\nand Mary was not over and above patient as I twisted and turned\nwhen she wished to dress it. So one day I received a long, blue\nenvelope addressed to myself (letters are always so delightful to\nchildren--they raise them almost to the ranks of the \"grown-ups\"),\nand there was a story-letter, all full of drawings, from Mr Dodgson.\nThe first picture was of a little girl--hat off and tumbled hair\nvery much _en \u00e9vidence_--asleep on a rustic bench under a big\ntree by the side of a river (supposed to be the dear old seat in\nthe Botanical Gardens), and two birds holding an evidently most\nimportant conversation above in the branches, their heads on one\nside, eyeing the sleeping child. The next picture, the two birds,\nflying with twigs and straw, preparing to build a nest; the child\nstill sleeping and the birds chirping and twittering with the\ndelight of building their nest in the tangled hair of the child.\nNext came the awakening. The work complete, the mother-bird on\nher nest, the father-bird flying round the frightened child. And\nthen, lastly, hundreds of birds--the air thick with them; the child\nfleeing; small boys with tin trumpets raised to their lips, and\nNurse Mary, with a basket of brushes and combs, bringing up the\nrear! All this, with the well-drawn-out story, cured me of this\nfault, and Mary, in after-life, told me she \"had no more trouble;\njust to open the letter and show the unhappy child in the picture,\nand I was 'passive as a lamb.'\" Sometimes father would say, patting\nmy head, \"Any more nests to-day, Ducky? Birds would not have a\nchance now with this smooth little head.\"\n\n[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL.\n\n(_The Rev. C. L. Dodgson._)]\n\nI have grieved greatly that these picture-stories are no more, and,\nfrom several letters which I have seen from other little girls--now\ngrown up and far away in different parts of the world, their letters\nof a like kind have also gone astray and been lost amidst the\nmovings, changings, and chances of life.\n\nIn after years my father often told me another story of Mr. Dodgson,\nwhich I, being so young, had forgotten. In the very early part of\nthe time in which I knew him, he one day called in Long-Wall Street\nto fetch father to go with him to \"The Union\" to look into some\nparticular subject together. Mr. Dodgson was anxious I should go as\nwell, as, perhaps, we might all take a walk, and as I promised to be\nmost obedient and good, I was told to go and get my hat. I trotted\nalong, and, \"The Union\" reached, was put in a comfortable chair to\nwait till they were ready to go on the proposed walk. It was hot,\nand I was tired, and the crackling of papers turning over and the\nhum of voices lulled me to sleep. I slept on, oblivious of all, and,\nI suppose, the two friends, talking intently, forgot my existence\nand, in earnest conversation, left \"The Union\"--and me, sleeping\nquietly, quite alone.\n\nMr. Dodgson left father in Long-Wall Street, and then went to his\nrooms in Christ Church. Suddenly, so the story goes, he thought, \"We\nwent out three; we came back two; where is three?\"\n\nAnd then it flashed across him that there had been no \"three\" left\nin Long-Wall Street--only his friend--and so \"three\" must have been\nleft somewhere on the road. Though it was just the hour of dinner,\nthis good friend trudged back to \"The Union,\" intent upon finding\nthe lost lamb, and there I was still asleep, coiled up, as he\nexpressed it, \"like a dormouse.\" I was taken home tired and a little\ncross; it was past my supper-time; I was hungry, and quite ready for\nthe white sheets and pillows that lead to dreamland. But, always\nthoughtful for others, Mr. Dodgson strayed into the ever-famous and\ndelightful shop of Boffins in \"The High,\" and a sugared Bath-bun and\na glass of jelly revived my drooping spirits and raised my courage\nto meet Mary. I was soon given into her care, and my adventures, as\ntold by Mr. Dodgson, made me quite a heroine, and I felt myself a\nperson of some importance with a history.\n\nI had a daily governess, a dear old soul, who used to come every\nmorning to instruct my youthful mind. I disliked particularly the\nlarge-lettered copies in my writing-book, and, as I confided this\nto Mr. Dodgson, he came and set me some copies himself. I remember\ntwo were, \"Patience and water-gruel cure gout.\" (I wondered what\n\"gout\" could be.) \"Little girls should be seen and not heard.\" (This\nI thought unkind.) These were written many times over, and I had to\npresent the pages at the end of the week to him without one blot or\nsmudge.\n\n[Illustration: ALICE AND HUMPTY DUMPTY.\n\n(_From a Photograph._)]\n\nMagdalen College always, to my childish mind, was a most lovely and\nbeautiful place, and my favourite walking ground in hot weather\nbecause of the splendid trees. I also had a great admiration for the\nmany and brilliant-flowered balconies of some of the Fellows of the\nCollege, which looked into High Street just before the Bridge of\nMagdalen commenced. One particularly was the show window of the set,\nflaming with the most varied colours--vivid geraniums, lobelias,\nmignonette, and two tiny mirrors, cleverly inserted amongst the\nflowers, so that the person inside could see who was passing, either\nway, up or down the street, without being seen himself.\n\nI was quite at home in these rooms, as they also belonged to a\nfriend of my father, a Mr. Saul; he was a Fellow of Magdalen,\nand I always admired him so much, and thought he could never be\nunhappy living in such charming rooms. I can see him now, with his\ncheery laugh and white hair, and his very portly figure, and, oh!\nthe musical instruments that were here, there, and everywhere! Mr.\nDodgson and father and myself all went one afternoon to pay him a\nvisit. At that time Mr. Saul was very much interested in the study\nof the big drum, and, with books before him and a much heated face,\nhe was in full practice when we arrived. Nothing would do but\nthat all the party must join in the concert. Father undertook the\n'cello, Mr. Dodgson took a comb and paper, and, amidst much fun and\nlaughter, the walls echoed with the finished roll, or shake, of the\nbig drum--a roll that was Mr. Saul's delight. All this went on till\nsome other Oxford Dons (mutual friends) came in to see \"if everybody\nhad gone suddenly cracked.\" I meanwhile, perched amongst the flowers\nand mirrors, joined in the fun by singing and clapping my hands with\ndelight at the drum, comb, and 'cello. When all had quieted down, a\nlarge musical-box was wound up for my edification; such a treat it\nwas for me to listen to the beautiful airs!\n\n[Illustration: THE AGE OF INNOCENCE.\n\n(_From a Drawing by Lewis Carroll._)]\n\nMusic is, and always has been, the chief delight of my life, and\nfather always greatly encouraged this taste in me. Many a time, in\nour walks amongst the Cotswolds in the long years after, father\nwould say, \"Ducky, do you remember poor old Saul and his big drum?\nAnd the fun we all had together, and how Dr. Bully thought we had\nall gone in for Littlemore Asylum? Oh, the dear old days, child! The\ndear old days!\" And then we would walk on quite silently, father\nwrapped in the past, till we reached the ivy-covered rectory and the\nlights, and the daily routine of life was taken up once more.\n\nOne more story of my childhood, and then I shall have to write\n\"Finis\" to what to me is so delightful--the shutting of one's eyes\nin the twilight and the wandering back into the past with the many\nnear and dear friends--some now scattered far and wide, others gone\ninto the \"weird unknown.\" Gone, but ever present in the loving\nmemories of friends.\n\nNot very far away from Wadham College (in my remembrance) was a road\nleading to \"The Parks\"; this was also a very nice walk, and the\nhedges, when I was a small girl, were full of \"ragged robin,\" wild\nroses, and other field flowers. Yellow butterflies and, sometimes,\n\"peacock\" butterflies, could also be found there. So, to the mind\nof eight years old, it was a \"happy hunting ground\" for \"eyes that\ncould see and look for things,\" and my pockets were generally filled\nwith great treasures on returning--which treasures, alas! Mary\nPearson always dubbed \"Miss Ducky's aggravating rubbish.\"\n\nNow father had a great friend living near Park Crescent, and one of\nthe bonds of sympathy (and a great one it was) between father, Mr.\nDodgson, and the little old gentleman, was mathematics. This friend,\nwhose name I have forgotten, lived in one of a row of houses at the\ntop of Park Crescent, and many were the times we all three took\nthis particular walk together to see the old scholar. My delight\nwas resting in the pleasant little parlour of the housekeeper,\ninto whose charge I was always given. She had very beady black\neyes, a bunch of keys at her waist, and a most wonderful cap with\nbouquets of flowers intermixed with lace at each of her ears, and\nfunny little grey curls and combs (like those of the present day)\nto fasten them back. I always was most polite to her and put on my\nvery best manners. To me she was a most potential personage, and her\ncoltsfoot wine and old-fashioned rock cakes, with which she always\nregaled me with no sparing hand, were so delicious! Nowhere else\ndid these particular dainties seem to me so good. Perhaps hunger\n(which is always the best sauce) had something to do with it; but I\nknow I munched the cakes and gazed intently at the swaying grasses\nand flowers on her head, as she told me that she made all the cakes\nherself, and also could sometimes make, when little girls were\n\"extra good,\" \"almond toffee\" of the most appetising description.\n\n[Illustration:\n\n56. THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY.\n\nCh. 6.\n\nHush! The Baron slumbers! Two men with stealthy steps are removing\nhis strong-box.[2] It is very heavy and their knees tremble, partly\nwith the weight, partly with fear. He snores and they both start;\nthe box rattles, not a moment is to be lost; they hasten from the\nroom. It was very, very hard to get the box out of the window but\nthey did it at last; though not without making noise enough to\nwaken ten ordinary sleepers: the Baron, luckily for them, was an\n_extra_ordinary sleeper.\n\n  [2] Of it's contents, as afterwards appears were very small. vide\n  page 27, note (1).\n\nAt a safe distance from the castle, they sat down the box, and\nproceeded to force off the lid. Four mortal hours[3] did M^r Millon\nSmith and his mysterious companion labor thereat; at sun rise it\nflew off with a noise louder than the\n\n  [3] Probably they began at about one o'clock.\n\nA PAGE FROM THE \"UMBRELLA BOOK.\"\n\n(_Written and Drawn by Lewis Carroll._)]\n\nI was always ready to go this walk with father, and I well remember\none occasion on which we went. It must have been about July, for\nit was very hot, and the roses and other flowers were all out. Mr.\nDodgson and father enjoyed a chat, while I--with a mind full of rock\ncakes, the bright sunshine and all the pretty things of nature in\nthe hedges, and (oh! happy thought!) perhaps the wonderful toffee at\nthe walk's end--danced along till the little garden gate was reached\nand we all passed through. I always shared my goodies with other\npeople when I could, and I had promised to save some rock cakes\nfor father and Mr. Dodgson, for upstairs they were always much too\nintent on conversation to think about \"refreshments of life,\" and\nthese things of which I am writing happened before \"afternoon teas\"\nof four o'clock were ever thought of.\n\nThe toffee was there--rather sticky, owing to the hot weather, but\nthe almonds looked white and cool; and the green plate of cakes and\nthe jug with a dog's face for a spout--all were there just ready\nfor the flushed, tired, little girl. I quite remember the cap that\nday, for it had bunches of pink May with \"Quaker\" grass, and the old\nlady told me it was her best summer cap and had cost six shillings\nat Oliver's in Corn Market Street. I thought she must be a very rich\nwoman indeed, and told Mr. Dodgson so that afternoon, when we were\nonce more together. I remember his laugh as he said, \"The female\nmind is full of vanity.\" I wondered what a \"female mind\" meant, and\nfather said little girls asked too many questions (he often told me\nthis part of the story afterwards, when I was grown up), and that I\nshould not know what it was, even if I were told. Mr. Dodgson said,\n\"Alice, all things come to those who wait; some time, if God spares\nyou to grow up, you you will learn many things.\"\n\n[Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL IN HIS STUDY AT CHRIST CHURCH.]\n\nBut the pleasant hour spent with the old housekeeper came to an\nend, and the bell was rung, which meant that I had to gather myself\ntogether and go home. Two small parcels of toffee and cakes were\ngiven into my willing, open, little hands; a towel was hastily\nfound to wipe away my general stickiness; and then I went away from\nthis dear little home into \"The Parks\" with Mr. Dodgson and father,\nhomewards.\n\nIt was hot, and I was tired: I am sorry to say that father said I\nwas \"very cross.\" My little blue shoes, fastened with straps and\ntiny pearl buttons, would come undone, and all the brightness and\nflowery hedges had lost their charm for the now overdone \"Ducky.\"\n\nMr. Dodgson lagged behind, and I saw him looking intently in the\nhedges and all about, as if he were searching for something. This\naroused my curiosity. At length, stooping down, he gathered up\nsomething in his handkerchief. I could not see what he had found,\nbut I felt very much interested. Holding the tied-up handkerchief\nabove my head, he said, \"This is for my other little Alice; she is a\nbrave girl, and does not cry like a baby at being a wee bit tired.\nOh! such a curious, lovely little flower is tied up here!\"\n\nAt this he waved the handkerchief above my head, and I, so anxious\nto see what was in it, skipped after him, forgetting the tears and\nthe tired legs. \"Tell me what it is,\" was my breathless request.\n\nNo answer. Mr. Dodgson danced on, and I followed, father laughing\nat the two of us. When we were near dear old Wadham College (not a\ngreat distance from Long-Wall Street), Mr. Dodgson said to me, with\nmuch solemnity, \"Alice, did you ever hear of a 'Bella perennis,'\nmost wonderfully and beautifully made?\"\n\nI was awestruck, and whispered, \"Never. Is that it?\"\n\nHe nodded, and we went on again till the steps of our house came in\nview. By this time I was quiet and wondering, and hoping I should be\nallowed to see inside the handkerchief, and look at this wonderful,\nmysterious creation.\n\nInside our hall was an old oaken bench, and there Mr. Dodgson sat\ndown; I in front of him, in my favourite attitude, with my long,\nskinny arms clasped behind my back. I dare not speak as the knots\nwere very, very slowly untied, and--oh! only a tiny, withered,\nhalf-dead, little daisy appeared to my astonished view! \"Where is\nthe beautiful 'Bella something?'\" I cried, with a half-sob rising in\nmy throat; I was so bitterly disappointed.\n\n\"This is the 'Bella perennis,' child. See how beautifully and\ncarefully it is made: one of God's fairest small field-flowers.\"\n\nI took it in my hand, and, giving Mr. Dodgson a big hug, I passed\nthrough the baize door, leaving my dear, kind friend with father.\n\nI never forgot that walk! It made a very deep impression on my\nchildish mind, not easily effaced in the long after-years. If people\nonly knew what the sympathy of a \"real, grown-up friend\" is to a\nshy child, what courage it gives to the trembling little heart! How\nfew children would be set down as shy and stupid, and be thoroughly\nmisunderstood (as some are now), if only there were more like Mr.\nDodgson, who, though one of the cleverest of men, could yet stoop to\nwin the love and confidence and enter into the joys and sorrows of\nhis numerous child friends!\n\nPerhaps I have wearied many who may read this, and it is time I\nshould close these past chapters of my \"childish memories,\" shut up\nthe book, and lay down the pen; but it has been an inexpressible\npleasure to recall, as far as I can, all Mr. Dodgson's kindness to\nme and father. Alas! alas! that life should change--on and on--all\nthe dear, old, familiar places and faces disappear. \"Old Tom\" still\nchimes his daily hours; but the dear footsteps will never more be\nheard turning in at the door of the old staircase leading to his\nrooms in Christ Church College. Those cheerful rooms, where so many\ndelightful hours were spent, will know him no more. All is gone now:\nonly the memory, and the deep respect and love his child friends\nbore him, remain.\n\nFather died on August 27th, 1897, and Mr. Dodgson on January 14th,\n1898; and we, who are left behind, can only hope we may meet them\nonce more in the realms that never change.\n\n                                EDITH ALICE MAITLAND.\n\n[Illustration: THE CHESTNUTS, GUILDFORD.\n\n(_Where Lewis Carroll died on January 14th, 1898._)]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: GREAT ANNIVERSARIES\n_IN MARCH_.]\n\nBy the Rev. A. R. Buckland, M.A., Morning Preacher at the Foundling\nHospital.\n\n[Illustration: THE REV. JOHN WESLEY.\n\n(_From the Portrait by G. Romney._)]\n\n\nThe March calendar is rich in great names; let us take a selection\nin pairs, beginning with illustrious divines.\n\nThere died at Longleat on March 19th, 1710, Thomas Ken, some-time\nBishop of Bath and Wells. The English-speaking world is not likely\naltogether to forget him, so long at least as his Morning and\nEvening Hymns are sung. He is one of the uncanonised saints of the\nEnglish Church, as well as one of the prelates whose names enter\ninto English history. For Ken was amongst the seven bishops sent\nto the Tower by James II., and one of the Non-jurors deprived\nunder William of Orange. The goodness of the man in an age of sore\ntemptation has been felt by every generation since his death. On\nMarch 2nd, 1791, John Wesley died. His life is one of the most\nastonishing in the religious history of the English people. In its\ncontrasts (such, for example, as between his life as a College Don\nat Oxford and during his mission to Georgia), in its multitudinous\nlabours, in its immediate influence upon religion in England, and in\nthe far-reaching results of his work both in America and in Great\nBritain, it is without parallel. He is a figure in the religious\nhistory not so much of our own land as of the whole world, wherever\nthe Anglo-Saxon race has set its foot.\n\n[Illustration: SIR ISAAC NEWTON.]\n\nFrom divines let us pass to men of science. Sir Isaac Newton, one\nof the most illustrious natural philosophers, and one of those for\nwhom room must always be found in even the briefest list of the\ngreatest Englishmen, died on March 20th, 1727. There is no more\ndistinguished name amongst the sons of Cambridge University. It was\nby the choice of the University that he came into touch with the\npolitical life of the nation, for in 1688 he was sent by it to the\nConvention Parliament. Newton's name will never seem amiss in such\ncompany as that of Ken and Wesley, for he was a profound believer\nin the Christian faith and a diligent student of the Bible. Newton\nwas Master of the Mint; and this office was also held by Sir John\nHerschel, who was born on March 7th, 1792. His fame is not dimmed in\ncomparison with that of his father, Sir William Herschel. Although\nthe son's career was not so striking as that of the \"Hanoverian\nfiddler,\" his scientific acquirements were of singular breadth.\nAt Cambridge, as a very young man, he agreed with two other\nundergraduates that they would \"do their best to leave the world\nwiser than they found it.\" The compact seemed presumptuous, but in\nthe case of Herschel it was well kept.\n\n[Illustration: DAVID LIVINGSTONE.\n\n(_From the Painting in the possession of the London Missionary\nSociety._)]\n\nTwo illustrious philanthropists belong to this month. Thomas\nClarkson--still another Cambridge man--was born on March 26th, 1760.\nWhilst at the University he won the Vice-Chancellor's prize for a\ndissertation on the question, \"Is it lawful to make slaves of men\nagainst their will?\" Working at this essay, he became so impressed\nwith the duty of fighting the slave-trade that he resolved to give\nhimself up to the work. He lived to see his ends attained as regards\nGreat Britain. There is a natural link between Clarkson's work for\nthe African, and the life-work of David Livingstone (born March\n19th, 1813). Livingstone was very far from being merely an explorer,\nor an explorer with missionary instincts; he knew that to kill the\nslave-trade in Africa the country must be opened up, and he gave his\nlife to another side of the same work which Clarkson had toiled for.\n\n[Illustration:  ABRAHAM LINCOLN.         JEFFERSON DAVIS.\n\n(_Two Notable Americans._)]\n\nMarch is a great month in the independent history of the United\nStates, and in the official lives of its Presidents. It has its sad\nmemories, too, though memories that no longer appeal to passion. It\nwas in March, 1861, that Jefferson Davis and Abraham Lincoln found\nthe North and the South just on the brink of open war. It was in\nMarch also, in the year 1852, that Mrs. Stowe's \"Uncle Tom's Cabin\"\nwas first published. That is one of the few literary anniversaries\nthat will always be connected with political history.\n\n[Illustration: MRS. BEECHER STOWE.\n\n(_At the time she wrote \"Uncle Tom's Cabin.\"_)]\n\nIndia offers us two memorable names. John Lawrence, Henry's\nyounger brother, was born on March 24th, 1811. One of the wisest\nof Indian administrators, he would have been great had the Mutiny\nnever occurred. As it is, other achievements are forgotten in the\npromptitude and skill which marked his conduct then. He is buried in\nWestminster Abbey, and near him lies Sir James Outram, \"the Bayard\nof India,\" who died on March 11th, 1863.\n\n[Illustration: BUST OF LORD LAWRENCE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.]\n\nSo much for men; now for organisations. On March 8th, 1698-99, was\nfounded the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. On March\n13th, 1701, the Lower House of Canterbury Convocation appointed\nthe committee to \"inquire into ways and means for promoting the\nChristian religion in our foreign plantations,\" which led to\nthe founding of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.\nThe British and Foreign Bible Society was founded on March 7th,\n1804. On March 4th, 1824, at a meeting held at the London Tavern,\nunder the presidency of Archbishop Manners-Sutton, \"The Royal\nNational Institution for the Preservation of Life from Ship-wreck\"\nwas launched. Its present title, the Royal National Lifeboat\nInstitution, was adopted in 1854.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nBRITISH AND FOREIGN BIBLE SOCIETY'S PREMISES.]\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTABEL'S REBELLION.\n\nAN EPISODE.\n\nBy E. S. Curry, Author of \"The Twins,\" Etc.\n\n\nNora was putting on her hat in her own room; Christopher, her little\nson, was being dressed in the nursery to accompany her; Christabel,\nhis twin sister, was in her own pertinacious way arguing with her\nmother. The Twins, known as Punch and Judy, had reached the age of\ntwo. Each had a will, and a method of making it known--though in\nthis respect Judy caused most perplexity to her young parents. She\nwas now asserting it.\n\n\"Me go too, mummie,\" in a decided tone, for the sixth time.\n\n\"No, Judy--not this time. Your turn next,\" Nora said cheerfully.\n\nShe did not like separating the twins, but one was as much as she\ncould reasonably take to an afternoon tea party. They must learn\nsome time to be divided, she thought sadly, after reflecting on the\nwoes of the world.\n\n\"Me s'all go, mummie,\" in beautifully clear accents, with a charming\nsmile.\n\n\"Shall you, dear? Yes, next time,\" Nora said, bending over the vivid\nlittle face, just the height of her dressing-table.\n\n\"If we're not back when father comes in,\" she went on, suggesting\nsolace, \"will you take care of him, Judy, and love him?\"\n\n\"Yuv father,\" murmurously assented the baby, busy with a knot in her\npink pinafore.\n\n\"And don't take off your pinafore, Judy,\" said her mother.\n\n\"Goin' out to tea,\" responded Judy. \"Off!\" releasing one little\nwhite serge shoulder from the enclosing cotton.\n\nNora moved about her room for a few more minutes before she went\nto the nursery to pick up her little son. Judy, trotting after,\nwas kissed at the top of the staircase, and, with a sombre fire in\nher brilliant eyes, watched the descent of Christopher. His air of\ntriumph as he stamped his booted feet on every stair was no doubt\naggravating.\n\nIt was a cold March day, and, as she noted his gaitered legs, Judy\nglanced down at her own bare toes. At the sight of his hat, firmly\nset upon the soft fair curls, Judy lifted her chubby hands to her\nown bare head--bare but for its clustering brown waves with their\ntips of gold. A deep sense of unfair treatment, of unjust neglect,\nflitted across the baby's mind. A great determination filled it.\n\nNurse went through the open nursery door in a busy manner. It was\nJane's afternoon out, and there was a good deal to tidy up. In two\nminutes Judy, after a fashion of her own, was at the bottom of the\nwide staircase, a lonely little figure, standing for a moment on\nthe rug before the log fire. Finding the hall door shut and the\ndrawing-room door open, the baby stepped into the conservatory, and\nwas soon trotting down the drive. Her shoulders were set sturdily\nto a great effort. No one seeing her could possibly mistake their\nexpression. She was going out to tea.\n\nOutside the gates, left open for the exit of a carriage, Judy\npaused. Just before her, four roads crossed. Three she knew\nwell--one led to the village, the other two were the routes of daily\noutings. The fourth was forbidden to the nurses because of a big\npublic-house a quarter of a mile away--a rendezvous of trippers from\nLondon. Along this road the little figure turned.\n\nA bicyclist rang his bell and startled her, whizzing close by her,\nas she did not move from the middle of the road. A man in a cart\nevaded her, pausing to look down with interest at the bare-headed\nlittle traveller.\n\n\"My! she's a little 'un to be about alone,\" he thought, turning in\nhis seat to look after the purposeful little figure. He scratched\nhis head and thought of his own baby, about the same size, and for a\nmoment was tempted to turn his cart and go after her.\n\n\"She hadn't ought to have been let go out by herself,\" he thought,\nindignant with some neglectful guardian. \"A little gipsy child,\np'raps--never taught not to run in the middle of the road.\"\n\nUnwitting of the kindly thought that followed her, Judy ran on--now\nand then pausing for a second to glance about her, her bare feet\nand uncovered head seeming to reck nothing of the cold spring\nwind. A timber waggon, drawn by three huge horses, and guided by a\ncarter cracking his whip, made her flit in momentary tremor, with\nhunched shoulders, to the side of the road, from which security she,\nhowever, surveyed their passage with sparkling eyes. Holding out her\narms in ecstatic approval, she urged shrilly. \"Gee-gee--go,  go\";\nand the carter glanced at her bright face, under its touzled waves\nof hair, admiringly.\n\n\"She's a spirit of her own,\" he thought, bestowing a momentary\nwonder on her lone condition as he passed.\n\nThe dust from the grinding wheels settled, and Judy pursued her way.\nWho can tell what thoughts were directing her progress, or whether\nshe ever wondered where the tea she was in search of was to come\nfrom? She went on.\n\nPresently a wayside inn, withdrawn a little from the road, with its\nsign-post shaking and creaking in the wind before it, came into\nview. Judy stopped and put her finger in her mouth, considering.\nThis was a house. Here was tea.\n\nIn a doorway stood a man, round and red-faced. He had no coat, and\nhis waistcoat had seen better days, whilst a battered felt hat was\non his head. He was gazing into space, with little sharp eyes set\nunder overhanging, beetling brows.\n\nJudy drew nearer. Something in his appearance fascinated her.\nPossibly its untidy dishevelment touched a fellow-feeling and\nappealed to her reckless mood. At that moment nothing was doing, and\nthe potman was smoking a dirty pipe when Judy drew near and surveyed\nhim. For a moment or so the two looked at each other in silence.\nJudy spoke first.\n\n\"Tea!\" she demanded imperiously.\n\n\"Tea!\" he repeated, amazed. And then he stooped and touched the\nvelvet of her cheek softly with his hand, and lifted the waves of\nher overshadowing hair. \"Who are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Tea,\" answered Judy, and a little appeal had crept into her tone\nand into the beautiful dark eyes. The potman's resemblance to her\nfriend the gardener was not so great, on nearer acquaintance, as she\nhad at first thought.\n\n\"You want your tea, missy? Is that it?\"\n\nAnd, receiving a little nod and a charming smile, he lifted himself\nand scratched his head.\n\n\"There ain't no tea--but there's some milk\" (his face suddenly\nbrightening), \"and one of them big buns. It's a bit stale--but if\nshe's hungry.\"\n\nHe disappeared, and Judy, after a second's pause of indecision,\nelected not to follow him. The interior into which he had vanished\nwas not inviting. There was a little porch to the closed front\ndoor, with wooden seats on either side, and these now caught Judy's\nvision. Trotting thither, she essayed to climb.\n\n[Illustration: \"My! she's a little 'un to be about alone.\"]\n\n\"Up,\" she demanded, when the potman returned, carrying a mug of milk\nand a very large scone.\n\nSafely seated, with the mug beside her, and the scone held\ncarefully in both hands, she remarked in cheerful accents--\"Out to\ntea,\" looking at him for corroboration.\n\n\"Out to tea? Yes, missy--where do you come from?\" he answered.\n\"What's yer mother thinking of to let yer out alone?\" he asked.\n\nJudy opened her mouth and fastened her little white teeth into the\nbig stale bun, condescending no answer to inconvenient questions.\nThe potman sat down opposite her and proceeded in his attempts.\n\n\"What's yer name, missy?\" he asked again. \"Ain't yer got one?\" as\nJudy, disregarding him, seemed bent on demolishing the bun. She\nnibbled all round it, holding it with both hands, serenely callous\nto her companion's beguilements.\n\n\"Doody,\" at last she vouchsafed, in a pause for rest, looking\ninterestedly at the pattern she had vandyked.\n\n\"That's a funny name. Ain't you got another?\" he inquired.\n\nA reminiscent smile broke over the vivid face.\n\n\"Daddy's Kistabel,\" she murmured softly, removing her eyes from his\nface and considering another bite.\n\n\"An' yer daddy might do worse nor kiss you, I reckon,\" admiringly;\n\"but it's a rummy one, too.\"\n\nThe flash of the dark eyes opposite was irresistible. It awoke good\nthoughts in the potman's mind.\n\n\"You've runned away, I reckon?\" he observed, bending forward.\n\nJudy looked all over the ugly face thus presented to her immediate\nvision. Its corrugated surface fascinated her. Stretching one hand\nout, she softly touched the knobbly nose and laughed aloud, hunching\nher shoulders in glee.\n\nHer own flower-like face was an equal attraction to the potman.\n\n\"Lilies an' roses ain't in it with her,\" he murmured admiringly.\n\"An' eyes as big as plums and as dark as--stout.\"\n\n\"Where do yer live?\" he next essayed.\n\n\"D'ink,\" said Judy, occupied with the problem of what was to be\ndone with the bun whilst she drank from the mug beside her. \"'Old!\"\nshe commanded, holding out the bun, as she realised that her own\ndangling legs made a very unstable, insufficient knee.\n\n\"Bless yer, missy, look at my 'ands!\" the potman answered.\n\nJudy looked, bending her dainty face with keen interest above the\nmembers, encrusted with dirt and neglect, held out before her.\n\n\"Dirty!\" she exclaimed delightedly, lifting sympathetic eyes to the\nequally dirty face, and she laughed again in keen enjoyment. Dirt\nalways commanded Judy's suffrages.\n\n\"'Old!\" she commanded again, undaunted by the sight presented to\nher; and with sweet and dainty curvings of her soft fingers she\npressed the nibbled scone upon the greasy palms. Then the potman\nhanded her the mug and Judy drank.\n\n\"Out to tea?\" she said again, a little doubtfully, as, her draught\nfinished, she recovered her scone.\n\nBut the rosy mouth paused half-open, and Judy's eyes fixed\nthemselves observantly on an advancing figure.\n\n\"Man,\" she said, directing the potman's gaze to the road. It was a\npoliceman passing by, and the potman stood up alertly.\n\n\"Here,\" he called, \"here's a little gel.\" And the two men stood\nsolemnly regarding Judy. \"I 'xpect she's lost,\" he suggested slowly.\n\nThe policeman's eyes fixed themselves on the dainty embroidery of\nJudy's little petticoat, visible under her lifted skirt--a contrast\nto the bare and dusty ankles it enclosed. The dragged-aside cotton\npinafore, from which one arm was freed, revealed the elaborate\nsmocking with which nurse was wont to ornament the simple frock.\nLastly, Judy's face came in for careful scrutiny.\n\n\"How did you pick her up?\" he asked.\n\n\"She come.\"\n\n\"Which direction?\"\n\n\"Along the road, trotting along all by herself.\"\n\n\"Then I'll take her back. Seems to me she is uncommon like one of\na pair I sometimes see--beauties, both of them; though how the\nmischief----Come with me, missy,\" he wheedled, stooping and holding\nout his arms.\n\n\"Out to tea,\" said Judy.\n\n\"Yes, so you are. You been out to tea, ain't you?\" he sympathised.\nAnd Judy, satisfied, holding out her arms, allowed herself to be\nannexed.\n\nBut she was not carried off without a little scene.\n\nIn the policeman's arms a sudden recollection of her \"manners\"\nflashed across her mind.\n\n\"Bye, bye,\" she said, holding out one hand in a dignified fashion to\nthe potman. With the other she still retained the bun.\n\n\"Bye, bye, missy,\" he responded, much gratified.\n\n\"Bye, bye,\" Judy repeated; and then, her vivid face all dimpling\ninto smiles, she flung herself forward and clasped her arms round\nhis neck. What to Judy were dirt and knobbliness? Both were\nfascinating, both were associated with the delight of having her\nown way. With a fervid embrace and a wet kiss Judy bestowed her\ngratitude.\n\nThere was weeping and wringing of hands and the rush of petticoats\nup and down and in and out, and flying figures darting about, when\nthe policeman, with Judy in charge, arrived at the gates of Mount\nRoyal. Judy's father had just come from the train, and was trying to\nfind out from his agitated household what was the matter, when the\ntall, dark figure with the little pink one in his arms appeared.\n\n\"Oh, Judy!\" reproached nurse, pallid to her lips, snatching her\ncharge from the policeman's arms and agitatedly examining all her\nlimbs. \"Such a disgrace!\" she exclaimed, looking angrily at the\npoliceman.\n\n\"I thought I knew her, miss,\" he said politely, grinning. Nurse had\nhaughtily snubbed him once or twice in her walks.\n\n[Illustration: \"Bye, bye,\" she said.]\n\n\"Out to tea,\" Judy said triumphantly, as she was caught up into her\nfather's embrace.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nChristopher, breaking away from nurse's attentions, on his return\nhome, stamped loudly round the nursery floor to attract the envious\nattention of Judy.\n\nJudy's attire had been remodelled throughout, as a prelude to the\nhour in the drawing-room before bed-time; and she was now sitting on\nthe window seat in a mood of subdued and passive triumph. \"Go agen,\"\nshe had murmured softly two or three times to herself, too much\noccupied with the sweets of memory to heed, as she otherwise would\nhave done, Punch's aggravations.\n\nStamping round being deprived of its attraction, Punch paused and\napproached his sister.\n\n\"Poor Doody,\" he said pityingly.\n\nJudy's eyes flashed in the manner which always made Punch conscious\nof wonder that he had felt called upon to speak. He hastened to\nappease her.\n\n\"Punch's boots a-comin' off,\" he said.\n\n\"Doody don't want no boots,\" she said shrilly; \"never don't want no\nboots, Doody don't.\"\n\n\"No,\" agreed Punch, in the tone of one who humours. \"Ain't been out\nto tea,\" he suggested.\n\n\"Has!\" screamed Judy. \"Doody has!\"\n\nThe blue eyes looked searchingly into the dark ones, and, with a\nqualm of disappointment, Punch felt the force of truth.\n\n\"Cake?\" he asked presently, after silently observing her.\n\nJudy shook her head violently, the violence intended to hide the\nmortification of having to confess the absence of the delicacy.\n\n\"Punch did,\" he said. \"Cake, an' tea, an'----\"\n\n\"Bun?\" burst in Judy; and then it was Punch's turn to look\ndisappointed. Buns had not been provided at his entertainment.\n\n\"Doody did,\" went on Judy; \"an' milk, an'----\"\n\n\"Punch had tea,\" interrupted Christopher.\n\n\"An' man,\" went on Judy, with immense emphasis.\n\nChristopher looked at her solemnly, as he dived into the recesses of\nhis memory; not a man had graced his tea-party!\n\n\"Man?\" persisted Judy, searching his eyes with her blazing orbs.\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\"Punch are goin' to muvver,\" the boy then announced cheerfully,\nfreeing his legs from Judy's petticoats with a vigorous kick.\n\n\"Man!\" shrieked Judy after his retreating figure, too much taken by\nsurprise to lift herself so suddenly. Then she, too, got up, shook\nherself, and with a dash was through the nursery door.\n\n\"Out to tea agen,\" she sang out, trotting fast along the corridor.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut alas! for Judy. All the doors and gates were fast, and for a\nweek they were kept carefully closed.\n\n[Illustration: \"Man!\" shrieked Judy.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: COUNTING NOT THE COST\n\n(_Photo: H. S. Mendelssohn, Pembridge Crescent, W._)]\n\nBy the Rev. C. Silvester Horne, M.A.\n\n     \"When His disciples saw it, they had indignation, saying, To\n     what purpose is this waste? For this ointment might have been\n     sold for much, and given to the poor.\"--ST. MATTHEW\n     xxvi. 8, 9.\n\n\nBlessed is the love that counteth not the cost of sacrifice! Thus\nI read the meaning of the Master's recognition of this act of\nhomage--the form in which a devout and eager spirit of reverence\nfound expression and articulation. This woman, by surrendering\nherself to the impulse of adoration and affection, laid herself\nopen to the criticisms of the self-constituted champions of common\nsense, utility, and philanthropy. We shall see, as we look at her\nstory, how, in the regard of Heaven, what I might venture to call a\ngenuine and spontaneous extravagance ranks higher than a legal and\nmechanical economy.\n\nThere is a truth we have not anything like exhausted yet in the\ngreat words of Christ, \"He who saves [or hoards] his life shall lose\nit.\" Parsimony, if we knew it, impoverishes as well as extravagance.\nIf the prodigal had turned miser, he would have remained just as\nfar from the father's house. We do not accuse the disciples for a\nmoment of selfishness or greed. If they misconstrued Mary's motive,\nlet us beware lest we misconstrue theirs. Say they were honest and\ngenuine, but that they lacked insight and that emancipation from the\ncommercial spirit which saves men from estimating all precious and\nlovely things at their market value.\n\nWe need the lesson. No century has needed it more. While love\nin self-forgetfulness and holy passion is spending itself in\nthe tenderest offices that an overflowing heart has suggested,\nthe disciples are engaged in problems of valuation, working out\ncalculations in arithmetic--so much ointment at so much per pound.\nBut that would have been condemned by many who would yet ask\nthemselves seriously whether their main contention was not right.\nTheir blunt and rude interruption showed lack of feeling; it was\nvulgar and inexcusable. Granted. But if they had quietly sympathised\nwith the good intention, and yet afterwards had clearly represented\nthat here love had loved \"not wisely but too well,\" and had done\nbetter if it had selected some more practical method in which to\nexhibit its reality, would they not have commanded a very general\nassent? Would not nine out of every ten have said that she could\nhave laid out the money to better advantage, and that it was a\nholier thing to clothe and feed the persons of the poor than even to\nanoint the person of the Christ?\n\nNow let me say that I do not think we can understand our Saviour's\ncommendation of this deed of love, and this apparent disregard of\nprinciples of utility and practical philanthropy, unless we take at\nonce a large and a deep view of life--its purpose and the methods of\nits education. The pressure of the material necessities is constant\nand urgent, I know; but God does not mean us to believe that the\nsupreme questions of life are \"What shall we eat, and what shall we\ndrink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?\"\n\nWhen Christ propounded His query to the multitudes on the mount,\n\"Is not the life more than meat, and the body than the raiment?\"\nHe demanded in reality their assent to the proposition that the\nspiritual life is the supremely important. The fact of the matter\nis, God has never treated man as if he were made to eat and drink\nbecause to-morrow he must die. The world is not designed simply to\npromote our physical well-being, and conducted on purely utilitarian\nprinciples, as if it were some sort of gigantic store in which all\nmen were shareholders, and the sole business of which was to produce\ncertain annual profits. That mode of regarding the universe is\npopular, but false.\n\nHave you ever asked yourselves the question, \"What do the spring\nflowers mean?\" I have sometimes tried to fancy men gloomily riding\nto the city and sulkily pointing to the wealth of ephemeral beauty\nthat has glorified the world, and demanding, \"To what purpose is\nthis waste?\" There the flowers bloom, so fragile, so delicate, so\nshort-lived; here to-day, and faded and gone to-morrow: to-day,\na quivering point of beauty and fragrance, to-morrow touched by\nthe withering finger of decay. And so \"they bloom their hour and\nfade,\" and we say in wonder, \"To what purpose was this waste?\" What\ndid it all mean? One sudden, genuine gush of sacred feeling; one\nburst of almost overpowering glory that shone steadfast for one\nbrief hour and then faded into nothingness. Why lavish such wealth\nof colour and sweetness on fabrics so short-lived as the flowers\nof spring? Ah, why, indeed! Long years before man brake the first\npoor spikenard vessel of worship and adoring love at the feet of\nthe Eternal, God poured His precious gifts of bloom and scent in\nbewildering profusion and prodigality upon the listless sons of\nearth.\n\nI have sometimes wondered whether man might not have gone on\nconceiving of the world as no more than so much food, and clothing,\nand shelter, if God had not startled him by this annual miracle of\nspring to ask the question, \"To what purpose is this waste?\" Just\nso soon as man found himself appealed to in the higher faculties\nand senses, did he begin to suspect himself above the brute; did\nhe begin to discover beneath the form of things a gracious and\nbountiful Spirit, whose attitude to him found voice in these tender\nand winsome words of Nature's lips.\n\nFlowers \"born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the\ndesert air\"--to what purpose are they? Surely, surely (as Mary's\noffering of sweet spikenard) they are God's approach to man, if only\nwe would accept them as such. That is the inner meaning of this\nsudden gush of sacred feeling; that is the purpose of this \"waste.\"\n\nWe are reaching, then, this conclusion, that if love is the soul of\nlife, you must expect no mere dead level of respect, but occasional\ninevitable outbursts of feeling, love's sweet surprises; times when\nthe ordinary prescribed channels through which habitual affection\nflows are inadequate, and when there must be room for the sweet\nextravagances of love. The strong, deep love of a father may no\ndoubt be felt in the steadfast care that provides food and clothing,\nand shelter, and all things necessary for his child. But, after all,\nhome would not be home if there were not room for the rarer gifts,\nand the moments of sublime _abandon_, when all the love of the heart\nbreaks forth in unconstrained demonstration of affection.\n\nLife that is love cannot be reduced to formalities; there must\nbe a place in it for the spontaneous, the unpremeditated, the\nirresistible impulse. Love cannot live and thrive amid conventions\nmerely. It has an etiquette of its own. It must be allowed to make\nits own proprieties. If you cannot appoint to it an object, and\ncommand one mortal to love another, neither can you prescribe the\nmanner of its operation. You cannot control its whims, and freaks,\nand fancies. It has ten thousand devices that are all enigmas to the\nuninitiate.\n\n  \"Love only knoweth whence they came, and comprehendeth love.\"\n\nIts sanities are stark madness to the matter-of-fact man of affairs.\nHe curtly denominates nonsense what to love is inspiration.\nHe stares in blank incredulity at the simple and magnificent\nprodigalities of love, and begins to wonder whether he is himself\nquite sane to-day, and to ask in sheer stupor, \"To what purpose is\nthis waste?\"\n\nIt would not do, perhaps, to make too searching a scrutiny into\nprivate personal histories, or it might transpire that, after all,\nbehind even the most stolid of demeanours there lay experiences\nwhich memory treasures still, and which are the vindication to\nthem of Mary's sublime extravagance. Yes, perhaps those you least\nsuspect--the level-headed men who are feared for their hard thinking\nand steely, immovable stolidity, have secret drawers somewhere, with\nstrangely unintelligible relics of a yesterday that was the greatest\nday of their life--and the least defensible day on any rationalistic\nview of it! On that day they lost either their head or their heart,\nor both, and love and reverence found expression; and the spikenard\nthat they broke that day is the _one_ precious memory in what people\nwith unconscious irony are calling a successful career. Yes, the\none thing they are proud to have done, the one thing they sometimes\nthink may stand them in stead in a world where wealth and fame will\nbe as nothing, is a thing which none could justify on commercial\nprinciples--which stands in conflict with the great aims and efforts\nof their lives--an action that sprang inevitably from a spendthrift\nlove, and of which the world in which they move might well demand,\n\"To what purpose is this waste?\" I venture to say that by that very\nchapter of their history the possibility is proved that, some day,\nthey may discover a more amazing loveliness and a more overpowering\nlove; and may offer even nobler offerings of life and treasure at\nHis feet, and go forth again, not in shame, but in holy pride and\ndevout thanksgiving that at last they have learned to love with a\nlove that counteth not the cost of sacrifice.\n\nI have seen this exquisite story quoted as a defence of mere\nritual. The method is obvious. The hardened lover of simplicity is\nrepresented as one of the disciples; and beholding the beauty of\narchitecture, and the stateliness of the ceremonial, and listening\nto the superb eloquence of the liturgy and grandeur of the music, he\nasks, \"To what purpose is this waste?\"\n\nThere is a superficial justification for such teaching. But it is\nonly superficial. For if from this incident it be attempted to\nestablish a precedent for permanent elaborate ritual of worship,\nit must be said this incident goes to prove its impossibility. For\nask yourselves, What gave this deed its peculiar and unrivalled\npower and influence? There is only one answer. It lies in its\nsolitariness. It was spontaneous. It was unique. It could not bear\nrepetition. To repeat it were to rob it of its bloom.\n\nWe repudiate, then, the idea that the form of this deed can become\nthe basis of Christian worship. But we are now able to consider the\ntruth that, when love realises itself thus in deeds of worship, it\noften receives assurances that it has done more than it knew. God\ninterprets our poor intentions so liberally, so largely. He reads\ninto our broken speech such divine meanings. It is ever so. We give\na cup of cold water to a thirsty bairn; and lo! we have done it\n_unto Him_! We utter our coarse earthly strains of music; and, one\nday, He bids us hearken! Then there falls upon our ears ravishing\nheavenly music; and when we could fall down and worship, He tells us\nit is our own.\n\nHeaven's great melodies are perhaps no more than earth's poor\nones, composed in pure love and praise of God, redeemed from their\nlimitations and imperfections in the home of all true worship.\nSo Mary struck her trembling chord, and waited fearful; broke\nher spikenard, and then marvelled at her own daring; and while,\nwhen love had spent itself, a colder mood began to question the\npropriety, and to strike fear to her woman's heart, Jesus spake and\nsaid, \"In that she hath poured this ointment on Me, she hath done it\nfor My burial.\"\n\nWould she ever have dreamed, think you, that she was doing what\nHe said? Would she ever have dared to entertain the thought that\nHe would bear to the grave the incense of her adoration, and that\nwith the final victory of His resurrection her love and worship\nwould have eternal association? Would she ever have dreamed, here\nin Simon's house, where she was esteemed so meanly and treated so\nbasely--here, amid the splendour of a rich man's entertainment--that\nin the days when the world had no feasts for Him, but only a cross\nand a tomb, that then the perfume of her love, the fragrance of her\nofferings, would surround His form and sweeten His resting-place.\nNever; but so it was, for the Divine Love caught up the simple act\nof worship, and gave it eternal distinction. Yea, He who had come to\nseek the love of men deigned to associate with the time of His own\nimmortal sacrifice this sacrifice of hers.\n\nIt were, perhaps, to require too much of this story to make it\nconvey the great truth that in Christ's sacrifice all our sacrifices\nhave a place. Yet, verily, every true sacrifice hath association\nwith His. Every death to self is an anointing of the Holy One to\nHis burial. He gathers up the perfume of all simple deeds of lowly\nsacrifice; for this is His reward. Only from the great Love does\nour love flow. We love because He loved. His sacrifice is the basis\nof all sacrifice; and all true sacrifice of ours hath this relation\nto His own. We did not think when we did it of anything but that we\nmust do it unto Him; and in grace He showed us afterwards that we\nhad indeed anointed Him--we had in our own poor way honoured the\nDivine sacrifice.\n\nIt would but mar the solemn influence of such a sacred reflection\nto deduce the obvious and inevitable lessons. I forbear to treat it\nthus. I can only say, let us pray and let us strive to love Him with\nthe love that counteth not the cost of sacrifice.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE GREEN FOLK]\n\nA Complete Story. By Ethel F. Heddle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nISHBEL.\n\n\nOne is pretty safe to address a man in Skye as Macdonald! If that\nfails, then try MacLeod, and if this produces no result, then there\nis still Nicolson to fall back on. An error in all three is next\ndoor to an impossibility! But Ishbel had not any of these three\nnames, though she lived with her maternal grandfather, who was a\nMacLeod.\n\nIshbel was a changeling. Anyone would tell you so in Skye--if,\nperhaps, one or two smiled in the telling. Her grandmother, Catriona\nMacLeod, said so, and Catriona had the second sight, and saw more\nthan most people. She was held in Skye to see, indeed, beyond that\nveil which mercifully hides the future. Catriona had early said\nthe girl was a changeling. Her daughter, poor Kirstie, died at the\nbaby's birth, her father Roderick McNeill, was drowned--tragedy and\nsorrow surrounded the baby, and then the little green folk stole it,\nand Ishbel was the changeling popularly supposed to be left in its\nplace.\n\nShe was always an odd child, Catriona said, with ruddy tawny\nlocks, and sloe-eyes, elfish and silent, doing queer, uncanny,\nunaccountable things, with moods of sadness and moods of mirth. She\ngrew up in Skye, and would never leave it, though she had her chance\nto do so.\n\nIshbel lived with Catriona till she was nineteen, and helped her\nwith her spinning and knitting; she also milked the cows, and worked\nabout the house. The girl's head was full of her grandmother's\nteaching; she believed in the fairies, though she rarely spoke of\nthem. Her cousin Duncan often found her seated in the fairy-ring on\nthe knowe, above the sheiling, picking the green grass absently, and\ngazing \"frae her.\"\n\nSome day, she thought, she would hear the tap of fairy feet in their\nrevels, hear a tiny voice which would beckon her to an entrancing\nworld, very different even from lovely Skye. Very often she thought\nshe had been on the brink of meeting the little green folk, and then\nsomeone had come and interrupted her. There was that night coming\nhome over the muir from Portree--the stream, richly brown with the\npeat over which it gurgled, the air heather-scented, the mountains\nfading into the lovely purple of the night's embrace--everything\nhushed, save her own footfall. Ishbel had seemed to hear a voice\ncalling her then, and had wandered up amongst the heather, her face\neager and expectant. And there above her on the heather knoll, \"the\nwee folks' knowe,\" seeming to float between the grey lichen-covered\nboulders--surely these were tiny white figures, beckoning to her?\n\nShe almost ran, in her eagerness, but, just as she approached,\nDuncan's voice hailed her from the high road. What was she doing\nthere? And was that the way home?\n\nIshbel almost wept as she descended. For she could see nothing near\nthe boulders then but waving cotton-grass amongst the bog and\nheather. It was lovely September now, and the hill-sides were a\nglory of tawny colouring, the fading heather and bracken, purple and\nbrown, and orange, and gold, and dusky indescribable grey. Sunset\ncame early, and tinged and stained the loch, the Cuchillans stood\nout sharply in their lovely serrated outline, against a background\nof pure gold--they were almost friendly and neighbourly, and\napproachable; it was in winter that they lowered and sulked in the\nmist, or frowned blackly from amongst the lashing swirls of rain.\n\nIshbel had gone to fetch fodder for the cows, and the fodder was\na great pile of pale yellow bracken, which she bound together\nand fastened on her back. Carrying this, she passed up the road,\npausing now and then to lean her load on one of the rough dykes\nwhich bordered the muir. It was nearing evening, and shadows were\ncreeping over the heather--the burn, amber-coloured under the\nsun, looked dark and sullen-brown now, and had begun its hoarse\nnight-song, for it only sings in the dark. The deer hear and love\nthis song as they creep down cautiously, light-footedly, turning\nstartled graceful heads from side to side, and they pause a moment,\npoised with listening ear, before they bury thirsty soft noses into\nthe cool rushing water. The deer did not mind Ishbel! But it was\nscarcely dark enough for the deer to come yet. There was still a\nchance of the passing tourist from Sligachan, coming from Coruisk,\nthe far-famed. Ishbel, pausing to rest the high load of bracken\non the dyke--the crushed yellow fern making a lovely setting to\nher tawny locks and black sloe-eyes--suddenly perceived two men\napproaching, and waited for their coming with something of the\ndeer's startled look. One was Duncan MacLeod, her cousin, short,\nswarthy, black-browed, with a twinkle of cunning in his grey eyes,\nand a Highland sing-song voice; and the other? Yes, yes, she had\nseen the other at the Portree games, and he had tossed the caber\nfurther than even Colin MacNeil, and his name was Rory MacPhee!\nIshbel remembered him very well, and a little smile melted over her\nred lips, and lurked in the depths of her lovely eyes as Duncan made\nhim known to her. Rory had rented the small farm next to Catriona's,\nand he was coming to supper. It was time she, Ishbel, was home.\n\nDuncan did not offer to take the fodder from her, though he thought\nhe was in love with Ishbel, and meant to marry her. Women were used\nto burdens in Skye. But Rory MacPhee, saying nothing, began to untie\nthe rope at the girl's waist, and he swung the mass lightly over his\nown shoulders.\n\n\"Och! that is not needful,\" Duncan said. And what he thought was\n\"_Amadan!_\" (stupid!)\n\n\"It is too heavy for a lass.\"\n\nThat was all; but Rory and Ishbel did not meet each other's eyes,\nand they walked home silent through the creeping dusk.\n\nBy the red peat-glow in the cottage she looked lovelier than\never; MacPhee ate little, and his mind was in a curious turmoil.\nCatriona's remarks, and Duncan's slow efforts at conversation--for\nthe Highlander is desperately cautious at making friends, and Rory\ncame from as far away as above Portree, seven miles off--fell on\nstrangely dull ears.\n\nWhat had come to him?\n\nRory asked himself the question all next day, for, amidst even the\nsordid duties of examining the new byres and out-houses, there\nfloated before his mind only one picture--a girl's slim figure in a\nshort faded green skirt, leaning against a dyke, with her small head\ncrushed against a background of faded fern, and the shy lovely eyes\nlooking into his face.\n\nIshbel! They said she was a changeling.\n\nWell, changeling and all, he loved her!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nISHBEL'S PROMISE.\n\n\n\"It is no use at all to go against the lass. I hef said so before\nnow. And there are many lasses in Skye, as good as she, and with,\nmaybe, a cow or two, or a few pounds to bring with her. There is\nSheila Macdonald--Sheila will hef as much as three hundred pounds!\"\n\n\"As if I would look at a squinting woman\"--and Duncan threw down the\nfishing-rod he held, furiously--\"I will hef none but Ishbel, and if\nshe will not hef me, I will do someone an injury!\"\n\nHis mother went on peeling potatoes, deliberately.\n\n\"Rory MacPhee is stronger and bigger than you,\" she remarked. \"And\nhe has the eye of a hawk, and his fist is like iron. You will never\ntake Ishbel from him by force. But perhaps, now, there might be a\nlittle plan--chust a little plan.\"\n\nHe picked up the rod. His cunning eyes grew intent. Catriona\nresumed, in her high-pitched voice, speaking without a pause in her\noccupation: \"The best thing would be that they would quarrel. And\nI will tell you a way. He does not like to hear that they are all\nsaying she is a changeling; and he does not like her to talk of the\ngood folk. When she told him the story of the kelpie that followed\nRoss MacRae over the muir, and drowned him at last in the Rowan\nPool, he was angry, and called it all nonsense, and said that she\nshould not repeat such folly. And Ishbel did not like that. She was\nasking me about the Cave of Gold only yesterday, and when it was\nthat anyone might see the fairies dancing, and if the tide would\nsuit to go. So I told her it was on Midsummer's Night at twelve\no'clock, and she is just mad to go! Chust as mad! But Rory was\nthere, too, and I was listening at the door, after, and I heard him\nsay that it was all just talk and folly, and that he would not have\nher go; that it was too late, and that squalls came on, and our boat\nwas not good at all. She begged and prayed that he would take her,\nand he said, 'No'! Chust always, 'No'!\"\n\n\"Very well, then,\" Duncan cried impatiently, as she paused, \"I\nsuppose she is so mad with love that she gave it up.\"\n\n\"She is pretty mad with the love,\" his mother agreed, \"and so she\ngave in. 'And I am going to Portree, Ishbel,' I heard him say, 'to\nsee what Mr. Campbell, the agent, is wishing to say to me, and you\nwill promise not to go when I am away?--for it is not good for a\nlass like you to be out so late. And you will promise me?' And she\npromised. He said he would bring her a new brooch--like a claymore,\nthat the man at Oban is making with the Iona pebbles--and they\nkissed, and he is gone.\"\n\n\"Very well, what then?\" Duncan cried irately. \"I hear they are to be\nmarried when he comes back. What else, mother?\"\n\nCatriona had dropped her potatoes into the pot, and she swung it\nover the open peats, glowing redly in the dark little cottage.\n\n\"Well, if I were you, Duncan, I would get out the boat, and I would\noffer to take her to the cave. And I will be telling her more\nstories to-night, when we are spinning. The lass is a changeling,\nsure enough, and she will go. When Rory comes back, he will hear,\nand he will be mad with her, and they will quarrel. You can go over\nto Uig that day\" (\"Discretion being the better part of valour,\"\nevidently, in Catriona's eyes). \"They will quarrel, and will break\nit off, and she will come to you, in time.\"\n\nDuncan considered the plan slowly. Yes, it suited him excellently\nwell. He wanted no noisy quarrel, no measuring of strength. He, too,\nremembered Rory's muscles at the Portree games. But this secret\nworking in the dark, in MacPhee's absence, was quite to his taste.\n\nHe made up his mind now that his mother was a woman of much wisdom.\nHe graciously told her he approved, and she should have a little\npresent on his next trip to Portree. Her stories to Ishbel of the\ncave were to be many and enticing!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nIN THE CAVE OF GOLD.\n\n\n\"Duncan, Duncan, but I hef promised!\" It was the next night, and\nIshbel stood before the cottage in her dark wincey skirt and green\ncotton jacket, her face turned up to her cousin's. All last night,\nall through the day, old Catriona's stories had haunted her. The\nold woman had gone cunningly to work. She began, in a rambling way,\nonce they were both seated at the spinning-wheel, by remarking\nthat to-morrow would be Midsummer's Night, and the fairies would\nbe holding high frolic in the Cave of Gold. She herself was old,\nand frail, and feeble, else how gladly would she have gone! She had\nthe second sight--she would perhaps see what no other could! For,\nwith a branch of rowan--and she had a branch of dry rowan in her\nkist, ready for her burial--or a naked dagger--Duncan's big knife\nwould do--there was no danger! To see the little green folk dancing!\nAnd--here her voice fell, and she glanced into all the dark shadows\nof the kitchen, and up by the oak settle near the window--perhaps to\nhear the faint and far-off skirl of Angus Macdonald's pipes! They\nsaid that sound was heard still. At first Ishbel had risen uneasily,\nsaying she would go and see if there were enough oat-cakes for\nsupper--or was that anyone in the barn?\n\nBut Catriona bade her be seated, sharply--the girl should not escape\nher thus--and then she asked if she (Catriona) had ever told Ishbel\nthe story of Angus Macdonald and the Cave of Gold? No, Ishbel\nanswered unwillingly, and sat down again, the wheel idle, the soft\ngrey carded wool lying in her lap. Catriona, spinning fast--with\nthe low dirl of the wheel acting as a sort of accompaniment to her\nvoice--told the story. She spoke in Gaelic, of course, and it is\ndifficult to put in English the creeping, insidious fear and mystery\nof the tale.\n\nHow the piper, Angus Macdonald, loved a MacLeod of Dunvegen, a\nfollower of the great MacLeod, and how this lady-love's father would\nhave none of him, but set him some of those foolish and impossible\ntasks so dear to the story-teller of all ages and climes and\nnationalities.\n\nOne task bade him enter the Cave of Gold at midnight, on Midsummer's\nNight, and play \"MacLeod of Dunvegen,\" passing through the little\ndancing folk, and penetrating far into the mystery of the cave's\nwindings, where no Skye man had ever been. Macdonald, of course,\ntook up the challenge, and with his tartan ribbands waving wildly\nfrom the pipes, and the mouth-piece at his lips, he was seen\nstanding at the shingly edge of the cave, his kilt tossing against\nhis brown knees in the sudden gust of wind. The men who rowed him\nup saw this, and heard the first wild pealing notes. Thus, playing\nproudly and happily, he entered the cave with his dog at his heels.\nThey waited and watched, and listened, and at last heard one awful\ncry! Then there was silence. He had passed the fairies, but--\n\n  \"Never home came he!\"\n\nThen, changing her tone, Catriona told of the only woman who had\never caught sight of the wee green folk, and how, ever after, riches\nand wealth were hers, and she had never a wish unsatisfied! It was\nthe going on into the inner caves that had undone the piper! The\nlass who had seen the fairies was a certain Eilidh Macdonald, and\nshe married a chief, and went to live far away in Oban, and all her\ndays she was clad in green silk. Yes, all her days!\n\n\"How did she go?\" Ishbel cried.\n\n\"In a boat, with a man. It is easy, if the man is strong, and you\nhef the rowan with you. Last of all, Eilidh died, and she wished to\nbe buried beside Flora Macdonald's granite cross at Kilmuir, and\nthey granted her even that! She lies near the great Flora, who saved\nthe Prince. And all through seeing the wee green folk in the Cave of\nGold!\"\n\n\"Grandmother, would you lend me the rowan branch if--if I were to\ngo?\" Ishbel whispered in the dusk. \"Would you, grandmother?\"\n\nHer own voice seemed to terrify her then, and Rory's face rose up\nbefore her; but the old woman got up without a word, and, going to\nher kist, took something, rolled in a fine kerchief, from it, with\nthe smell of bog-myrtle in its folds, and she laid the brown faded\nleaves and the red, dry berries on Ishbel's lap.\n\n\"There it is! But you will give it me back safe?--or else ill will\nbefall us all!\"\n\n\"I will give it you back,\" Ishbel whispered.\n\nShe had the rowan in her pocket as she stood with Duncan, tampering\nwith her conscience and her promise now.\n\n\"It was a very foolish thing to promise,\" he said craftily.\n\"Besides, Rory was afraid of the squalls, that is all--and there\nwill be no squalls at all! You can come with me, and see if there is\nanything, and if my mother's stories are true. If not, there is no\nharm done. It is a lovely cave whateffer.\"\n\nIshbel yielded, as Catriona knew she would yield. Would she see\nanything? Would the wee folk be there?\n\n[Illustration: \"I will hef none but Ishbel.\"--_p. 127._]\n\nShe found herself in the little boat, and rowing towards the cave\nbefore she knew she had consented. The night seemed only a paler\nday. They rowed close into the shore, till they discovered a place\nwhere the rock-face was cleft, and showed a pale light within.\nThere was just space for the boat to float in, passing through a\nlow, overhanging archway. Ishbel drew her breath sharply and clasped\nher hands, as Duncan paused, watching her face, once they were\nthrough it.\n\n[Illustration: \"It is a pretty boat to take a lass out in.\"]\n\nThey were in a deep circular basin, the water, a lovely pale green,\ndarker in the shadows. The rocky sides were cut, here and there,\ninto long narrow openings, into one of which Catriona's piper must\nhave wandered; here Ishbel saw the water lying dark and mysterious,\nshadow-haunted.\n\nBending over the edge of the boat, she could see the yellow sand\nfar below; in bright sunshine her own fair face would have been\nreflected. Tiny jelly-fish edged with lilac spots, and with long\nwhite fringe, floated beside the seaweed, like strange jewels, and\nfar above them they could see the pale opalescence of the summer\nsky, soft, exquisite, pearly. Fringing the opening were ferns and\nheather, and tall fox-gloves, but the fairy bells did not stir in\nthe breathless air. Were the wee folk, the good folk, the green\nfolk, lurking within? If she watched, would she see a tiny face peep\nout? She waited--watched--and waited--and the time passed.\n\n\"Duncan, I do not see anything!\" Ishbel spoke at last, breathlessly,\neagerly. She had forgotten Rory, she had forgotten everything but\nher desire. \"Row me further in, Duncan.\"\n\nHe pushed the boat forward, and Ishbel sat with her dark blue\neyes--they seemed black in the shadow--strained eagerly forward,\nlistening, waiting. Nothing moved, except that now and then little\nwaves would break with a plashing ripple against the boat. Far up on\nthe rocks, a passing breath of wind now and then swayed the flowers\nand the grasses; but no fairy face peeped anywhere, there was no tap\nof dancing feet, no note of elfin music.\n\n\"Duncan, Duncan, there is nothing, nothing at all!\"\n\nThe note of bitter disappointment in her voice roused Duncan. Once\nor twice he had essayed to speak, having no desire for a silent\nadventure, but Ishbel had raised her little brown hand sharply. He\nmight disturb the fairies. At last the silence had chilled even\nher. It was all of no use. She could see and hear nothing.\n\n\"We will chust be going home then,\" he said practically, caring\nnot at all for her disappointment, for, of course, it was all\n\"foolishness.\" \"Maybe they are not dancing to-night; we will better\nchust go home.\"\n\n\"She said I would be sure to see them.\"\n\nThere was a sob in her voice; as he pushed the boat out, she crushed\nthe rowans bitterly in her lap, and they fell into the bottom of\nthe boat. She remembered Rory suddenly, as, once outside, she\nnoticed that the weather had changed during her long waiting, that\nthe light seemed obscured, that there were white horses leaping in\nthe distance, and that the wind swept sharply in their faces as\nthey looked seaward. It would be dangerous now to keep quite close\nto the rocks, for a heavy groundswell had risen. Duncan, glancing\nround, expended some forcible Gaelic, for he knew he would need all\nhis muscles to row the clumsy boat, if they were to be safe, and he\nhated trouble. He would have to keep out to sea to avoid the rocks.\n\nDuring the long pull home, through the now angry waters, Ishbel sat\nquite silent. When Duncan bade her \"Bale!\" almost furiously, the\nboat having an ugly leak, she did so almost mechanically.\n\nNothing seemed to matter. There were no fairies, and she would have\nto tell Rory she had broken her word!\n\nThey found a sandy, sheltered bay at last where they could land.\nDuncan alone knew how hard had been the struggle against wind and\ntide in the clumsy and leaky craft; but Ishbel did not see a tall\nwaiting figure on the shore, till she was preparing to leap from the\nboat.\n\nThen a strong hand took hers, and she glanced, with a startled cry,\nto see Rory himself, grim, grave, silent, with something new in his\nface which chilled her through and through. How was he there?\n\nHe helped Duncan to pull up the boat, almost disdainfully, looking\nat it when it lay out of the water with a kind of scornful rage.\n\n\"It is a pretty boat,\" he said then in Gaelic, \"a pretty boat to\ntake a lass out in, I will be saying that, Duncan MacLeod.\"\n\nMacLeod called to Ishbel sharply, making no reply, and all three\nwalked up to the cottage in heavy silence. The night, grown gusty\nand wet, seemed to have changed as suddenly and mysteriously as\nIshbel's life.\n\nAt the door she paused and faced her lover; his silence galled and\ntormented her.\n\n\"Well!\" she said, \"well!\"\n\nIf she had pleaded with him--been penitent, sorrowful! Alas! it was\nno penitent face which met his, and jealousy and wrath broke forth\nfiercely, sweeping love aside.\n\n\"Are you asking what I am thinking, Ishbel?\" he cried, \"of the lass\nwho promised me, and who broke her word, and went out with Duncan\nMacLeod? Well, I am thinking chust nothing at all of her! I hef\nwarned her that the boat was not safe, and of the squalls, and that\nit was not the thing for a lass like her to go so late; and she\nhad promised, and yet she went! And this was the claymore brooch\nmade of Iona pebbles I hef bought for you; and it can go there!\" He\nflung the little packet remorselessly into the heather. \"And as for\nyourself, I think nothing of you at all, and everything is over. And\nI am sailing for New Zealand with Mr. Campbell to-morrow. He asked\nme, and I said 'No,' but I will go now, and will walk into Portree\nthis very night! _Beannachd leibh_ (good-bye).\"\n\nHe had turned away then, furiously. It had all passed as suddenly,\nswept up as unexpectedly as had the squall outside the Cave of\nGold. Ishbel stood as if dazed, staring straight before her. A\nHighlander's rage is like a Highland storm; one bends before it\ninstinctively. Ishbel did so now.\n\nRory did not look back. Duncan, in the doorway, saw him stride on to\nthe road, through the little patch of oats before the door. He set\nhis face towards the high road for Portree. In a very few moments\nthe sound of his footsteps died away and the night swallowed him.\nThat was all right, Duncan thought. New Zealand! Capital!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    \"There follows a mist, and a weeping rain,\n    And life is never the same again!\"\n\n\nIshbel might have thought of these words, if she had known them,\non the morrow and on many morrows that followed. For Rory MacPhee\nwas not the man to come back, or to speak lightly. He sailed with\nthe agent to Glasgow--was believed to have started for New Zealand\nwithin the week. There, as far as his Skye friends were concerned,\nhe vanished. They were the days of rare and slow communication, and\nRory never wrote.\n\nBut Ishbel did not marry her cousin, as everyone expected, including\nMacLeod. She answered him \"No,\" listlessly, but quite doggedly, and\nnothing that he could say, or that Catriona could threaten, served\nto change her. Once the old woman muttered vengefully that she would\nnever see the fairies, for she had lost her luck, and Ishbel turned\non her almost fiercely.\n\n\"It is all false,\" she cried in Gaelic, \"for there are no green folk\nat all, and I do not care!\"\n\nThe mystery and the charm had fled; she no longer dreamed on the\ngreen grass circle, no longer wondered at the night-song of the\nburn, no longer watched for the kelpies under the boulders in the\nburns or in the Rowan Pool. Belief in the fairies had faded on the\nnight in which Rory left her. Except in the little bald, white kirk\non the hill-side, Ishbel never sang. Song dies on the lips when care\nand sorrow lie heavy on the heart.\n\nIt was five years now since that fatal visit to the Gave of\nGold--Ishbel never mentioned it--and she was returning, in the\nsoft, golden haze of a September evening, from the castle. Catriona\nwas growing feeble, and Ishbel did everything; the old woman only\nspinning a little, and wandering out to gather sticks and twigs for\nthe fire. The girl had been taking up carded wool to the castle, and\ngiving the great London ladies there a spinning lesson.\n\nBefore the cottage came in view, with its surrounding field of poor\nand thinly growing oats and yellow daisies (there being, indeed, a\nfar more plentiful crop of the latter), she paused to look up the\nfairy knoll. There, on the top was the fairy ring. Something made\nIshbel suddenly turn and mount the little hill.\n\nThe sea-loch lay beneath her, tinged with red; the sky was a wonder\nand a glory, but Ishbel was not looking at the sky, or at the loch.\nShe was thinking how strange it was that she should go on living,\nand living much as usual, when all that was best and fairest in life\nwas gone.\n\nShe sighed, looking down at the burn, plashing and leaping over\nthe grey boulders. There was that story about the kelpies; her\ngrandmother rarely spoke of them now. Were there really no\nkelpies--no brownies? And yet----\n\nA step behind her made her start violently, and she gave a sharp\ncry. A man's tall figure was there, not ten yards off, and there\nflashed across Ishbel suddenly the thought that perhaps, after all,\nit was all true, for this was a ghost! And if there were ghosts, why\nnot wee folk and kelpies?\n\n\"I believe it is Ishbel, herself. Do you not know me, Ishbel?\"\n\nHe spoke in a new voice. The fluent Gaelic was gone, and the stiff,\ntranslated English; he spoke easily, with a strange accent. And yet,\nah! she knew him at once! It was Rory! Rory, well-dressed, handsome,\nupright, with a different and more independent carriage, but Rory\nall the same!\n\nIshbel rose and stood quite wordless for a moment. And then--\"You\nare a great stranger,\" she said. \"It is a very long time, I believe,\nsince you hef been in Skye.\"\n\nHe almost smiled. He was looking down at her earnestly, intently.\nWas it possible that she should be so little changed? Had the five\nyears been a dream? Just as he remembered her--with the pale, clear\nskin, the deep sloe-eyes, the ruddy crisp hair, the little droop\nof the head! Ishbel! The girl he had turned his back on, and been\nfurious with, and quite forgotten--oh, yes! quite forgotten, though\nhe had come back to the Winged Island--well, just to see how all the\nold folks were!\n\n\"It is five years,\" he said deliberately, \"five years! Are you--are\nyou married, Ishbel?\"\n\nThe girl raised her eyes and looked at him. It was getting dark,\nand the burn was beginning its night-song. Ishbel noticed that, and\nremembered just how the water used to sing, quite suddenly. The\nlovely, indescribable breath of the muir wind swept in their faces.\nHow sweet it was--how entrancing! And oh! me, the velvety deeps of\nher eyes, the little half-sad, half-humorous mouth!\n\nWas she married? Was she?\n\nHe repeated the question, but with a new and eager ring in his\nvoice, and Ishbel shook her head.\n\n\"Though there will have been a good many marriages since you left.\nThere was Mari MacLean and Dougal Nicolson, and there was Colin----\"\n\n\"What about MacLeod, your cousin?\"\n\n\"He is to be married this year,\" she said, \"to an English lass.\"\n\n\"So you did not marry him, after all, Ishbel?\"\n\n\"Who said that I would?\" she cried, as if stung. \"You knew better\nthan that! Who said that I would?\"\n\n\"He did; and that you would go with him that night, if he asked you.\nAnd you did, Ishbel! It was very cruel, but----\" Rory paused then,\nand suddenly spoke in Gaelic, as if it all came back to him. \"But I\nam beginning to think that I was cruel, too. Was I?\"\n\nHe waited, watching her.\n\nIshbel nodded gently. She also spoke in Gaelic, as if they had\nparted only yesterday.\n\n\"Yes, you were cruel, Rory, and you were very hasty. It is true that\nI was a foolish lass, but you might have given me another chance.\nI believed in my grandmother's stories. I wanted to see the good\nfolk.\" She looked away, and sadness and disillusion crept over her\nface. \"But I do not believe in them any more, not any more.\"\n\n\"Poor little Ishbel. Poor wee lassie!\"\n\nIt could not be five years. It could not! They had only parted\nyesterday!\n\n\"But it does not matter,\" Ishbel said, rousing, \"and now perhaps you\nwill call and see my grandmother? Are you on your way to Uig?\"\n\nHe did not answer that.\n\n\"Ishbel,\" he said, \"I was very cruel, and I was just as angry as a\nman could be, and for five years I have been mad and sore; but deep\ndown, deep down, I never forgot you. I hated him, but I loved you. I\nwill come and see your grandmother; but--first--first, will you give\nme a kiss, Ishbel, for the sake of the old days?\"\n\nWould she? Perhaps, after all, he did not wait for her consent. He\nhad her in his arms, and they closed round her, and Isabel's head\nfell on his shoulder with a little sob that was an epitome of all\nthe five years' sorrow and heartache.\n\n[Illustration: Catriona heard his story in silence.]\n\n\"_Muirnean_ (darling),\" Rory whispered, \"I love you; and when I\nleave Skye, you will come too, or I will be staying on here with\nyou. You shall choose Ishbel--you shall choose; and to-morrow I will\nbuy you something better than the claymore brooch that I was cruel\nenough to throw away!\"\n\nThey walked down to the cottage, and Catriona, who was never\nsurprised at anything, shook hands sourly with him; she heard his\nstory in silence, and nodded consent when he told her that he and\nIshbel were to be married, after all. He could look after the croft,\nshe said, or buy Colin MacDougal's farm, just above, if he had money\nenough. Would he have money enough? For Duncan kept her very close\nnow. Rory laid a packet smilingly in her lap, and said he thought he\nhad money enough.\n\nNext forenoon Catriona saw him coming up the road; Ishbel ran to\nmeet him, and together they wandered off to the burn-side. They came\nback by-and-by, and Ishbel stood smiling in the cottage door, her\narms full of rowan branches; Rory had a spray in his coat, and the\nred berries nestled under her chin.\n\n\"I have brought you back luck,\" the girl cried happily. \"We found\nthe rowans down by the pool. And Rory says that there are maybe good\nfolk in the world, after all! Who knows, grandmother?\"\n\nCatriona's peat-brown old face was bent over her wheel. She allowed\nthere might be one or two, with a half-grunt of satisfaction.\n\n\n\n\n_THE REAL EAST LONDON._\n\nBy the Lord Bishop of Stepney.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: H. V. Hornville, Gawber Street, E._)\n\nTHE \"MOTHERS'\" GARDEN PARTY GROUP.\n\n(_Showing the Bishop in the Background._)]\n\n\nEast London is a very different place from what many people expect\nit to be. There are not a few who still think that they will have\ntheir throats cut if they venture into it, and I remember one\nvisitor who turned up very late for dinner one night at Oxford\nHouse, and gave as the reason for his lateness that his landlord had\ngot one side of him and his landlady on the other, and had held him\nby his coat-tails to prevent him coming to be murdered in Bethnal\nGreen.\n\n[Illustration: Old \"Oxford House\"]\n\nAs a matter of fact, East London is probably, by daylight or\nby night, one of the safest parts of London, except in a very\nfew selected streets, well known to the police; and one of my\npredecessors, the much-lamented Bishop Billing, was quite right when\nhe used to say to the West-End mother, anxious about her daughter's\nsafety, if she came to work in East London, \"See her as far as\nTemple Bar, and then she will be all right.\"\n\nWhat strikes one at first is the extreme brightness and cheerfulness\nof the people, often under very adverse circumstances. I remember\ngiving a series of garden-parties when I was Rector of Bethnal\nGreen, in the little garden attached to the rectory. There was not\nmuch room for anything, and the only amusements were skittles and\nraces, whilst tea and cake and bread-and-butter were the simple\nrefreshments; but not only--as you will see by the photograph--were\nthe visitors very content with themselves, but one of them, from one\nof the poorest streets, met me the day after a \"party\" and said:\n\n\"Rector, we did enjoy ourselves yesterday.\"\n\n\"I am very glad of it,\" I replied.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\n\"OXFORD HOUSE\"--THE PRESENT BUILDING.]\n\n\"But we very nearly didn't come.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh! You see, a man down our street, 'e said, 'Don't go--the\nRector only wants to show you a few old gravestones.' But we tell\n'im now we couldn't have enjoyed ourselves better if we'd been at\nMarlborough 'Ouse.\"\n\nThen the children of East London are truly delightful. Poor little\nbairns! they often get pale enough spending the year in those\ncrowded courts and alleys--and few things are doing better work in\nLondon than the Children's Country Holiday Fund, which sends about\nthirty-one thousand each year for a fortnight into the country--but\nstill nothing daunts their spirits or dims their affection. Often\nhave I been cheered through an afternoon's visiting by a group of\nchildren who would spend their half-holiday afternoon in waiting\nquite quietly outside a sick-room in order to knock at the door of\nthe next sick case to which they were quite 'cute enough to know\nthat I was going, and so on right down the street. Many of the\nclergy organise Band of Hope entertainments, and teach the children\nto act little plays of their own, and there are no quicker and apter\npupils than the children of East London, as the prizes carried off\nyearly at the Crystal Palace will show.\n\nThe East-End boy, again, is quite a character; we had four hundred\nat Oxford House in one club, besides some hundreds of others in\nbrigades. When you told an East-End mother that fact, she would\ngenerally say, \"My word, I find _one_ quite enough!\" And certainly,\non a Whit Monday, when one had at least a hundred and fifty to\nconvoy to London Bridge and get safely down to some friend's house\nand back again, they were a fine handful.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nTHE PEOPLE'S PALACE.]\n\nOne day I noticed the express stopping pretty often, and wondered\nwhy, as it was not advertised to stop anywhere. At last the guard\ncame to see me at a wayside station, with a very red face, and said\nhe would hold me responsible for what my boys were doing; he said\nthat they had pulled the danger connecting-rod three times. I went\nround to see what was happening, and asked whether any of them had\ndone it. \"Oh, yes,\" said a little chap at once; \"it was me; _I was\nonly 'anging my 'at up on it!_\"\n\nFew things abash the East-End boy. At the end of the journey, my\nfriend, who lived near a very magnificent house, was showing us\nthrough the rooms, and I heard a little boy say confidentially to\nhis neighbour, without meaning to be overheard, \"_'Em! just like our\nlittle back parlour at home!_\" The good result of all the trouble\nwhich such expeditions involved, was shown by the contempt they\ndisplayed--as they marched back crowned with flowers, with horses\ncurveting round them, and cabs charging through them, in consequence\nof the inspiriting notes of the band--for the groups of drunken men\nand women we used to meet, who had spent their Bank Holiday in quite\nanother way. Once implant in a boy the love of a \"better way\" of\nspending a holiday, and you have got a long way on the road to make\nhim love \"a better way\" of spending his life altogether. Satan finds\nsome mischief still for idle hands to do, but if those hands are\nemployed in handling a musket, or playing a flute, or clinging on to\na horizontal bar--they have ceased to be idle at all.\n\nBut space will soon fail me if I go through all the component parts\nof the population in detail. The young girls, with their limbs\naching for active recreation after long confinement in factories or\nworkshops, have been graphically depicted by Sir Walter Besant, and\nfew people are doing more good in the district than those ladies\nwho, at great trouble, often with real self-sacrifice, are running\ngirls' clubs every evening for the girls after their work.\n\nAs, of course, is well known, it was one great object of the\nPeople's Palace to provide this sort of innocent recreation for the\npeople, and though it has thrown its strength lately rather into\nits excellent technical classes, it has not left out of sight its\noriginal mission.\n\nThe gymnastic instructor at the People's Palace told me a year or\ntwo ago that he had no better and more spirited class than a large\nfactory girls' class; and I have seen the magnificent Queen's Hall\nfilled to overflowing for a nigger entertainment on a Saturday\nnight, and more than half-full for a sacred concert on Sunday\nafternoon.\n\nWhen one is asked, then, what is the matter with East London, and\nwhat lies behind those great thoroughfares, which look so broad and\ninviting on a fine summer's afternoon, one can only reply by taking\none's questioner away from the broad thoroughfares into the crowded\nstreets and alleys which lie behind them and between. Here is a\nphotograph of a crowded back street, which gives an idea of what is\ngoing on, say, of a Sunday morning during the Bird Fair in Slater\nStreet, or the Dog Fair at the top of Bethnal Green Road, or the old\nclothes sale down by Petticoat Lane. We are too thick on the ground,\nthat is what it is; the census does not rise, because it _can't_\nrise: we are crammed so full that we can take no more.\n\nI remember once a young ladies' school used to send roses once a\nweek from a pretty suburb of London; they used to bring them to\nschool in the morning from their gardens, make them at twelve into\nbouquets, send them up by three, and they were in East London homes\nby five. As I used to take the bouquets of beautiful flowers round\non trays--followed, I may say, by a mob of children yelling for\na flower, for old and young have a touching love for flowers in\nEast London--I always found that I required four bouquets for each\nhouse, for each house contained at least four families. This is a\nfact which escapes the notice of the casual visitor, who sees a\nharmless-looking house outside, but does not know what is inside.\n\nWe are overcrowded, and what overcrowding means from the point of\nview of health and morality only those who reside in the district\nand the local medical officer really know. I used to have sent me\nby the excellent Medical Officer for Bethnal Green--Dr. Bate--the\ndeath-rate each month compared with the death-rate for the whole\nof London, and there is no reason that I know of to account for\nthe 22-27 per 1,000 registered for Bethnal Green compared with the\n18 per 1,000 of the rest of London, except the overcrowded and\nsometimes insanitary conditions in which the people live.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nA CROWD IN PETTICOAT LANE.]\n\nThings, however, are much better than they used to be. The London\nCounty Council has done a good deal in pulling down rookeries\nand rehousing large areas--as, for instance, the famous Boundary\nStreet area between Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. The Mansion\nHouse Council for the Dwellings of the Poor has done much through\nits local committees to stimulate local effort; and the district\nauthorities are far more active than they were, and alive to the\nresponsibilities which fall upon them.\n\nMany an afternoon have I spent with the Sanitary Committee of the\nVestry of Bethnal Green, condemning insanitary property, and many\nare the sad sights which I have seen when I have been round with\nthem.\n\nI remember vividly one or two large houses abutting on a little\ncourt. As we went with difficulty through the narrow passages and\nlooked into the different rooms, we found women sitting silent and\npatient, too busy to say much to us, pasting match-boxes together,\nfor which they were to get twopence-farthing a gross. Needless to\nsay that these houses had to be condemned; but the difficulty is\nby no means over when such dwellings are condemned. As a man said\ncaustically and truly at a meeting held on the subject, \"A rat in\na hole is better than a rat out, any day\"; and great consideration\nhas to be shown in not turning out too quickly those who have found\nthese poor tenements their home before provision has been made\nelsewhere for them.\n\nIf those in the West-End and other places who have property in the\nslums would only look after it themselves, and not be content with\ntaking the rents without seeing that the places for which they take\ntheir money are fit to house men and women, and not mere animals,\ngreat progress would be made. We should be happy to show them the\nbest models on which to rebuild their houses, or they may see for\nthemselves by observing the pretty two-storeyed houses now built,\nwhich constitute Hart's Lane, abutting on the Bethnal Green Road,\nand which, being always in demand, pay, we hope, the intelligent\nlandlord who built them.\n\nBut it is not merely that we are too thick on the ground; for a long\ntime we were too much left to ourselves. Those that ate jam lived in\none place and those that made it lived in another, and naturally\ntherefore the \"city of the poor,\" left to itself, generated\nstandards, habits, and traditions of its own, some of which are the\nreverse of edifying.\n\nTake, for instance, the prevalence of drink and gambling. A young\nman came to me one night in East London with a face as pale as\ndeath. I had known him as a boy, but he had dropped out of our club\nsystem on growing too old for the boys' club, and had got drawn into\na drinking set. \"Save me!\" he cried, as he fell upon his knees and\ntook my hand. He had, he said, been led in the public-house to put\nhis money on horses of which he knew nothing, and had finally spent\nnine pounds belonging to a shop club, of which he was treasurer.\nHe had to meet his mates next morning; he was only twenty-one, of\nrespectable parents, and engaged to a respectable girl, and with\nonly three months to run out of his apprenticeship. \"If you don't\nhelp me, sir, I am ruined for life!\"\n\nI did lend him the money, to be repaid by instalments, but the\nstory will show the dangers to our young population, and the need\nof strong and definite work among them from their earliest years.\nWith a public-house at every corner, and a bookmaker's clerk waiting\nfor them during dinner hour, what chance have the poor lads and\ngirls unless someone will go down and live among them and teach them\nbetter things? I remember running-in a man who had the insolence\nto stand outside Oxford House and take money from boys and girls,\nas well as men and women, during dinner hour, and though he was\nfined five pounds at once, he had more than twenty pounds on him\nin coppers and small silver. The fine ought to be raised, as the\npresent maximum--five pounds--is easily paid, and they think nothing\nof it, and go on again just the same next day.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nTHE GREAT HALL AT THE PEOPLE'S PALACE.]\n\nIt was no doubt the growing necessity of bringing a higher standard\nof life into the \"city of the poor\" and bridging over the gulf\nbetween rich and poor, establishing counter-attractions to the\npublic-house and the gambling-hell, which led Canon Barnett, some\nfifteen years ago, to suggest the formation of settlements among the\npoor. His visit to Oxford in 1884, backed up by Bishop Walsham How\nand Miss Octavia Hill, led to the establishment of Toynbee Hall\nin Whitechapel, and later on in the same year of Oxford House in\nBethnal Green. Of the former excellent institution, which still owes\nso much to its founder and present Warden, Canon Barnett, much has\nbeen written in past years, and, as space is limited even in THE\nQUIVER, I have only room to say a few words more about Oxford\nHouse. It was founded on a definite Church basis, and its workers\nwere and are members of the Church of England, but it threw open its\nclubs and its doors to men of all creeds and all kinds.\n\nWhen I was myself called to be Head of the House in 1880, it was\nsituated in a back street in Bethnal Green, and consisted of a\ndisused Church school knocked into rooms. As residents increased,\nwe found so small a house quite inadequate, and the present Oxford\nHouse was built on a disused site in the next street, and opened\nby the Duke of Connaught five or six years ago. It has had a full\ncomplement of twenty men ever since, and the acquisition of the\nrectory of Bethnal Green when I became Rector of Bethnal Green in\n1895, enabled us for some time to have thirty workers--all laymen\nwith the exception of myself.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nA VIEW OF BETHNAL GREEN MUSEUM.]\n\nThe residents do whatever work is entrusted to them by the Head, in\nthe daytime working at the Charity Organisation offices, Children's\nCountry Holiday Fund, Sanitary Aid Committee; in the evening running\nboys' clubs and men's clubs and Church Lads' Brigades, visiting in\nthe London Hospital on Mondays, visiting the sick and others in the\nparish of St. Matthew's, now specially connected with the House, and\ndoing innumerable odd jobs for the parish clergy round, with whom\nthey are all on the most friendly footing.\n\nAnd that brings me lastly to the definitely religious work of East\nLondon. It is here that the result of leaving for so long one\nmillion people to themselves shows itself in the most disastrous\nform. The habit of church-going or chapel-going has been almost\nentirely lost, and it is only after the most patient efforts on the\npart of the clergy and others that it can be brought again into the\ndistrict. After sampling on several occasions eighty men (invited to\nthe garden parties spoken of above) out of different streets taken\nin turn, I discovered that only about one in eighty went either to\nchurch or chapel, and out of a thousand boys of the age of fourteen\nor fifteen who were questioned on entering one of our large boys'\nclubs, nine hundred were found to have \"g.n.\" written after their\nnames, which means \"goes nowhere.\" Now, to the readers of THE\nQUIVER I know that this will seem a very appalling thing, and\nwill show that we have what is practically, from a religious point\nof view, a pagan population at our very doors.\n\nOn whom, then, does the great stress and strain of converting\nthis pagan population fall? Let us give all credit to the good\nwork done by Nonconformists in the district, with whom we are on\nexcellent terms: let us acknowledge the wonderful gatherings in Mr.\nCharrington's Hall: and in the Pavilion, under the preaching of Mr.\nGeorge Nokes; the good work by Dr. Stephenson in his Children's\nHomes; and by Dr. Barnardo in his boys' work at Stepney Causeway;\nand by other workers scattered up and down the district; but I think\nall would admit that the great strain and stress of the work falls\nupon those who actually live in the very midst of the people, each\nof them with their seven thousand to ten thousand, and sometimes\ntwenty thousand, souls to look after.\n\nIt is they whose door-bell rings continuously; it is they to whom\neveryone comes in the hour of distress, whether they attend the\nchurch or not; and it is they and the band of workers they have\ngathered round them who are laying deep the foundations of the\nfuture City of God, and who are working, with a few exceptions, day\nand night to bring wanderers into the fold.\n\nThe people are not irreligious, only non-religious, and all they\nneed is patient and loving work in their midst. To attend a parish\ngathering is like going to a happy family party, on such excellent\nterms are the clergy and their workers with the people, and when in\nsome churches you find five hundred East-End communicants in the\nearly morning on Easter Day, no one can question the self-sacrifice\nand earnestness of those who have once been thoroughly converted.\n\nThe great need, of course, is more workers and it is to supply more\nworkers that the East London Church Fund exists. It is spent wholly\non workers, not on buildings at all; and it is my earnest desire,\nwith the help of the Bishop of Islington, who is an experienced\nEast-End worker himself, and who has now taken over the North London\ndistrict, to raise that fund to \u00a320,000 this year to meet the urgent\nappeals for more workers which come to us from the poorer parts of\nEast and North London. The Fund covers an area of 1,800,000 people,\nmost of whom are poor.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: C. E. Fry and Son, Gloucester Terrace, S.W._)\n\nCANON BARNETT.\n\n(_Warden of Toynbee Hall._)]\n\nSuch, then, so far as it can be described in a short article, is\nEast London, with all its virtues and its vices, its aspirations,\nits hopes, its possibilities, and its failings. It is a land flowing\nwith milk and honey, with the milk of human kindness and the honey\nof human love; but, like the old Canaan, it is not yet fully\noccupied by the host of God. When Christianity is, however, fully\n\"in possession,\" we shall see a great deepening and ripening of all\nthe good that lies there, and the East London Church of the future\nwill have a character of its own, and will shed a new glory on the\nChristianity which has slowly converted the world.\n\n\n\n\nPLEDGED\n\n[Illustration: PLEDGED]\n\nBy Katharine Tynan, Author of \"A Daughter of Erin,\" Etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\"ANTHONY MUST KNOW.\"\n\n\n\"And you liked her, Kitty?\" said Anthony Trevithick.\n\nIt was the morning after his return, and Lady Jane had left them\nalone.\n\n\"I liked her amazingly,\" said Lady Kitty; \"and, what is more\nsurprising, she liked me.\"\n\n\"It would be surprising if she didn't, Kitty\"--looking at her with\nbrotherly fondness. \"Do you know, Kitty, I used to like you because\nyou were pretty, and couldn't help being charming?\"\n\nLady Kitty made a mocking bow.\n\n\"But still there is some change in you of late. What is it? You have\ngiven up being smart and cynical and all that. You are ever so much\nlovelier now than I remember you.\"\n\nLady Kitty laughed, but her eyes softened.\n\n\"I'm glad you think I'm lovelier, Anthony.\"\n\nHe looked at her sharply.\n\n\"What is it, Kitty?\"\n\n\"Something that must not be told yet, Anthony.\"\n\n\"Oh, it is _that_!\"\n\nHis voice had an incredulous relief in it.\n\n\"It is really _that_, Kitty?\"\n\nLady Kitty laughed up at him out of her chair, and her glance was at\nonce shy and proud.\n\n\"Yes, it is that, Anthony.\"\n\n\"Do I know him, Kitty?\"\n\n\"Very well, Anthony. But no one knows yet--only he and I.\"\n\n\"Who, Kitty?\"\n\n\"Ask Mr. Leslie, Anthony.\"\n\n\"It isn't Jack, Kitty? You don't mean to say it is Jack! Why--you\ndeceitful little person!--Jack was just the one man you never tried\nto make captive to your bow and spear; at least, so far as I could\nsee.\"\n\n\"My poor Anthony, you never saw very far where I was concerned.\"\n\n\"No, then, Kitty, I didn't.\"\n\nHis face was a little rueful as he said it.\n\n\"But I am glad beyond measure,\" he went on. \"There is, perhaps, only\none thing could make me happier.\"\n\nHe stooped and touched Lady Kitty's soft cheek with his lips.\n\n\"You can tell Jack, Kitty,\" he said. \"We are like sister and\nbrother, aren't we?\"\n\n\"I am very fond of you, Anthony. Next to your mother--excluding\nJack, of course--I think I'm as fond of you as anyone.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you're fond of my mother, Kitty. She doesn't care for many\npeople.\"\n\n\"I've been trying to get up courage to tell her, Anthony. I hate to\nkeep her in the dark.\"\n\n\"It will be a blow to her, Kitty.\"\n\nThey both laughed and blushed a little consciously.\n\n\"Yes, I'm afraid it will.\"\n\n\"But Pamela, Kitty--tell me about Pamela. Did she ever talk about\nme?\"\n\n\"I can't say that she did, Anthony.\"\n\n\"I suppose she wouldn't,\" said the lover, a little disappointed,\nnevertheless.\n\n\"You're fond of her, Anthony?\" said Lady Kitty, looking up at him\nwith eyes of alarm. \"Really fond of her?\"\n\n\"I love her and she loves me. As soon as I have established Uncle\nWilton comfortably with Knowles to look after him, I shall go to\nclaim her.\"\n\n\"She _knows_ you love her, Anthony?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, she knows.\"\n\nThe young fellow laughed happily, and there was no shadow of doubt\nor of apprehension in his eyes. He had begun to walk up and down the\nroom now, impatiently, as if he wanted to be off.\n\n\"Why didn't you claim her before you went off to nurse your uncle,\nAnthony? Uncertainty of that kind is hard on a girl.\"\n\n\"I did write. Not, indeed, to her, but to her father, and gave him a\nbroad hint of the state of the case. I have often wondered he never\nsent me a word: he was such a good sort.\"\n\n\"He has been very ill, Anthony.\"\n\n\"Ill? My mother never told me.\"\n\n\"He was at death's door, but is out of danger; he must be getting\nstrong again by this time.\"\n\n\"My poor little Pam--and all of them! They adore their father, and\nthey had no one to help or comfort them!\"\n\n\"Why didn't you write to Pamela herself?\"\n\n\"My mother asked me not to till I came back. But now all that is\nover. I am going to her at once.\"\n\n\"You say you wrote to her father, Anthony? Do you know I have a kind\nof idea she said you had not written?\"\n\n\"I wrote, Kitty, all right, and put it in the letter-box in the hall\nthe night before I left. You must have mistaken what she said. Of\ncourse, her father's illness explains his not having written. And\nnow there is no use in writing. I can be there almost as soon as a\nletter.\"\n\nLady Kitty's face was troubled as she looked at him.\n\n\"You're quite sure you posted the letter, Anthony? Perhaps they\ndidn't get it. Letters sometimes go wrong, don't they?\"\n\n\"Not one out of a million. What are you thinking of, Kitty?\"\n\nLady Kitty jumped up out of her chair and went to him.\n\n\"My poor old Anthony,\" she said, \"there's something horribly wrong.\nI wish I hadn't to tell you. Pamela's engaged to a Lord Glengall.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"My poor old Anthony, there's something horribly\nwrong.\"]\n\nTrevithick looked at her as if he could not take in what he heard.\n\n\"You are mad, Kitty,\" he said slowly. \"She is engaged to me.\"\n\n\"I have her word for it, Anthony. There is something wrong, I am\nsure. She has just written it to me.\"\n\n\"Show me the letter, Kitty.\"\n\nShe went to an escritoire in the corner of the room, found the\nletter, and brought it to him. He read it with staring eyes.\n\n\"She won't marry him,\" he said when he had finished.\n\n\"My poor Anthony!\"\n\n\"An engagement is nothing. She was engaged to me. She let me kiss\nher. He is a man with money--I remember now. Do women sell their\nsouls for money, Kitty?\"\n\n\"Some women might, Anthony, but I don't think Pamela would. There is\nsomething wrong, Anthony, I am sure of it.\"\n\n\"I am going to find out, Kitty.\"\n\n[Illustration: Something in the attitude smote her.--_p. 446._]\n\nHe turned his angry, miserable young face upon her, and her heart\nwas wrung for him.\n\n\"I am going over there to-night, Kitty.\"\n\n\"You will do nothing rash, Anthony?\"\n\n\"If I find that anything but her own will has come between us, I\nwill do my best to win her back from him. I have the right, Kitty. I\nwas the first, and she let me kiss her.\"\n\n\"You say she was engaged to you, Anthony? Do you mean formally?\"\n\n\"Everything _but_ formally. Ah! I wish I had settled it then--put a\nring on her before them all. It was my mother. She made me promise\nto do nothing till I came back.\"\n\n\"Oh! she knew, then?\"\n\n\"I told her, Kitty, and she was bitterly angry. And I, mad that I\nwas, I yielded to her will. Afterwards, when I heard she had found\nthem out, and got Pam over here, I thought her heart had softened\nto me after all those years, and that she was helping me towards my\nhappiness.\"\n\n\"Why did she make you promise that?\"\n\n\"I am ashamed to say it, Kitty--because she persuaded me you cared\nfor me, and ought not to be told suddenly. I beg your pardon, Kitty;\nI was not ass enough to think it of myself!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Lady Kitty again, and her eyes were thoughtful, \"and poor\nlittle Pam was miserable. I don't believe they ever had that letter,\nAnthony.\"\n\n\"If she was miserable for me\"--and the lover's face lightened--\"she\nloves me still, and she must give up the other man for me. If she\nloves me, he has no right to her. I am going to find out, Kitty.\"\n\n\"Where are you going now, Anthony?\"\n\n\"There are twenty things to be done. I have to see Uncle Wilton and\ntell him I am going. Knowles understands what to do for him, and to\ncall Dr. Berners if he were ill.\"\n\nHe took up her hand and kissed it.\n\n\"You've been a good little girl to me, Kitty,\" he said. \"Afterwards\nI am going to fight for my love.\"\n\nAs the door closed behind him Lady Kitty went thoughtfully upstairs\nand knocked at Lady Jane's boudoir door.\n\n\"May I come in, Auntie Jane?\" she said; \"are you very busy?\"\n\nLady Jane looked up from her books with an air of expectation, as\nif there might be something pleasant to hear; but her expression\nchanged immediately.\n\n\"What is the matter, Kitty?\" she asked.\n\n\"A good deal. Anthony has been telling me that he is in love with\nPamela Graydon.\"\n\n\"My darling----\"\n\nKitty lifted her hand.\n\n\"It only affects me in so far as it affects Anthony. Pamela is\nengaged to Lord Glengall.\"'\n\n\"I remember him. I saw him when I was there. He looked like a\nploughman, and I thought he was one. I suppose she marries him for\nthe title.\"\n\n\"She marries him--if she does--because she is in love with Anthony,\nand thinks he has played her false.\"\n\n\"You are too romantic, Kitty.\"\n\n\"It is the first time I have been called so. Forgive me for\nsomething I must ask you. Are you at the root of the mischief?\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Kitty?\"\n\n\"I begin to have a glimmering of why you brought her here.\"\n\n\"Kitty, tell me first. Do you not mind at all about Anthony?\"\n\n\"Not in the way you mean. He never cared for me, not in that way. It\nis no use trying to bring these things about.\"\n\n\"It has been my dream, Kitty, since you were quite a little girl.\nI never loved Anthony; but if you were his wife, I think I should\nbegin to love him. I thought you cared for him always.\"\n\n\"I should not have let you think that. Some of all this trouble is\nmy fault. It is better to be open all the way through. I kept it\nfrom you because I feared the sharp disappointment it would be to\nyou.\"\n\n\"That you did not love Anthony?\"\n\n\"More than that, Auntie Janie, I loved someone else. I couldn't help\nit. I would have pleased you, if I could, but it did not seem to be\nin my hands. There is a fatality about such things. We might have\ncared for each other if we had not always known you wanted us to.\"\n\nLady Jane looked about her with a bewildered air, as though her\nworld were crumbling.\n\n\"I have thought of it for so many years,\" she said at last, \"that I\ncannot realise how, between you, you have destroyed the one solid\nhope of my life.\"\n\n\"I love you so much, Auntie Janie, that I think I would have married\nAnthony, without love, to please you, if there had not been someone\nelse.\"\n\nLady Jane turned and looked at her, and her face was tragical.\n\n\"I would not have wished that, Kitty. A marriage without love! You\ndon't know what it is, child, especially if there has been--or might\nhave been--someone else. I only wanted you to have the wish of your\nheart, and to bind you closer to me at the same time.\"\n\n\"Nothing can ever undo our love, Auntie Janie--nothing, nothing.\"\n\n\"Wait till your husband intervenes, Kitty. Who is it, by the way? I\nhave seen no sign of such an one in our circle.\"\n\n\"It is Mr. Leslie,\" said Lady Kitty with bent head.\n\n\"Anthony's friend? Yes, I know you liked him, but I thought it was\nfor Anthony's sake.\"\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" Lady Kitty said again. Then she went on, with a\ntimidity foreign to her: \"Anthony is very unhappy, Auntie Janie. Can\nnothing be done?\"\n\nLady Jane turned away her head.\n\n\"What do you expect me to do, Kitty?\"\n\n\"He is your own son, and he loves Pamela Graydon. She loves him too.\nWhy, it was written on her face, if only I had had eyes to see. Yet\nshe has engaged herself to another man! What is the meaning of it?\"\n\n\"I am bad at riddles, Kitty.\"\n\n\"Anthony will unravel it--unless you will. Forgive me, Auntie Janie,\nbut he had better know--that his letter to Mr. Graydon remained\nunposted. I do not know if there is anything else, but there is\nthat.\"\n\n\"How do you know that, Kitty?\"\n\n\"I couldn't help knowing it. A few days after Anthony had gone you\nsent me to the little inner drawer of your desk to find Madame\nLefevre's address. Anthony's letter to Mr. Graydon lay on the top\nwith the address uppermost. I never thought of it again till to-day.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to do, Kitty? It is quite true that I\nabstracted the letter from the hall-box before it was emptied for\nthe night-post. If you go to my desk again you will find the letter\nthere with its seal unbroken. I guessed what it might contain.\nCuriously enough, the habits of a lifetime kept me from opening the\nletter, though I had stolen it.\"\n\nLady Kitty made a deprecating gesture, but the elder woman went on\ncoldly:\n\n\"I wrote myself to Mr. Graydon--a merely formal letter\nexplaining Anthony's absence. Afterwards I made an excuse of the\nVerschoyles--people I had almost forgotten--to go myself and see\nfor myself. They lived in a barbarous way, as I thought they would;\nand I mistook Miss Graydon's _fianc\u00e9_ for an elderly mountain\nfarmer. Then I asked the girl over here with the design--which you\nfrustrated to some extent--of making her detest us. I also told her\nthat you and Anthony were to be married, and that you had always\nbeen lovers.\"\n\n\"Auntie Janie!\"\n\n\"Yes, Kitty; you may as well know the full extent of my wickedness.\"\n\n\"But how could you do it? I have always known you as a proud and\nhonourable woman.\"\n\n\"I did it first of all for your sake, Kitty. I did think you cared\nfor Anthony; and I thought that if this entanglement were out of the\nway he would care for you. I was mistaken all round.\"\n\n\"I ought to have spoken, Auntie Janie. Ah! I see now how much\ntrouble can come from even a little deceit.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to do, Kitty?\"\n\n\"Anthony must know.\"\n\n\"You have no thought but for Anthony.\"\n\n\"The wrong must be undone--if it is possible now.\"\n\n\"He will turn his back on me for ever.\"\n\n\"He will remember that you are his mother.\"\n\n\"I have given him no motherhood. All I had I gave to you--and I have\nlost you, too.\"\n\n\"You have not lost me. Whatever you did we should be the same.\"\n\n\"You think that now. But we can never be the same. However, about\nAnthony. I daresay I can live without Anthony. What do you want me\nto do?\"\n\n\"He must be told. Shall I tell him, Auntie Janie?\"\n\n\"No, I will tell him myself. You had better keep out of it. I shall\ntell him as soon as he comes here. Where is he?\"\n\n\"He went to let his uncle know he was called away. He will soon be\nback.\"\n\n\"Send him here when he comes in. And now, Kitty, go. I have business\nto do.\"\n\nLady Kitty went to the door slowly, and, as she turned the handle,\nlooked back at the tall figure standing in the middle of the room.\nSomething in the attitude smote her. She went back impulsively, and\nflung her arms round Lady Jane.\n\n\"If you love me at all as you loved me yesterday, be comforted,\" she\ncried. \"I know it all came through your love for me, and my wretched\ndeceit, and I shall always love you, always.\"\n\nShe could not say if there was an answering caress.\n\n\"Things will come right,\" she whispered, \"and Anthony will forget\nhis anger. We have all need of forgiveness.\"\n\n\"I shall never ask Anthony's,\" said Lady Jane. \"And I do not pretend\nto repent. But he will marry that man's daughter in spite of me, and\nI shall be punished. Go now, Kitty. If Anthony has come in, send him\nto me.\"\n\nLady Kitty went. As the door closed behind her, after a last glimpse\nof the erect figure, she had an odd fancy about a picture she\nremembered to have seen of a ship going down at sea with all its\nflags flying.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\"IT IS TOO LATE.\"\n\n\nBut as the days passed the happiness which Pamela had expected did\nnot come. Perhaps at first the atmosphere of approval in which she\nlived made a species of false happiness; but in a very short space\nof time things became workaday, and the future, with a husband old\nenough to be her father, showed itself naked of glamour.\n\nHer soul was loyal to her betrothed, though her heart betrayed\nher. She kept perpetually within her sight his unselfishness, his\npatience, his simple-mindedness, his devotion. And yet, if her\nbridegroom were to be no paladin at all, but a certain ordinary\nyoung gentleman of ordinary good looks and good qualities, instead\nof Lord Glengall, how wildly happy she could have been! It was\nsomething she dared not think upon--what might have been, instead of\nwhat was going to be.\n\nIt was another hot summer, and Pamela's step grew languid, and her\neyes had heavy rings about them. Her white cheeks, that were so firm\nand full of health, lost something of their glow.\n\nShe spurred herself up to be brisk and cheerful, and apologised for\nher flagging energy with accusations against the weather. And all\nthe time Lord Glengall watched her with the anxiety of a loving dog\nin his eyes.\n\nThey were to be married at the beginning of September, to have a\nmonth's honeymoon at Killarney, and then to take Mr. Graydon abroad,\nthat so he might escape the damp of the Irish winter.\n\nIn August, Pamela was to go to Dublin to see about her frocks. They\nwere not to be very many nor very magnificent. Afterwards, said her\nbridegroom, there would be a visit to Paris, and plenty of shopping.\n\nPamela loved pretty things as well as any girl, and none the less\nbecause they had never been within her reach. But now her interest\nin such matters seemed feeble. The times when she derived a certain\nquiet happiness from her engagement were when she talked with Lord\nGlengall about what was to be done for the others.\n\n\"Is there nothing for yourself, Pam?\" he asked once; \"you never ask\nfor anything for yourself.\"\n\nAnd then he stroked the soft pale cheek with a loving finger, and\nthe concern in his eyes grew deeper.\n\nOnce he said to Pamela that he wished it were all done, and that\nhe was free to take care of her; but as he said it, putting a\nprotecting arm about her, he felt a quick shudder run through her.\n\n\"What is it, Pam?\" he asked anxiously.\n\n\"Someone walking on my grave,\" said Pamela lightly.\n\n\"Don't talk about such things, child,\" he implored. \"You have all\nyour life, the life that I am going to endeavour to make so happy,\nbefore you. What have you to do with graves?\"\n\nAnd yet another time he said to her that he could almost wish that\nhe might give her his love and his care and his fortune without\nmarriage.\n\n\"I suppose I couldn't adopt you, Pam?\" he said lightly, yet his mood\nwas a serious one.\n\n\"Ah! don't talk about such things,\" said Pam, in her turn, and her\nheart was sore lest she had grieved him. \"No girl could have a\nhappier fate than to be your wife.\"\n\nAnd since she felt what she said for the moment she contrived to set\nhis fears at rest.\n\nIt was the most humdrum betrothal from the point of view of young\nand romantic persons. Lord Glengall was no ardent wooer. His manner\nwas more the manner of a father than of a lover, and his moments\nof greatest contentment were only marked by a deeper quiet. While\nPam and he were much together, their talk, unlike the talk of\nyoung lovers, was of everything but themselves. Lord Glengall had\nplans for the disposal of the great wealth he had brought from the\ngold-fields; but they were plans in which personal ambition had no\nshare.\n\nMr. Graydon was still languid after his illness, and during those\nsummer days a great quietness seemed to have descended upon\nCarrickmoyle.\n\n\"Sorra's in it!\" said Bridget, complaining. \"'Tis as if there wasn't\na bit of young life about the place. 'Tis more like as if there was\ngoin' to be a funeral thin a weddin'.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Miss Sylvia,\" she protested to her prime\nfavourite; \"there's one-legged Grady the gardener, above at his\nLordship's, an' his mouth is dry axin' me. I declare I'll take him,\nif only to make a bit av a stir. They say he used to bate the first\nwife wid the wooden leg, but he'll not look crooked at me, never\nfear.\"\n\nSylvia, too, shared in the depressing quiet, and even the dogs lay\nand blinked all day in the hot sun, and were too lazy to go out on\nthe bog for a dip in the icy-cold water.\n\nSylvia had her troubles. Her friend Miss Spencer, to whom she was\noddly attached, was failing. No illness of a violent kind, but\nsimply a wasting away and decline had seized upon the poor little\nspinster; and it was a case in which doctor's prescriptions were of\nno use. Miss Spencer's time had come.\n\nSylvia visited her friend indefatigably, sitting with her long hours\ndaily, within doors if the weather were bad, by her wheeled sofa on\nthe lawn during the fine hot days. She took her grief with a certain\nbitterness of wrath against that man of long ago who had wronged the\npoor little lady so irreparably. It made her curt of speech, and\nlittle disposed to notice what was happening where other folk were\nconcerned, and her engrossment made Pamela's lot more lonely.\n\nSylvia's court had in no way diminished its loyalty or its numbers,\nbut just for the present the young men were put on one side, and\naccepted their position. They were able to sympathise with one\nanother, for their lady had never bestowed a mark of preference\non any one over the others, that jealousy could be excited. But\ntheir absence from Carrickmoyle, while it sensibly brightened other\nhouses, made that more lonesome.\n\nPamela had not seen Miss Spencer for some time, when one day Sylvia\nannounced to her that the old lady wished to see her.\n\n\"You must go, of course,\" she said, with the brusqueness of grief.\n\"I shall come afterwards and relieve you, so that you will be at\nhome in time for Glengall.\"\n\nPamela went over after lunch, and found Miss Spencer on the sofa\non the open lawn of Dovercourt, with its delightful views of the\ndistant hills.\n\n\"It is a fine world to be leaving,\" said the old lady, nodding at\nthe distances, when she had made Pamela take the low chair beside\nher.\n\nPamela had noticed at once an indefinable change in Miss Spencer.\nThe old, half-crazy, brooding look had disappeared, and though the\nface seemed vanishing and melting away in its wasting and fragility,\nthe eyes were clear, as if a film had rolled off from them.\n\nPamela said nothing. The change in Miss Spencer, even since she had\nlast seen her, shocked her.\n\n\"There, there, child!\" said the little woman, patting her hand.\n\"Why talk about gloomy things on such a day as this, and with your\ngreat day approaching? But what is the matter?\"--scrutinising her\nclosely--\"you don't look very bride-like.\"\n\n\"It is the heat,\" said Pamela languidly; \"I haven't felt very lively\nsince it set in so hot.\"\n\n\"I remember the time I would have danced at my wedding in the crater\nof Vesuvius. Things are not the same nowadays. There, child,\" she\nwent on kindly, \"you will have some tea? I shall have more made for\nMinx, when she comes. She told you I wanted to see you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Pamela, \"and I shall like the tea, Miss Spencer. It was\nhot crossing the bog. I shall go home through the woods.\"\n\nThe tea was brought, and when Pamela had had hers, Miss Spencer,\nwho had been watching her with kind intentness all the time, said\nsuddenly--\n\n\"I made my will yesterday, Pam.\"\n\nPamela looked up in surprise.\n\n\"I have provided for Minx. I have left her this place, and a good\ndeal of money. She will look after my poor for me.\"\n\nPamela nodded her head.\n\n\"I've left you nothing, Pam. But I've given Mary what will start her\nin housekeeping. _You_ are going to marry a rich man.\"\n\n\"You are good to think of Mary.\"\n\n\"It is easier to do now than if I had lived longer. Between my\nlegacy and what Glengall will do she need not want.\"\n\n\"She deserves to be happy.\"\n\n\"But what is the matter with you, Pam? Why aren't _you_ happy?\"\n\n\"I am happy.\"\n\n\"With that face, child! There was a woman once--perhaps you know\nher--whose lover went away and never came back. Perhaps he was dead;\nperhaps he had forgotten. You look as if your lover had never come\nback.\"\n\nPamela covered her face with her hands.\n\n\"There, child! I don't want to distress you, but I am in trouble\nabout you. What if he came back, after all?\"\n\n\"He never will.\"\n\n\"He looked as if he would. Anyhow, if he never did, it would be\nbetter to be like that woman--a little cracked, perhaps, and always\nexpecting her lover, till she woke up one day dying, and in her\nright mind--it would be better to be like her than to marry without\nlove.\"\n\nPamela trembled, but her face was hidden.\n\n\"Tell me, Pam. You won't mind confiding in an old woman who has\nonly a few days more to live. What did you do it for? It wasn't the\nmoney, and all it could bring, attracted you?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Tell me, Pam. You won't mind confiding in an old\nwoman.\"]\n\n\"No, oh, no!\"\n\n\"I thought not. What was it?\"\n\n\"You don't know how good he is.\"\n\n\"That's not enough, Pam, though it might serve if your heart were\nfree. What is that to make you give up your life, your freedom to\nthink, to hope, to pray? It will be one long struggle, Pamela. You\nwill be like a creature in prison, for whom the free world were\nparadise enough.\"\n\n\"I know Glengall is good,\" she went on. \"Another girl might come to\nlove him, in spite of his grey hairs, but not you, Pam. One sees\nclearer when one is going to leave all this. Why did you do it, Pam?\"\n\n\"It is too late to ask.\"\n\n\"Why, Pam?\"\n\n\"Partly because my father must winter abroad and we had no money.\nPartly, too, because I was angry with--with someone I loved, and I\nthought I would get rid of the anger and the thought of him if I\nwere married.\"\n\n\"Minx would have taken care of your father. It was a useless\nsacrifice, Pamela.\"\n\nShe looked at her a minute hesitatingly.\n\n\"My people, those of them who survive, are rich. I could take care\nof you, too, Pam.\"\n\n\"It is too late to make any difference.\"\n\n\"It is not too late while you are yet free.\"\n\n\"You don't know how good he is. And he has ordered his future life\nso that I shall always be the centre of it. I can't break his heart.\"\n\n\"If Lord Glengall knew, he would be the first to set you free.\"\n\n\"He would, because he is all unselfishness. But he will never know.\"\n\n\"How will you keep it from him?\"\n\n\"I shall learn to love him.\"\n\n\"My poor Pam!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Pamela sobbing. \"Don't try to turn me back. Because I am\nunhappy, and a burden to myself, would you forbid me making another\nperson happy, and he one worthy of all happiness?\"\n\n\"It is not too late, Pam.\"\n\n\"It is too late. And here is Sylvia. See how punctual she is. She\ngrudges me this half-hour alone with you.\"\n\nSylvia looked curiously at her sister's haggard and tear-stained\neyes, but made no comment. She had little sympathy with Pamela's\nlanguid looks this summer. She was one who had never felt a wound,\nand so had scant comprehension of the troubles of her sister, whose\nlot, indeed, she considered a highly desirable one.\n\nAfter a few minutes Pamela stood up and took her leave.\n\nShe went by the shady paths through the woods, and Pat, who had\naccompanied her, scurried hither and thither in pursuit of many\na pair of bright eyes and many a white scut. She was in no hurry\nto get home. After the disturbance of her conversation with Miss\nSpencer, she dreaded the meeting with her _fianc\u00e9_.\n\nIt had been a shock to her to learn that, if she had not been\nso precipitate, her father would still have been safe; for Miss\nSpencer's life was to be counted by weeks, and Sylvia's tenderness\nfor him could be trusted.\n\nThe green glades of the wood were exquisite. She looked about\nher--at the roof of branches against the blue-and-white sky, at the\ngreen moss, dotted with harebells, and flecked by broad patches of\nsunlight on its velvety shade. The birds were singing their last\nlove-songs, and the wood was full of the music of many waters.\n\nAh! With an overwhelming revulsion of feeling it came upon the girl\nthat if she were only free, with her life in her hands, the beauty\nof the free world were, as Miss Spencer had said, paradise enough.\nIf she were but free, if she were but free!\n\nShe had come to the Wishing Well in the wood. She put up her hand to\nher throat. Round it was a slender little chain of jewels and gold\nwhich Lord Glengall had given her. It was choking her.\n\nShe took it off stealthily, and laid it on the moss at her feet.\nThen she took a bracelet--his gift also--from her arm. Then she drew\noff her engagement ring of diamonds and emeralds, and added it to\nthe glittering heap. If only she could remove those other bonds as\neasily! And all the time she hated herself for the wish.\n\nMechanically she stooped down, and, taking the water in her hand,\ndrank of it. She wished she might forget what had happened here, and\nthe poisoned sweetness of glances and words during those months of\nlast winter.\n\n\"I must forget--I must forget,\" she wailed, half aloud. \"It lasted\nsuch a little while. There was no time for it to take hold upon my\nlife.\"\n\nAnd then her hands fell to her side, for there was a quick step\nbeside her, and, turning, she saw Anthony Trevithick.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE WOOD OF STRANGE MEETINGS.\n\n\n\"Pamela!\"\n\nHe had come back, and his eyes and his voice were full of fire.\n\n\"Pamela! What have you done to yourself, my sweetheart? You are not\nthe Pamela I left.\"\n\nShe had turned towards him as irresistibly as the needle to the\npole. But at his words a quick shiver ran through her. Her eyes\nturned from him and darkened. Her head drooped.\n\n\"You have come too late,\" she said, almost under her breath; and her\nvoice was cold.\n\n\"Look at me, Pam. I have so much to tell you that you must hear. You\nmust not be angry with me. We have been cheated and tricked. I wrote\nto your father to say I would come and ask for you, Pam, the road\nbeing clear.\"\n\n\"He never had your letter.\"\n\n\"It was not posted, Pamela. I must tell you, Pam, though it is hard.\nYou have a right to know. My mother intercepted the letter.\"\n\n\"She detested me. I knew it from the first moment her cold eyes\nrested upon me.\"\n\n\"She does not like me, Pam, much. But that will not part us.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Pam, and her voice was almost a cry. \"But we _are_\nparted. She could not do it, but I have done it by my own act.\"\n\nHis foot knocked against the heap of trinkets on the moss.\n\n\"What are these, Pam?\" he asked wonderingly.\n\n\"Give them to me,\" she implored. \"They are mine. And you must go\naway, Sir Anthony, and never come again.\"\n\n\"Why, I see\"--holding the jewels in his hand--\"they are his gifts.\nBut you have thrown them off!\"\n\nHis eyes blazed suddenly.\n\n\"It is an omen, Pam. Let him follow his jewels. What right has he to\nbuy you? You had given yourself to me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Pam, still stretching out her hands for the jewels. \"You\ndon't know what you are talking about. He is the best man in all\nthe world; and our wedding-day is fixed, and my wedding-dress is\nordered.\"\n\nThe young man flung the jewels on the ground.\n\n[Illustration: The young man flung the jewels on the ground.]\n\n\"There,\" he said, \"let them lie where I found them. Why should we\nthink of them? It is all a bad dream, Pamela, but not so bad as it\nmight have been--not so bad as it might have been. Why, you are\ntalking folly, Pam, about wedding-days and wedding-dresses. It is\nour wedding-day you must think of, and the wedding-dress you will\nwear for me.\"\n\nHe held out his arms to her imploringly, and for a moment, with a\ndazed look, she seemed as if she must come. Then she pushed him off\nwith a gesture of her two hands.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"Love is not everything--love is not everything.\nThere is honour, there is loyalty, there is faith. And you,--you\nhave your cousin to think about. She is sweet and lovely. I felt it,\nthough I----\"\n\nShe broke off suddenly.\n\n\"Though you loved me and were jealous\"; and he laughed masterfully.\n\"All wrong, my Pam! I never cared for Kitty in that way, nor she for\nme. She is going to marry my chum, Jack Leslie. They have been in\nlove with each other for years.\"\n\n\"Your mother told me----\"\n\nHis face darkened.\n\n\"I know. I shall forgive her when you have yielded your will to\nmine.\"\n\n\"That will never be.\"\n\n\"Never, Pam? Ah! yes, it will. If I had come here and found that\nyou loved this other man, I could have done nothing but leave you.\nI came full of anger and fury. All through the journey I had been\ngoading myself to a jealous madness; but the minute I saw you here\nbeside the well where I told you I loved you, I knew you were mine.\nI can afford to forgive Lord Glengall.\"\n\n\"What do you propose to do?\"\n\n\"I shall go to the house and explain to your father about the\nmissing letter. I was on my way there when I turned aside to the\nWishing Well and found you.\"\n\n\"My father loves Lord Glengall.\"\n\n\"He loves you better, Pam. He will not want you to marry him, loving\nme.\"\n\n\"You take too much for granted.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I don't, Pam! You are not the girl to love me seven months\nago and love another man to-day. And your eyes betray you, darling!\"\n\n\"And if my father chooses Lord Glengall before you?\"\n\n\"Then I will tell him the choice does not rest with him. I will go\nto Lord Glengall himself.\"\n\n\"And if he should refuse to listen to you?\"\n\n\"Then I will come to you, Pamela, my beloved.\"\n\nShe suddenly turned on him her beautiful, stormy eyes, and her face\nwas full of tragedy.\n\n\"And I shall send you away,\" she said. \"It is no question of loving.\nI shall not see you any more, Tony\"--using the familiar name\nunconsciously--\"never, I hope, after to-day. And I love you; I do\nlove you, and if I might love you for ever I should be the happiest\nwoman on earth. No, don't come near me, for I am saying good-bye to\nyou. I decline to purchase my happiness, and even yours, at the cost\nof unhappiness to the best man I ever knew. Ah! go now, my love, and\ndo not tempt me any more. You will soon forget me.\"\n\nShe turned as if to go, but before Anthony Trevithick could make any\neffort to detain her, a quiet voice spoke beside them.\n\n\"I came to meet you, Pamela. I expected to find you alone. Who is\nthis gentleman?\"\n\nPamela turned quickly, and put her hand into the hand of her\nbetrothed.\n\n\"It is Sir Anthony Trevithick, Lord Glengall.\"\n\nThe two men bowed coldly.\n\n\"I will take Miss Graydon home now,\" said Lord Glengall, drawing her\nhand through his arm. \"I am grateful to you for having taken care of\nher.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"I will take Miss Graydon home now,\" said Lord\nGlengall.]\n\nThe two stood looking at each other, and the air was as if charged\nwith a storm.\n\n\"I am staying in the neighbourhood,\" said Sir Anthony stiffly. \"I\nshall hope to see your lordship later on.\"\n\n\"Come,\" whispered Pamela to her betrothed, \"come away. I will\nexplain to you.\"\n\nShe stole one glance at the hot and angry face of her young lover.\nThen, without a word, she passed out of his sight down one of the\nwood paths, still clinging to Lord Glengall's arm.\n\nThey walked in silence for a few minutes. Then she lifted her eyes\nto her companion's sad face.\n\n\"You heard what I said,\" she half-whispered. \"I am not afraid of\nyou; I was loyal.\"\n\n\"Yes, you were loyal, Pam, in the spirit, but loyalty without love\nis poor comfort. It is not enough for me.\"\n\n\"I do love you.\"\n\n\"I believe you do, Pam, but there are different kinds of love. Is\nthis that other you once told me about?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I thought so. You have had few opportunities for meeting men in\nyour quiet life. This is the lad who was your father's pupil?\"\n\n\"The son of his old friend, Sir Gerald Trevithick.\"\n\n\"I ought to have met him when he was here. But I was finishing up in\nAustralia. He is honest, Pam--is he?\"\n\n\"I am sure he is--now. Before I thought he was false.\"\n\n\"How did it come that he went away like that, having made you love\nhim?\"\n\n\"He was called away to a sick uncle. He wrote to father to explain,\nbut the letter never reached him.\"\n\n\"You are sure he wrote?\"\n\n\"Yes, he has told me. His mother----You saw her once?\"\n\n\"A frozen-looking woman, dressed like an empress, who came one day.\nShe was so haughty to me that I very soon removed myself.\"\n\n\"That was her.\"\n\n\"My poor little Pam!--that was the woman you went to visit\nafterwards? I had not realised it. I never thought of her after that\nday.\"\n\n\"She made me very unhappy. From the first she had a quiet way\nof making me feel not of her world, and afterwards she was\nhorrid--about papa. She told me--falsehoods, too.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you come home, Pam?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't let them know that the visit had been so horrible. Papa\nwas pleased for me to go. Then he fell ill, and I came away.\"\n\n\"What did she tell you, Pam?\"\n\n\"She told me Sir Anthony was engaged to his cousin. It was she who\nintercepted his letter to papa, in which he said he would come back.\"\n\n\"Ah! there are such women. But why didn't he speak fully and frankly\nbefore he went?\"\n\n\"I do not know. There was some reason. He spoke of something that\nstood in the way.\"\n\nLord Glengall frowned, with his eyes on the ground.\n\n\"I shall find out the reason,\" he said.\n\n\"Ah! no,\" cried Pamela, clinging to his arm. \"Let it be. I have told\nhim he must go away. I belong to you, and not to him.\"\n\nA little spasm of pain passed over the irregular features.\n\n\"Don't try me too much, Pamela, or I might take you at your word.\"\n\n\"I want you to take me at my word.\"\n\n\"I am sure you do--at this moment.\"\n\n\"Now and always.\"\n\n\"My little Pam! Still mine till I give you up of my own free will.\nYou will trust me to do what is for the best?\"\n\n\"I will trust you for ever. You are not going to give me up?\"\n\nAgain his face contracted.\n\n\"Not unless I ought to, Pam. Not unless the lad is straight and can\nprove himself worthy of you. If I feel he can make you happier than\nI can, I will give you to him. If not, I will keep you in spite of\nyourself, and trust to my love to make you forget him.\"\n\n\"I think that might easily come true.\"\n\n\"Don't make it hard for me, Pam, if I have to cede my right\nto another. Pamela\"--she had lifted her hands to him in her\nemotion--\"where is your ring?\"\n\nPamela wrung her hands in her trouble.\n\n\"Do not be angry with me,\" she entreated. \"I took it off in the\nwood, there where you found me. It is there still.\"\n\n\"Pamela,\" his voice was stern. \"Did _he_ remove your ring?\"\n\n\"No, no. A thousand times, no! How could you think I would let him?\"\n\n\"Forgive me, child--I ought to have known you better. But why did\nyou take off the ring?\"\n\nShe looked to left and right, as though seeking a way of escape, and\nanswered nothing.\n\n\"I see,\" said Lord Glengall, and his face had a look of suffering.\n\"You took it off because it irked you to wear it. You wanted to be\nfree.\"\n\n\"It was only a mood.\"\n\n\"A bad mood for me, child. Why could you not have trusted me, and\nhave told me I had asked too much? It would have been kinder.\"\n\n\"I shall never forgive myself,\" cried Pam.\n\n\"I am going back for the ring, Pam. Run away home now, and I shall\nbring it. Run now--I can keep you in sight till I see you within the\ndoor of Carrickmoyle. I shall not be long.\"\n\n\"The ring is on the ground, by the well,\" said Pamela, her head\nhanging like the head of a sensitive child caught in the act of\nwrongdoing. \"You will find it there, and my necklet and bracelet\nalso.\"\n\nHer voice stumbled as she made her full confession.\n\n\"Poor Pam!\" said Lord Glengall.\n\n\"Ah!\" she said, \"if you would only forget about it. There was never\nany man like you. If I do not love you now, it is only because he\ncame first. I shall love you in time. I could not help it.\"\n\n\"Kiss me, Pam, before you go. I have not asked you for kisses when I\nmight.\"\n\n\"I have done nothing but hurt you,\" she cried, conscience-stricken.\nThen she lifted her face for his kiss.\n\n[Illustration: \"I have done nothing but hurt you,\" she said.]\n\n\"And I have been hurting you, quite unconsciously, all the time. It\nis the old story of May and December. But, thank God! it is not too\nlate.\"\n\nHe lifted his hat again, with the reverential gesture characteristic\nof him. As he stood bare-headed, a glint of the dying sun fell on\nhis hair and forehead. It made him look old and dusty and tired.\n\nThen Pamela went away slowly across the park to the house, while he\nstood watching her. When she had entered the house, he went back\ndown the wood path.\n\nAs he went slowly and sadly, he felt something thrust against him.\nHe looked down. It was Pamela's dog, Pat, who had remained behind,\nhunting an elusive rabbit, and had only just come up with their\ntrail. The dog jumped about him with demonstrations of joy.\n\nLord Glengall stooped down and patted the rough head.\n\n\"I am not to be your new master, after all, old fellow,\" he said.\n\nPat licked his hand vigorously, and then looked up inquiringly into\nhis face.\n\n\"She has gone home,\" said Lord Glengall in answer, \"and I should be\na bad substitute.\"\n\nBut Pat manifested very unmistakably that he was going to accompany\nthis friend of his back into the woods.\n\n\"Ah! good little beast,\" said Lord Glengall, oddly comforted. \"It is\ngood to have a dog sorry for one, Pat.\"\n\n                  [END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _Illustrated from Photographs._]\n\nCURIOUS CHARITABLE GIFTS\n\n\nIt is a well-known and pleasing fact that several millions of pounds\nare annually devoted, throughout the kingdom, to the purposes of\npublic charity, but few people are aware to what a great extent\ncharitable gifts in _kind_ are nowadays sent to philanthropic\ninstitutions. These \"donations\" vary in value from a few pence\nto hundreds of pounds; and although the greater number consist\nof ordinary articles which are easily disposed of, yet some most\nextraordinary gifts are frequently received, of which the outside\npublic hears little.\n\nQuite recently two mummified hands--one with the forearm\nattached--both authoritatively stated to be over 3,000 years old,\nwere sent to the Church Army by a West-End physician, who brought\nthem from Egypt, and they will doubtless be the means of an\nappreciable accession to the funds of the organisation when disposed\nof.\n\nThe Salvation Army also receives some curious articles at times.\nJewellery of various kinds often finds its way to the Headquarters,\nand some little time ago a deaf-and-dumb convert presented a perfect\nmodel in cork of one of the barracks, showing the soldiers marching\nin and the roughs gathered around; whilst a travelling showman who\nrecently joined the Army begged to be allowed to hand the officers\nhis stock-in-trade, which included two remarkable-looking effigies\nused in his ventriloquial entertainments.\n\nThe most singular donations received by the Army, however, are\npresented at the harvest festivals. General Booth's followers are\nexceptionally energetic at such times, and it is no uncommon thing\nfor the proceeds of the gifts collected for a festival service in a\npoor neighbourhood to amount to some seventy or eighty pounds, half\nof which is retained for the local funds, whilst the remainder is\nsent to Headquarters as a donation towards the general expenses. An\nimpromptu barn is frequently erected in the meeting-room with the\nfront open to the audience, and in this the gifts are displayed to\nthe best advantage.\n\nIn addition to fruit, flowers, and vegetables, presents of live\nstock are often made which are not _always_ acceptable. For\ninstance, at one place a calf was given, and was accommodated in a\ntemporary stall on the platform. But it did not appear to enjoy the\nservice. Whenever the band played, it made such a terrible noise\nthat eventually it had to be escorted to a quiet corner outside.\nBirds of many descriptions have also joined in these services; and a\nRussian cat which was presented on such an occasion kept up harvest\ncelebrations during the night, we are told, by devouring a pound of\nbeef sausages, which represented another, though humbler, gift.\n\n[Illustration: MUMMIFIED REMAINS PRESENTED TO THE CHURCH ARMY.]\n\nMany people will question the advisability of allowing live stock to\nbe present at such services. The important fact remains, however,\nthat gifts of this nature frequently serve to attract large\ncrowds of the very people the Army officers wish to influence.\nBut difficulties sometimes arise through the thoughtlessness of\nenthusiastic donors. At Chester recently a live donkey was led\nup four flights of stairs to the barracks, and handed over as a\nfree-will offering. When the service concluded, it was discovered\nto be impossible for the animal to walk down again; and, to use\nthe words of the officer, they \"had to tie the thing up in a knot,\nwrap it up in a sack, and lower it gently and gracefully over the\nbanisters!\" We may hope that the patient animal did not suffer any\nill effects from his attendance at the service.\n\nSome most curious articles are also occasionally received by the\nPoor Clergy Relief Corporation, which, as is well-known, does a most\nuseful work by making grants in money and clothing to clergymen in\ntemporary distress, and to the widows and children of clergymen\nwho are left insufficiently provided for. These articles comprise\nrevolvers, respirators, artificial teeth and wigs, feeding-bottles,\nmilitary and naval uniforms, silk-worm cocoons, and bicycles, and\nall are turned to account either by direct gift or by realisation at\na jumble or auction sale. An amusing incident, the secretary states,\nrecently occurred in the clothing department in connection with an\ninvoluntary gift. The matron was filling a large bag for a poor\nfamily whilst a carpenter was in the room engaged on some repairs.\nHe had placed his cap--which was a good one--on the table, and the\nmatron, thinking it part of the stock, promptly annexed it and\ndespatched it with the other things. It was gratefully acknowledged!\nOf course, the carpenter had to be provided with a new cap, which\nhe has since been careful to place in his pocket when working in the\nbuilding.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Russell and Sons, Baker Street, W._)\n\nA STACK OF OLD CLOTHING.\n\n(_At the Offices of the Poor Clergy Relief Corporation._)]\n\nBut the institution which receives the greatest number of gifts in\nkind is undoubtedly Dr. Barnardo's well-known Home for Waifs and\nStrays in Stepney Causeway. During last year alone 9,651 parcels\nwere delivered from various supporters, containing in the aggregate\nover 97,000 articles of various kinds! When it is also stated that\nthe sales of these goods realised, in the same twelve months, the\ngrand total of \u00a31,850, some idea will be gathered of the enormous\nnumber of articles dealt with every year, and the welcome addition\nwhich they bring to the income of the Homes.\n\nThe gifts come from all quarters of the globe. Even such far-distant\ncountries as India, China, Corea, Burmah, and Japan contribute their\nquota, and many a pathetic history and much amazing romance is\nembodied in the articles received.\n\nOne of the most valuable, and certainly one of the most remarkable,\nof the donations which have found their way to Stepney Causeway\nwas ex-King Theebaw's ivory throne, sent a year or two ago by a\ngentleman in Rangoon. The throne was somewhat in the form of a\nlarge armchair, and was ordered by the king in the palmy days of\nhis despotism. According to his edict, only the very best craftsmen\nwere employed to fulfil the commission, and only the finest and\nsoundest tusks were used. The design was exceedingly elaborate,\nand both time and special talent were needed for the task, which\nit took years to accomplish. But, such is the irony of Fate, when\nthe work was practically finished the king was deposed, and the\ncompleted throne never passed into his possession. After some little\ntime it came into the hands of the Rangoon donor who so generously\npresented it to Dr. Barnardo. This interesting piece of furniture\nwas estimated to be worth some \u00a3500. The detail of the work was\nexquisite, a delicate tracery covering nearly the whole, with some\nmost beautiful and elaborate carving in high relief lying behind\nit. The little figures inside appeared to be executed with the\nutmost thoroughness, and the chair was an eloquent testimony to the\ngenius and patience of the native workmen.\n\nFrom the same country a number of quaint silver goods are constantly\nreceived from a resident Englishman and his native wife, both of\nwhom take a very keen interest in the work of saving the waifs of\nthe slums. Owing to the extensive fluctuations in the value of the\nrupee, and to the low rate of exchange in England, they find it more\nadvantageous to purchase native goods which will realise good prices\nin London than to send their donations in cash.\n\n[Illustration: A HANDSOME PIECE OF INDIAN NEEDLEWORK.\n\n(_Worked in Gold and Silver Braid and Sequins._)]\n\nDr. Barnardo has little difficulty in disposing of such gifts.\nThere is a special trade department at Stepney Causeway, consisting\nof a show-room and several large and airy stores. These storage\nrooms, which are not open to the general public, contain a most\nextraordinary collection of gifts, including such articles as\nbedsteads, false hair and teeth, old pictures, jewellery, a\nmicroscopic cabinet, a three-manual organ, an oak lectern, boxes of\ngeological and ornithological specimens, air pillows, sewing and\nsausage machines, a bottled snake, as well as a great variety of\nclothing both new and secondhand.\n\n[Illustration: A GROUP OF CURIOUS GIFTS.\n\n(_From Ephesus, New Zealand, and India._)]\n\nAmongst the more valuable of the articles which have recently\nbeen received may be mentioned a number of exceedingly dainty and\ncostly Eastern shawls, and a cape constructed entirely from birds'\nfeathers, which is supposed to be the only one of its kind in\nEngland. This handsome cape originally belonged to a Spanish lady,\nand is now more than a hundred years old. Each feather was worked in\nseparately, and the various colours are so beautifully blended that\nthe worker must have possessed considerable artistic talent as well\nas great patience, for it contains some thousands of tiny feathers\nof various hues. Another piece of work that must have entailed an\nimmense amount of time and care is a sample of Indian needlework,\nof which we give a photograph. The ground is coarse black cloth,\nbut the design is so cleverly worked in gold and silver braid\nand sequins that the result is a most handsome example of native\nembroidery, which needs to be seen to be fully appreciated.\n\n[Illustration: THE RECEIVING ROOM AT STEPNEY CAUSEWAY.]\n\nFrom India also come the two models of native types photographed\nin the group shown on the preceding page. They are most delicately\nmoulded, every detail being scrupulously attended to. The figure on\nthe left is ten inches in height, and represents a grass-cutter,\nwhilst that on the right depicts an Indian water-carrier, and both\nbear the name of the modeller--Buckshar Paul of Krishnagar.\n\nA different form of Indian work may be seen in the candlestick in\nthe same illustration, which is moulded in brass in the form of a\nserpent, and forms a curious and certainly not inartistic ornament.\nStanding beside this is an ordinary-shaped box with a diamond design\non the lid, and this article is specially interesting, owing to\nits having been constructed of sixteen different varieties of wood\ngrown in New Zealand. It is a far cry from this fertile colony to\nthe historic city of Ephesus, but we are carried thither in order\nto explain the presence of the two odd-looking pieces of ware\n(representing an ancient vase and lamp) to be seen in the forefront\nof the same photographic group. They were selected at random from\na number of such articles which Dr. Barnardo has in his possession\nawaiting a remunerative purchaser. The extraordinary character of\nthe gifts received at the institution is well exemplified in these\narticles, which were actually discovered in the ruins of the Temple\nof Diana by the well-known antiquarian, the late Mr. F. Wood. Each\npiece is authenticated by the signature of the excavator, which is\naffixed, and they were presented to Dr. Barnardo by Mr. Wood's widow\nabout three years ago.\n\nA striking instance of the wonderful changes wrought by time is\nshown in the generous gifts in money and kind recently received\nfrom the descendants of the mutineers of the _Bounty_. Here is\nromance pure and unadulterated, and Dr. Barnardo may well have said\nthat the following letter which recently came into his hands read\nlike \"something out of a book.\" It appears that the captain of a\nBritish vessel wrote to him from Australia as follows: \"I called\nin our passage through the Pacific at Pitcairn Island. A number of\nthe natives came off, and when they learned I was bound to Great\nBritain, they desired me to take some presents for you, consisting\nof a case full of fancy articles made by themselves. I have already\ndespatched this case to you, and I now enclose postal orders for\n\u00a35 10s. 8d., being the cash, less a spurious two-shilling piece,\nwhich the islanders had collected for your institution.\" The case\ncontained six walking-sticks, eighty cocoanut-shell baskets, as well\nas a quantity of shells and a large number of bananas. These gifts\nform undoubted evidence of the Christian and philanthropic spirit of\nthe present Pitcairn Islanders, and at the same time bear valuable\ntestimony to the world-wide appreciation of Dr. Barnardo's life-work.\n\n[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE CLOTHES STORE.\n\n(_At Dr. Barnardo's Homes._)]\n\nA walk through the storage rooms is amply repaid by the number and\nthe limitless variety of the articles to be seen therein. Here is an\norgan constructed by an amateur after seven years of assiduous work.\nIt is unique in its way, the pipes being made of cardboard; but\nwhether the gift of the ingenious organ-builder was an altogether\ndisinterested one is not for me to state. I heard it whispered\nthat the cleverly constructed instrument refused to work properly,\nand was somewhat of the nature of a white elephant to the present\nowners. Another example of tireless ingenuity is to be seen in the\nthree large brass models of engines which adorn a corner of the same\nroom. The mechanism of these engines is perfect in every way, and\nthe models are of considerable value.\n\nIn close proximity to them is a dinner service of Worcester china,\ndated 1794, and consisting of 150 pieces. This will doubtless soon\nbe \"discovered\" by a lover of old china, who will also see another\n\"find\" near by equally worthy of attention. I refer to a dessert\nservice of seventeen pieces, which originally formed a wedding\npresent before it found its way to Stepney Causeway. The service is\nmore than fifty years old, and its chief value lies in the exquisite\npictures to be found on each plate. The design is different in every\ncase, and when it is added that the pictures are hand-painted the\nmunificence of the kindly donor will be recognised.\n\nBut it is impossible to give an adequate idea of the curiously mixed\ncontents of the stores. Cumbersome articles such as mail-carts,\nrocking-horses, Bath-chairs, and water-beds will be found adjacent\nto billiard balls, pipes, samples of inlaid ebony work and other\n\"small\" goods; whilst near at hand will be found piles upon piles of\narticles of dress of all sorts and conditions. It is not surprising\nthat a number of assistants are kept constantly employed in\nreceiving, listing, sorting, and selling these miscellaneous gifts,\nwhich are sent by a grateful public as a small donation to the good\nand beneficent work which has for so many years been carried on by\nmeans of the Homes.\n\n                                 A. PALFREY HOLLINGDALE.\n\n[Illustration: CLASSIFYING THE MISCELLANEOUS GIFTS.\n\n(_A View at Stepney Causeway._)]\n\n\n\n\nHIS STRANGE REPENTANCE.\n\nAN ADDRESS TO YOUNG MEN.\n\nBy the Venerable Archdeacon Madden.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)\n\nARCHDEACON MADDEN.]\n\n\nIt was close upon midnight. I was alone in my study, busy clearing\noff a pile of letters that had been waiting all day for a \"leisure\nmoment.\" In the midst of my work a vigorous ring of the door-bell\nresounded through the house, followed by such a peremptory _ran-tan_\nat the knocker that I jumped to my feet and rushed to the door to\nsee what was the matter. There I found two rough-looking men, who\nlost no time in stating their business. \"We want your reverence,\"\nthey said, \"to come and see a poor young fellow who is dying; the\ndoctor has given him up, and he is crying out for a minister to come\nand pray with him.\" I could not refuse such an appeal, and off I\nstarted with the men. They led me to a narrow street in my parish\nand into one of the most dingy houses in the street. After groping\nmy way, by the aid of lighted matches, up a dark flight of stairs, I\nfound the dying man in a dirty back bedroom.\n\nHe could not have been more than thirty years of age. He was propped\nup in bed, and the grey look of death was upon his face.\n\nAs I entered he turned eagerly to me, and, holding out his hand,\nsaid, \"I'm dying, and I am not ready--_not ready_!\"\n\nJust as I was about to speak he suddenly gasped out, \"John, John!\nhand me those things on the table.\" John came forward and laid upon\nthe bed a sporting paper, a pack of cards, a set of dice, a bottle\nof whisky, and some race lists.\n\nThere was a deliberation about the whole business which convinced me\nthat the matter had been talked over between the men. When all were\nspread out in due order, the dying man again turned to me and said,\n\"Look, vicar, those things have been the ruin of me; and they have\nbeen a curse to me, and I want to turn my back upon them all--I want\nyou to help me to do it.\" Again I was about to speak, when suddenly,\nstooping down, he gathered them all up and thrust them into my hands\nwith the words \"Shove them up my back.\" I was so staggered by the\nrequest that I stammered out \"What--what do you mean?\" \"I want you,\"\nhe said, \"as God's minister to shove them up underneath my shirt.\nI want to put them behind my back. I want God to see that I have\ndone with them for ever.\" I did not know whether to laugh or cry. It\nwas all so absurd and yet so pathetic. The man was in dead earnest.\nHe had evidently thought over it, and meant it as an \"act\" of true\nrepentance. He was undoubtedly a man who had \"come down in the\nworld,\" and it was not all ignorance.\n\nI said to him, \"I will do what you wish, but I will kneel down\nfirst, and you will repeat a prayer after me.\" I knelt and he\nrepeated after me these words: \"Father, I have sinned against\nheaven and before Thee. I renounce all my sins--from the bottom of\nmy heart I renounce them all. Father, receive Thy prodigal son, and\nforgive me for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.\"\n\nI then rose from my knees and carried out his wishes. To us all in\nthat chamber of death it was a most solemn sacramental rite. I,\nindeed, verily believed that it was the outward and visible sign of\nthe inward and spiritual grace of a true repentance. There I held\nthe things that had cursed his young manhood, ruined a promising\ncareer, and brought him down to poverty and a premature grave; and\nas I held those emblems of evil behind his back I told him of a\nSaviour who \"carried our sins\"--upon whom the Lord had laid the\niniquities of us all.\n\nLittle by little he gasped out his tale of sin: the gambling, the\nbetting, and the \"horsey set\" he had got amongst as a youth; then\ndrinking and bad company; then \"striding came ruin and poverty\nlike a weaponed warrior.\" Deserted, degraded, he crawled into this\nwretched room, sick in mind and body, to die forsaken and forgotten\nby all his old boon companions except John.\n\nThe scene of that night has left an indelible impression upon my\nheart and mind. I believe the merciful God accepted that strange\noutward act as an evidence of sincere repentance. To the very last\nhe would have us hold those instruments of sin between his shirt and\nhis bare back, and as I held them there he died calling upon God.\n\nWhen I passed out of that house of death into the streets and the\nmorning light, I prayed, as I had never prayed before, that God in\nHis mercy might deliver this fair England of ours from the deadly\nand degrading vice of gambling.\n\nIt is over ten years since my midnight visit to that gambler's\ndeath-bed. I remember still one sentence of the ruined man: \"It\ndoesn't pay, sir! It doesn't pay!\" Aye! and even if it does pay some\nfew, what then? Is it not ill-gotten gain? And if so, what shall it\nprofit such a man, though he gain the whole world and lose his own\nsoul?\n\nThe vice of gambling does not stand alone. It is the mother of sins;\nthe sordid and the sensual too frequently go hand in hand. Lying,\nblasphemy, impurity, dishonesty, trickery, double-dealing, follow in\nits train.\n\nThe gambler who, by a stroke of \"luck,\" becomes rich in an hour, is\ntempted to spend his winnings in riotous living. It is with him a\ncase of \"luxury\" to-day, despair and drink to-morrow.\n\nA general atmosphere of blackguardism seems ever to pervade the\nrace-course. Here is a cutting from the daily press of August last:--\n\n     \"BLACKGUARDISM AT THE ALEXANDRA PARK RACES.--Fourteen\n     brutal assaults, committed on the Alexandra Park race-course\n     on Saturday afternoon, have been reported to the police, the\n     assaults in several cases having been accompanied by robbery.\n     One of the gentlemen assaulted was a professional man well\n     known in the neighbourhood. He was standing at a refreshment\n     bar in the grand stand when he was half-killed by roughs.\n     Another person who was assaulted was a member of the Jockey Club\n     staff; but many frequenters of the course were heard to express\n     pleasure at this, in the hope that it would lead to some better\n     provision being made for the exclusion of well-known roughs from\n     the rings and stands.\"\n\nI have seen more than one young man of my acquaintance stand in the\nfelon's dock, and I know they were brought there by betting. I have\nheard the wail of wife and children in the court as the culprit was\nhurried from the dock to his cell. And what was left for him to do\nwhen he was released from prison? Who will employ a man with the\nstigma of \"imprisonment for dishonesty\" resting upon him? He sinks\nlower and lower, dragging his poor wife and has little children down\nwith him in his degrading descent--down to abject misery.\n\n\"In addition, too, to the frightful injustice to wives and children\ncaused by betting and gambling, and the results on the home life,\"\nsays a recent Report of the Convocation of York, \"they have an\ninjurious effect on those who are addicted to them, deadening\ntheir spiritual life, and making them indifferent to higher joys\nand nobler pursuits while the passion lasts. An example of this is\nafforded by Greville, who, in his memoirs, says: 'Thank God! the\nraces are over. I have had all the excitement and worry, but have\nneither won nor lost. Nothing but the hope of gain would induce me\nto go through the demoralising drudgery, which I am aware reduces\nme to a level of all that is most disreputable and despicable,\nfor my thoughts are eternally absorbed in them. It is like\ndram-drinking; having once begun, you cannot leave it off, though I\nam disgusted all the time with my occupation.'\"\n\nAnd it is useless, my brother, to juggle with your conscience in\nthis matter. Gambling is a vice, whether it be for penny points or\nfor \"ponies.\" The question of the amount of the bet has nothing to\ndo with the sin of gambling. The principle is what we look at.\n\n\"The wrong of gambling lies not in the excessive indulgence in an\nintrinsically innocent practice, but in the surrender to chance\nof acts which ought to be controlled by reason alone, and decided\nby the will in accordance with the moral laws of justice or\nbenevolence.\"\n\nBrother men! shun this vice. It is the certain road to ruin. Do not\nbe lured to your doom by this terrible fascination. Shake off its\nspell, renounce its tyranny: \"It doesn't pay! It doesn't pay!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"It doesn't pay, sir! It doesn't pay!\"]\n\nIt is an accursed thing. It degrades the mind, it demoralises the\nwhole moral being, and, if not renounced, means everlasting ruin.\n\nThis is no time for smooth words. Gambling is a growing evil in the\nland. Women and children, as well as men, have become entangled\nwithin its meshes, and are being dragged down to perdition. It\ndestroys all that is noble and unselfish in the human heart. It\nparalyses the will, stultifies the reason, and stifles every holy\nemotion in the soul. The man who \"prepares a table for fortune and\nfills up mingled wine to destiny,\" who makes chance his idol and\ngain his god, will live to curse the day of his birth. Be wise,\ntherefore, O ye sons of men and seek the Lord your God with all your\nhearts; for \"the blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth\nno sorrow with it.\"\n\n\n\n\nTold in Sunshine Room.]\n\n[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S MESSAGE.]\n\nA Fairy Parable. By Roma White.\n\n\nOnce upon a time there was a country all sweet with the honey-smell\nof white clover, and all full of music with the song of birds. Rain\nand wind swept it now and then; but, when they had passed the warm\njoy of sunshine came again, and the shadows of sailing, snowy clouds\ndrifted purple over the soft green sides of the hills where the\nyoung kids played round their quiet mothers, so that all the people\nwho lived in the beautiful country felt its loveliness thrill their\nhearts.\n\nBut surrounding the clover-fields and the bright gardens and the\nsunny meadows was a band of black darkness, and those who had passed\ninto the darkness never came back. Everybody who sang and laughed\nand loved in the sunshine knew that some day their turn would come\nto step alone into the strange country of night that girdled the\nland like an impenetrable curtain; and sometimes one or another\nwould come and look sadly and tearfully on the darkness, and then\nturn back with bowed head, and try to forget it. And sometimes a\nsound of low, sad singing would approach it, and men and women,\nwith tears running down their faces, would accompany some dear one,\nwhose time in the bright country was finished, to the edge of the\nsilent darkness and watch him pass away into it, never to return;\nand though they held out beseeching hands after him, and strained\ntheir sight that they might perceive whither he had gone, the\ndarkness never gave up its secret; only continued to lie, hushed and\nmysterious, round the land where the apple-blossom budded and the\nyoung lambs played.\n\nNow the King of the country had seven daughters and an only son. The\ndaughters were very beautiful, but the son was fairer than the day.\nHis hair was as golden as the noontime of the South, and his eyes\nwere blue and laughing as the summer sea, and his mother loved him\nbetter than life, from the day when he lay in a little white and\nsilver cradle by her side.\n\nThe royal children played together in the gardens and courts of the\npalace, and sometimes the Queen gathered them about her and told\nthem tales of the fairies and the dewy rings which they danced into\ngreenness on summer nights; or she would tell them of brave kings\nwho had done their duty, and loving queens whose names had been\nblessed by their subjects. And the children would ask questions\nabout the dark belt that encircled the country, of which they had\nheard, but which they had never seen. And then the Queen would shake\nher head and fold her arms tightly about them one by one, but the\nchild that she pressed most closely to her was her only boy.\n\nBut one day a great fear fell upon the kingdom, and all the palace\nwas hushed and still. It was told that the little Prince's days\nwere numbered, and that he must soon pass away. And a few hours\nlater twilight fell over the land, and through the twilight came\nthe solemn steps of mourners and the sound of tears. And the lilies\nbent their white heads, and the roses nestled sadly together among\ntheir green leaves as the royal procession swept wailing by through\nthe dusk. And for a few moments a child's voice spoke, and then\nit ceased as the little Prince went bravely away, alone, into the\ndarkness, and those who had loved him were left behind.\n\n[Illustration: The little Prince went bravely ... into the darkness.]\n\nThey returned by-and-by to the palace, and the King took up his\nroyal duties again, and the seven Princesses went back to their\nlessons and to their play. Sometimes they would talk, with sudden\nsobs, of their brother, and then they would forget him while tending\nto their flowers and watching the wild birds on the wing. The King,\ntoo, now and then, would rest his face upon his hands, and be very\nsilent for a while. But his kingdom claimed him, and he had not the\ntime always in which to mourn.\n\nOnly the Queen never forgot, for the little Prince had been her\nonly son. Night after night she went alone to the edge of the\ndarkness, and tried to pierce it with her longing eyes, and to beat\nit away with her mother's hands; but it was always motionless and\nimpassable, and seemed to extend into endless night.\n\nBut one evening, as she knelt there, quiet for very weariness,\nthere came a sweet smell through the dusk, as if the spices of wild\nthyme were crushed out by some approaching tread; and the sleeping\nflowers that had hung heavily under the weight of her falling tears,\nlifted their faces and unfolded their closed petals, as if they were\ndreaming of the morning sun. And then, all at once, fragrance and\nwarmth and light were about the Queen; and, looking up, she saw the\nradiant figure of a wise, quiet man.\n\nHis voice spoke to her, and she heard many echoes in it, so that it\nstirred her memory strangely. It was as if she listened to the notes\nof a thrush on a dewy morning, or to the south wind among the summer\ntrees by night.\n\n\"Why do you mourn here, all alone?\" he asked her gently.\n\nHer tones shook as she answered him.\n\n\"I am weeping for my only son, who has gone away from me into this\ndarkness by which we stand.\"\n\nFor a moment the wise man was silent; his grave, tender eyes looked\ndown into hers.\n\n\"You try to beat the darkness away with your hands,\" he said\nby-and-by, \"and you feel only that it is like solid rock to your\ntouch. You strain your sight to pierce it, and, as you gaze, you\nrealise its blackness, and it becomes deeper to your eyes. Why,\nthen, do you stay upon its margin?\"\n\n\"I stay because I hope and pray that, by dwelling near it, I may\ncatch a glimpse of my only son; that I may hear his voice speak to\nme, or feel for a moment the warm, clinging touch of his little\nhands. I stay because I crave for a message from him, to tell me\nthat he loves me still.\"\n\nThen there was pity in the wise man's eyes, and it was the sweet\npity of a mother who sees a child cry over a broken toy.\n\n\"Your son has many messages far you,\" he said, \"but you cannot find\nor read them here; and, if you stay, your eyes will soon grow too\ndim to see, and the darkness will hold itself all about your heart.\nTurn your face and footsteps back to your people and your king, and\nseek there a message from your son which shall speak of consolation.\"\n\nThe Queen was silent then, and her feet and hands were still. She\nlooked up at the wise, quiet man, and, as she looked, she saw that\nhis eyes were like those of the child who had passed away, and she\ncaught at the hem of his robe with trembling fingers.\n\n[Illustration: \"My sentence is--Forgiveness!\"]\n\n\"Who are you?\" she cried. \"Who are you, with your wise words, and\nyour eyes like those of my son, who was but a little, little child?\"\n\nThen into the face of the man came a wonderful look, so that the\nQueen, seeing it, bent her head and bowed her forehead upon her\nhands. And it seemed to her, for a moment, as if strange sweet\nscents blew to her, and the darkness broke away into long alleys of\nlight and bloom. And then there was a hush, and when she looked up\nagain the wise man was gone.\n\nBut she remembered that he had given her the sweetest promise in the\nworld--the promise of a message from her only son; and, believing\nhim, she went away from the belt of darkness, and turned again to\nthe palace, to her children, and to her king.\n\nAnd as she passed along the road she came across a poor cripple who\nhad fallen and hurt himself by the way. His wounds bled, and he\nlooked up at the Queen with wistful eyes. So she went, herself, to\nthe nearest stream to fetch water for him, and she gave him some to\ndrink, and bound up the poor bruises, and soothed him with gentle\nwords. And as she tended him, she forgot for a moment the darkness\ninto which her son had passed, and only remembered that the land, in\nspite of its beauty, was full of suffering and tears, and that she\nhad her work to do among her people; and she looked with her shining\nmother's eyes into the cripple's face, and bade him be comforted.\n\nAnd then, all at once, a wonderful thing happened. The cripple\nspoke, in faltering tones, to thank her; and his voice thrilled her,\nfor it was the voice of her little son.\n\nWondering and grave, the Queen passed on. Some blue butterflies flew\nby, circling in the still air. As she looked at them her heart was\nsuddenly stirred to reverence and gratitude and joy for the beauty\nof their silken burnished wings. And as the thrill of tenderness\nshook her, it seemed, all at once, as if a glow were across her\npath, and as if, through the glow, she heard the child-laughter of\nthe little Prince who had passed away.\n\nAnd so it happened, day after day, as the weeks sped by. Whenever\nthe heart of the Queen was stirred to holiness by deeds and thoughts\nwhich were true and lovely and pure there came to her all the tender\nsweetness of memory and of communion, so that she knew that beyond\nthe darkness her little son still sent his thoughts to her in love.\nBut whenever she went to the belt of gloom to weep his voice was\nsilent, and it seemed to her as if he had gone away for ever.\n\nAnd one day there came a strange beggar to the palace gates, with\nwild, wicked eyes and hatred of all men in his heart; and he had\nsworn to injure the King because the King was great and good. He\nkept his vow, and struck at the kind King as he was passing through\nthe gates. But the Queen saw the raised dagger, and sprang in front\nof her husband, so that she received the blow herself.\n\nThen the Queen lay in strange silent illness, and the court met to\njudge the deed. The beggar crouched, terrified and trembling, before\nthem; but, ere sentence could be given, a sweet woman's voice bade\nthose who condemned him to pause, and the judges saw that the Queen\nhad risen from her bed of sickness and stood among them.\n\n\"Wait!\" she cried, \"wait! I, who have borne the pain, must speak the\nsentence.\"\n\nShe paused, and, crossing to the beggar, laid her hand upon his head.\n\n\"My sentence is--Forgiveness!\"\n\nHer voice rang out like a sweet silver trumpet in the court-room,\nand everybody was very still. Then, all at once, the beggar burst\ninto tears.\n\nBut nobody else spoke or moved. Only the tears of the beggar flowed\ndown until they made a tiny crystal pool, and the Queen, who bent\nover him, saw into the pool as into a mirror.\n\nAnd she beheld the margin of the country and the deep black fog\nwhich lay beyond; and as she looked, the fog broke away into long\ngleaming alleys of flowers with shining mists above them, as if of\na rising sun, and, among the bloom, the face of the little Prince\nsmiled fully upon her once again.\n\nThen, all at once, she heard the voice of the wise, quiet man, and\nshe perceived that he stood again by her side.\n\n\"What does it all mean?\" she asked him breathlessly; \"what does it\nall mean?\"\n\nThe beggar, whose face was pressed to the hem of her robe; the\ncourt, who still remained hushed and motionless; and the King, whose\neyes reverenced her, all waited for the wise man's reply. It came to\nthem softly, like the murmur of pine needles in a south wind.\n\n\"There can be no Death where there is Love.\"\n\n[Illustration: decorative]\n\n[Illustration: Our Roll of Heroic Deeds\n\nWe record this month a signal act of heroism which took place a\nfew years ago in a coal-pit near Dalkeith. The mine was suddenly\nflooded, a vast volume of water rushed through the workings, and\nit was only after some hours of dangerous and most difficult work\nthat the imprisoned miners were rescued. It was then discovered\nthat Walker, a boy of twelve, had been left behind, and immediately\nJames Nolans volunteered to save him. Nolans had to be forcibly\npushed through the rushing torrent by some of his comrades; then he\nhad to grope about under the water to find a rail which he used for\nthe purpose of guidance, and, after narrowly escaping death from\ndrowning, he eventually discovered the terrified lad. Even then it\nwas doubtful whether they would escape alive; but after a plucky\ndash through the water, and by the help of some old ladders hastily\nfastened together, they managed to regain their comrades, who never\nexpected to see them again.]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: musical score]\n\nRise, Gracious God, and Shine.\n\n  _Words by_ WILLIAM HURN, 1813.     _Music by_ H. WALFORD DAVIES, MUS.D.\n                                      (_Organist of the Temple Church._)\n\n\n_With majesty._\n\n    1.  Rise, gracious God, and shine\n          In all Thy saving might!\n        And prosper each design,\n          To spread Thy glorious light:\n        Let healing streams of mercy flow,\n        That all the earth Thy truth may know.\n        Amen.\n\n    2.  O bring the nations near,\n          That they may sing Thy praise;\n        Let all the people hear\n          And learn Thy gracious ways:\n        Reign, mighty God, assert Thy cause,\n        And govern by Thy righteous laws.\n\n    3.  Put forth Thy glorious power;\n          The nations then will see!\n        And earth present her store\n          In converts born to Thee.\n        God, our own God, His Church will bless,\n        And earth will teem with fruitfulness.\n\n    N.B.--The last verse should be sung _ff_ in unison.\n\n\n\n\nTEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.\n\nBy a Leading Temperance Advocate.\n\n\nTHE CARE OF THE INEBRIATE.\n\nThe present year has brought into operation a new Act of Parliament\ndealing with the habitual drunkard. The unfortunate men and women\nof the type of the notorious Jane Cakebread have been the despair\nof stipendiary magistrates for years past. At the time of writing\nthe working of the new Act has not settled into shape, so it is all\ntoo early to forecast its probable results. Meanwhile we tender our\ncongratulations to Dr. Norman Kerr, F.L.S., for it is to this humane\nand philanthropic physician we are indebted for anything like an\nintelligent treatment of the confirmed dipsomaniac. Dr. Kerr was\nborn at Glasgow in 1834, and graduated at Glasgow University in\n1861. While yet a student he took a keen interest in temperance and\nestablished a society for his fellow-students. From that time to\nthe present, his active services to the reform have been steadily\nmaintained. He takes a prominent part in the work of the Church\nof England Temperance Society, the United Kingdom Alliance, and\nthe National Temperance League. It is, however, as an authority on\ndipsomania that he is best known. He is the founder and President\nof the Society for the Study and Cure of Inebriety, and it was at\nhis instigation that a highly successful Colonial and International\nCongress on Inebriety was held in Westminster Town Hall in July,\n1887. Dr. Kerr has written largely on the subject, and his learned\nwork on \"Inebriety: Its Etiology, Pathology, Treatment, and\nJurisprudence,\" speedily passed into several editions. He is almost\nas well known in the United States as at home. The gist of Dr.\nNorman Kerr's views may be best indicated by the opening sentence of\nthe volume referred to. He writes:--\n\n\"No _disease_ is more common than inebriety, and yet none is so\nseldom recognised. No _disease_ is more widespread. In the whole\ncircle of even an extensive acquaintance it may happen that no\nmember has been known to have suffered from any of the leading\ndiseases which prevail in our islands, that no one has been laid\nlow by phthisis or cancer. But there are very few families in the\nUnited Kingdom which have not had at least one relative who has been\nsubject to inebriety.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: William Whiteley, Bayswater, W._)\n\nDR. NORMAN KERR.]\n\n\nANOTHER GOOD IDEA.\n\nThe latest new effort to popularise temperance amongst women is a\nscheme prepared by the Durham and Northumberland County Union of\nthe British Women's Temperance Association. It takes the form of a\nsummer school to be opened at Barnard Castle, where ladies may study\ntemperance in its scientific aspects, and receive various aids as\nto the methods of imparting this knowledge. The forenoons will be\ngiven to lectures, the afternoons to recreation, excursions, etc.\nFull particulars may be obtained from Mrs. Richardson, The Gables,\nNewcastle-on-Tyne.\n\n\nBEER IN THE HAY AND HARVEST FIELDS.\n\nThis is an age of specialists, and Mr. John Abbey is certainly the\nspecialist of the temperance propaganda in relation to agriculture.\nThe son of a yeoman, he very early turned his attention to the\nimportance of \"soberising\" our harvest fields. By his writings,\nhis speeches, and the invention of teetotal drinks called Stokos,\nHopkos, and Cokos, he has gradually produced a wonderful change in\nagricultural circles. It is Mr. Abbey's habit to go the round of\nthe agricultural shows in their season, where he pitches his tent,\nin which he dispenses his drinks, distributes his literature, and\ndiscusses \"the why and because\" of his movement with all and sundry.\nFrom the many letters received by him, we are permitted to quote one\nfrom a correspondent who farms seven hundred acres:--\n\n\"I am glad to tell you that we have done harvest without a drop of\nbeer being given to the men, and they appear to like Stokos better\nthis year than ever. They usually had eight gallons or more a day,\nand worked well with it, and throughout the excessive heat we had\nnot a man ill. Years ago the men would get beer into the field,\nand there was a great deal of drunkenness among them, but now I\nam thankful to say that Stokos has, by virtue of its excellent\nqualities, practically _driven the beer out of the field_, and work\ngoes on delightfully.\"\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: A. E. Coe, Norwich_)\n\nMR. JOHN ABBEY.]\n\nIt may be mentioned that this agricultural work is only a detail of\nMr. Abbey's life, for he is the Organising Secretary of the Church\nof England Temperance Society for Norwich Diocese, having previously\nheld a similar appointment far many years in Oxford Diocese.\n\n[Illustration: MR. ABBEY'S TENT AT THE NORFOLK AGRICULTURAL SHOW.\n\n(_Distributing Temperance Drinks._)]\n\n\nCOMING EVENTS.\n\nOn April 13th a concert will be given at Stafford House, under the\npatronage of H.R.H. the Duchess of York, in aid of the Church of\nEngland Temperance Society Juvenile Union. On April 19th the annual\nmeeting of the Guild of Hope will be held at Grosvenor House, the\nDuke of Westminster in the chair. On May 1st the annual meeting of\nthe National Temperance League will be held in Exeter Hall, the\nArchbishop of Canterbury presiding. In July there will be two f\u00eates\nat the Crystal Palace--one on the 5th by the National Temperance\nChoral Society, and the other on the 29th, under the direction of\nthe Church of England Temperance Society.\n\n\n\"GIVE THE BOY A CHANCE.\"\n\nDuring the past decade the Church of England Temperance Society has\ndeveloped a wonderful leaning towards practical effort. Its Police\nCourt Mission has been of incalculable service, and has received the\nhearty recognition of such able magistrates as the late Mr. Montagu\nWilliams, Sir John Bridge, Mr. A. de Rutzen, and others. The Police\nCourt Missionaries have for some time been gravely concerned as to\nwhat to do with young boys brought up for their first offences.\nLast June the Church of England Temperance Society established a\nBoys' Shelter Home at Gunnersbury. To this institution boys are now\nremitted instead of to prison. Here they have a chance of learning\nsome useful industry, situations are found for them, and they are\nthus given a new start in life. The Bishop of London opened the\nHome, which is managed under the direction of a small sub-committee\nof the London Diocesan Church of England Temperance Society.\n\n[Illustration: THE BOYS' SHELTER HOME.\n\n(_Established by the Church of England Temperance Society for first\noffenders._)]\n\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Debenham and Gould, Bournemouth._)\n\nMR. ROBERT SAWYER.]\n\n\nAMONG THE RAILWAY MEN.\n\nOne of the most interesting, and certainly one of the most useful,\ntemperance organisations, specially catering for a distinct class\nof workers, is the United Kingdom Railway Temperance Union. It\ncommenced in a very humble way in 1882, and in a sense owes its\norigin to Mr. S. Cutler, an earnest man employed by the Metropolitan\nRailway Company, who approached the Church of England Temperance\nSociety to see if something could be done to bring together the\ndifferent railway men who were in sympathy with temperance work.\nAs the result of a conference, the Union was started, and it has\nremained in connection with the Church of England Temperance\nSociety ever since. To-day it has branches on nearly every line\nof railway in the United Kingdom; and every grade of the service,\nfrom the influential director down to the humble bookstall lad, is\nrepresented in the membership. The railway men were fortunate in\nsecuring the interest of Mr. Robert Sawyer, Recorder of Maidenhead,\nat the commencement of their operations, for besides contributing\nvery largely from his purse, Mr. Sawyer, as President of the Union,\npractically devotes his life to the interests of railway men. He\nis literally \"in journeyings oft,\" and has a most able lieutenant\nin Mr. A. C. Thompson, the first and only Secretary of the Union.\nThe railway men run a little temperance journal of their own,\nappropriately entitled _On the Line_. One has only to glance through\nits attractive pages to see that the Union is very much alive.\nFor those who are employed on railways temperance is certainly an\nexcellent thing, and there can be no doubt also that the safety of\nthe travelling public is helped not a little by the hard work of Mr.\nSawyer and his cheery comrades.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: SCRIPTURE LESSONS FOR SCHOOL AND HOME\n\nINTERNATIONAL SERIES]\n\nWith Illustrative Anecdotes and References.\n\n\n=MARCH 19TH.--Christ the Good Shepherd.=\n\n_To read--St. John x. 1-16. Golden Text--Ver. 11._\n\nLast lesson showed Christ as source of _light_--giving sight to the\neyes and heart of blind man; to-day's shows Him as \"Love,\" the Good\nShepherd, giving His life for His sheep.\n\nI. =Christ the Door of the Fold= (1-10). _Connection_ with healing\nof blind man.\n\nPharisees were bad shepherds--he found the true.\n\nThey drove him away--Christ the Good Shepherd took him into His fold.\n\n_Explanation_ of the different parts of the parable.\n\nThe sheepfold--Christ's Church on earth (ver. 16).\n\nThe door--Christ Himself, the only way to God.\n\nThe sheep--the people of Christ (Ps. c. 2).\n\nThe shepherds--God's ministers, feeding and leading the flock (1\nPet. v. 2) in the right way.\n\nThe porter--God's Spirit opening hearts to Christ.\n\n_Illustration_: Christ is as a Good Shepherd. How?\n\nHe comes to the sheep in the fold. He calls by name, and goes before\nto lead them. They recognise voice, trust Him, and follow.\n\n_Contrast_ between Christ and the Pharisees. They are robbers (St.\nMatt. xxiii. 14, etc.), blind guides, hypocrites, leading men to\nruin. Now thirsting to kill Him. Christ is the way of salvation.\nThief _takes_ life; shepherds _protect_ life. He _gives_ life, here\nand hereafter.\n\n_Application._ Whosoever believeth in Him shall have everlasting\nlife.\n\nII. =Christ the Good Shepherd= (11-16). _His name._\n\nGood, _i.e._ beautiful, noble, loving. He is _perfect_ in contrast\nwith imperfect ministers; _true_ as opposed to false; _good_ as\ngiving His life. Mere hirelings desert the flock in danger.\n\n_His work._ Knows each intimately--cares for wants. Dies that they\nmay be saved. Seeks wanderers. Folds all safely in fold at last.\n\n=Lessons.= The privileges of Christ's flock.\n\n1. _Safety_ in the fold of His Church.\n\n2. _Succour_ in time of want and danger.\n\n3. _Sympathy._ They know Him, and He knows them.\n\n\n=Christ the Door.=\n\nIt is said that the ancient city of Troy had but one way of\nentrance. In whatever direction the traveller went, he would find\nno way into the city but the one which was legally appointed, and\nthe only one which was used by those who went in and out. There is\nonly one right way to the favour of God, to the family of God, to\nthe presence of God in prayer, and, finally, to the City of God in\neternity, and that one way is Christ. \"I am the way,\" He declares,\n\"and no man cometh unto the Father but by Me.\"\n\n\nMARCH 26TH.--Review Lesson.\n\n_Golden Text--St. John x. 27._\n\nChrist's divine nature been seen in twelve lessons with the results\nensuing therefrom.\n\nI. =True Light= (i. 1-14). Showing Father's eternal glory, power,\nwisdom. Dwelling as man among men to lighten their souls.\n\nII. =First Disciples= (i. 29-42). Divinity testified by God's voice\nat His baptism. Faith shown by new disciples who saw Lamb of God.\n\nIII. =First Miracle= (ii. 1-11). Divinity shown by almighty power\nand glory in sympathy.\n\nIV. =First Convert= (iii. 1-17). Christ as Teacher unfolds divine\nmysteries. He knows for He has seen. Nicodemus, a Pharisee, believes.\n\nV. =First Samaritan= (iv. 5-26). Divinity shown by omniscience.\nGives water of life. Samaritan woman and others believe.\n\nVI. =First Child= (iv. 46-54). Christ gives fresh life to sick\nchild. Nobleman believes.\n\nVII. =Christ's Authority= (v. 17-29). Shares Father's counsels.\nAppointed Judge. All men honour Him.\n\nVIII. =Multitude Fed= (vi. 1-14). He Who made world, supplies His\npeople's wants. As God, He multiplies food; as Man, cares for and\nsympathises.\n\nIX. =Feast of Tabernacles= (vii. 14, 28-39). Christ as God, gives\nlife, also refreshment (like water) to soul by Holy Ghost. Thus,\nThree Persons in Godhead share work of man's salvation.\n\nX. =Freeing from Sin= (viii. 13, 31-36). Divine power alone can free\nfrom bondage of sin and Satan. This Christ gives. Many believed on\nHim.\n\nXI. =Healing Blind= (ix. 1-11). Christ's divine light opens eyes and\nheart. Blind man saved.\n\nXII. =Good Shepherd=. Christ, Himself God, the way to God. Gives\nlife by laying down His life. One fold, one flock, one Shepherd.\n\n=Lessons=. 1. Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.\n\n2. No man cometh to the Father but by Me.\n\n3. Lord, I believe, help Thou my unbelief.\n\n\nChrist, Lord of All.\n\n     During the last moments of a godly woman, speech had left her;\n     but she managed to articulate the word \"Bring.\" Her friends, in\n     ignorance of her meaning, offered her food, but she shook her\n     head, and again repeated the word \"Bring.\" Thinking she desired\n     to see some absent friends, they brought them to her; but again\n     she shook her head; and then, by a great effort, she succeeded\n     in completing the sentence--\n\n    \"Bring forth the royal diadem,\n    And crown Him Lord of all\"--\n\n     and then passed away to be with Jesus.\n\n\nAPRIL 2ND.--Raising of Lazarus.\n\n_To read--St. John xi. 32-45. Golden Text--Ver. 25._\n\nGospel began with miracle at joyful family gathering. To-day's\nlesson tells of sad gathering of family and friends at a funeral. He\nwould again show divine power.\n\nI. =Death Triumphant= (32-37). _Scene of sorrow_ at Bethany, two\nmiles from Jerusalem. Little family, Lazarus and two sisters. Had\nreceived Christ before (St. Luke x. 38). Now the breadwinner has\nbeen taken ill and dies. Sickness, death, bereavement, all causes\nof sorrow and sadness. Had sent for Christ, but He had delayed to\ncome (ver. 6). At last He arrives, but body had been buried. Martha\nmeets Him first (ver. 21), then Mary. Both utter same reproach--had\nHe been in time, their brother need not have died. Their faith weak.\nThought of Him as Good Physician--did not fully realise His almighty\npower. How did this affect Christ? He was troubled, He sighed, He\nwept. His best friends not yet learned Who He was and what His\npower. To them sorrow, suffering, death, seemed to have triumphed.\nWas it so?\n\nII. =Death Vanquished= (38-44). _Scene of joy._ A Conqueror of\ndeath is there. See actions of the different people. _Christ_\ncommands removal of stone. _Martha_ remonstrates--the body begun\nto corrupt--four days dead (no coffin, only wrapped in linen).\nShowed unbelief, after Christ's words (ver. 23). _Mary_ watches in\nsilence, trusting in Christ to do right. _Jews_, expectant, roll\naway the stone as bidden. Then Christ speaks; thanks God for hearing\nHis prayer; cries aloud to Lazarus. The dead man comes forth, is\nreleased from grave-clothes, and restored to his home. Death is\nswallowed up in victory.\n\n_Result._ Many of the Jews believed. God's glory is manifested.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. _Christ a loving Friend._ Can be touched with the\nfeeling of our infirmities.\n\n2. _Christ a living Saviour._ Taught Martha, comforted Mary,\nrestored Lazarus. Gives eternal life.\n\n\nFaithful unto Death\n\n     In the excavations made at the buried city of Pompeii, the\n     remains of a Roman soldier were found at one of the gates.\n     Embedded in the once molten lava which swept down upon the\n     doomed city was found the skeleton of the soldier whose post\n     of duty was at the gate, still grasping a sword in its bony\n     fingers. When the panic came upon the city, and those who could\n     made good their escape, he had remained faithful to his sense\n     of duty, and with resolute courage faced a fearful death. The\n     Christian soldier can face death with equal courage, for he has\n     obtained victory over sin and death through Jesus Christ his\n     Lord.\n\n\nAPRIL 9TH.--The Anointing in Bethany.\n\n_To read--St. John xii. 1-11. Golden Text--St. Mark xiv. 8._\n\nChrist again at Bethany, preparing for His sufferings and death.\nChief priests and Pharisees took counsel to kill Him (xi. 53). His\nfriends gather in numbers to give Him a public welcome.\n\nI. =Christ's Friends= (1-3, 7-9). _The feast._ Took place at\nBethany, at house of Simon, once a leper. The family of Bethany\nall present--showed their regard for Christ in different ways.\n_Lazarus_, honoured guest, at the table with Him. _Martha_ giving of\nher skill in house-keeping (St. Luke x. 38). _Mary_ giving a costly\npresent.\n\n_The anointing._ Mary comes behind Christ--having fetched an\nalabaster box full of precious ointment--breaks the box, pours it\non His head (St. Mark xiv. 3) and His feet (ver. 3), wiping them\nwith her hair. The house is filled with sweet smell. Why did she do\nthis? _It was an act of love._ Christ had done much for them--stayed\nwith them, above all restored their brother to life. Another\nreason: Christ had lately spoken of His death as soon coming. This\nthought quickened her love to intensity. She must give it outward\nexpression. She had kept it for His burial (ver. 7), but gives it\nnow. _It was an act of self-denial._ Did not stay to count the cost,\nto think how little she need give. Gave the best gift she had. Would\nkeep back nothing from Him. _The act was approved and accepted._ She\ndid what she could.\n\n=Lessons.= 1. Christ's death draws men's hearts (xii. 32). Therefore\nsend the Gospel to all.\n\n2. True love delights in self-denial. Deny self, take up cross and\nfollow Christ.\n\n3. Offerings accepted by God. Alms as well as prayers come before\nHim (Acts x. 4).\n\nII. =Christ's Enemies= (4-6, 10, 11). _Judas_ grudges the\ngift--calls it waste--professes zeal for the poor. What was his real\nmotive? Covetousness. Had been made treasurer of monies given to\nand spent by Christ and apostles. Hoped to get something out of it\nfor himself. Was it waste? Gifts given to Christ cannot be wasted.\nOthers will take note and copy. This loving gift has led multitudes\nto do what they can. Missionaries to give up lives for Christ, many\nto give money, work, service, etc. Even cup of water only given for\nHis sake rewarded.\n\n_Chief priests._ Consult out of envy to kill Lazarus. His rising led\nmany to believe in Christ. Their power became less.\n\n=Lesson.= Take heed, and beware of covetousness.\n\nWhich are we: friends or foes of Christ?\n\n\nGive the Best you have to God.\n\n     It matters not how poor the offering, if given in the right\n     spirit. A legend tells how once a little boy in church had no\n     money to place among the offerings. So he gave a rosy apple, the\n     only gift he had it in his power to offer. Presently, when the\n     alms were removed, there was found among them an apple of gold.\n     The simplest gift is in the sight of God as pure gold.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: SHORT ARROWS\n\nNotes of Christian Life & Work]\n\n\nOur New Waifs.\n\nIn accordance with the announcement in our December number, we left\nit entirely to our readers to select the new QUIVER waifs.\nAll the votes have now been received, and arranged, with the result\nthat Rose Heelis heads the list of the candidates for Miss Sharman's\nOrphan Home, whilst John Harrison is the successful candidate for\nDr. Barnardo's Home.\n\n[Illustration: JOHN HARRISON.\n\n(_The new Quiver Waif at Dr. Barnardo's Home._)]\n\nOur readers will doubtless be interested in the portrait of each\nto be found on this page, but it is unnecessary to repeat the\nparticulars concerning these little ones which were given at the\ntime we invited the votes. The support of the new waifs will involve\na total annual expenditure of \u00a331 (\u00a315 for Rose Heelis and \u00a316\nfor John Harrison), and for this amount we are relying upon the\ngenerosity of our readers. Contributions to the special Waifs' Fund\nwill be gladly received, and duly acknowledged month by month in\nour pages. Such contributions should be addressed to the Editor of\nTHE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C. A\nlist of the donations to the fund during the month of January will\nbe found on page 480.\n\n\nStooping to Conquer.\n\nA peculiar feature connected with the Ancient and Honourable\nArtillery Company of Boston is that each officer, at the end of\nhis term of command, which lasts a year, returns to the ranks as\na private; thus there are something like a score of gentlemen who\nhave had full control of the regiment, and who are now once more\ncontent to obey. Here is a lesson for those who serve in the Church\nMilitant. We cannot all be colonels and generals--there must be a\nfew private soldiers!--and it is certain that he who cannot obey\nis not fit to command. Much energy and temper is wasted by those\nwho fight against sin and sorrow through unwillingness to take what\nis called a subordinate position. Surely this is to forget the\nSaviour's words--\"If any man desire to be first, the same shall be\nlast of all, and servant of all.\"\n\n[Illustration: ROSE HEELIS.\n\n(_The new Quiver Waif at Miss Sharman's Home._)]\n\n\nThe \"Welcome.\"\n\nSixteen years ago, the first restaurant for women in the City of\nLondon was started at 16, Jewin Street. The \"Welcome\" was opened in\na five-storeyed house in the very midst of factories. It is now the\ncentre of help of every kind for a class brought before the public\nin Sir Walter Besant's \"Children of Gibeon.\" Hundreds of women\nfrequent this place to refresh their jaded and chilled bodies with\nsoup and bread at three halfpence or excellent meat-puddings at\ntwopence. In cases of distress and starvation free dinner tickets\nare granted. Who can tell how many women this aid has saved from\ncrime when hunger has driven them to the verge of stealing? The\nwork of the \"Welcome\" is not limited to care for the bodies of City\ntoilers. Three rooms are used for dinner and tea, three others for\nevening classes of various kinds. From six to half-past nine clubs,\nmusical drill, sewing and improvement classes, services of song,\nmissionary or Gospel temperance meetings, attract an attendance\naveraging from 270 to 300. The largest number come on Thursday\nevening, which is devoted to Bible classes. To many whose days are\nspent in hot workrooms the shady gardens lent on Saturdays by kind\nfriends are like a new world. One girl asked if she could see the\nstrawberry trees; another, why the bunches of grapes were tied to\nthe top of glass-houses. The revelation of a new world outside their\nown limited sphere helps to raise the ambition to live a new and\nhigher life.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo: Cassell and Co., Ltd._)\n\nIN THE \"WELCOME\" CLUB AT MIDDAY.]\n\n\n\"Nobody's Own.\"\n\nMany regiments in the British army are called after and said to be\nowned by this or that prince or princess. There is \"The Princess of\nWales's Own,\" \"Princess Charlotte's Own,\" and so on. One regiment,\nhowever, rejoices in the nickname of \"Nobody's Own,\" because it\nis not named after anybody. It is a grand thing to think that no\nChristian can be called \"Nobody's Own,\" for we are all called after\nChrist and owned by our Father in heaven.\n\n\nNew Books.\n\nElsewhere in this number will be found an illustrated article on\n\"Childish Memories of Lewis Carroll,\" and we venture to think that\nreaders of those reminiscences will require no pressing to turn to\nthe biography of this universally favourite author, just published\nby Mr. Fisher Unwin under the title \"The Life and Letters of Lewis\nCarroll.\" Mr. S. D. Collingwood, who is responsible for the work,\nfrankly admits that it is impossible to give a really adequate\npresentation of the extraordinarily complex character of his late\nuncle. He has, however, produced a most able and interesting sketch,\nwhich includes many characteristic letters, and is profusely\nillustrated. Quite a different life-story is also before us in\nthe form of the Rev. George Adam Smith's biography of his friend,\nthe late Professor Henry Drummond (Hodder and Stoughton). No one\ncould lay down this book without feeling that Drummond was in every\nsense a great man--with a great intellect, a great heart, and a\nconstant, burning desire to be about his Father's business. It is\ntrue that he made mistakes, that he put forth certain theories not\ngenerally acceptable, and which he himself modified in later years,\nbut throughout his life his honesty of purpose was unquestionable.\nHis influence and power as a preacher and teacher were remarkable,\nand many of those whom he reached through his addresses and books\nwill feel indebted to Dr. Smith for this critical and comprehensive\nstory of his life.--From Messrs. Smith, Elder and Company comes a\nnew story from our own contributor, Katharine Tynan, entitled \"The\nDear Irish Girl,\" of which we need say no more than that it is the\nlove story of a most winning Irish lassie, written in the bright,\nentertaining style so well-known to our readers.--\"Helps to Godly\nLiving\" (Elliot Stock) is the happy title of an excellent little\nwork which consists of helpful and comforting extracts from the\nwritings and addresses of the present Archbishop of Canterbury,\nselected and arranged by the Rev. J. H. Burn, B.D.--A pathetic\ninterest attaches to the two dainty volumes of poems by the late\nDr. J. R. Macduff, entitled \"Matin and Vesper Bells\" (Cassell), in\nthat the author did not live to see their completion. Many of the\npoems have been already published independently in various forms,\nbut we believe that this collected edition of Dr. Macduff's tender\nand inspiring verse will be heartily welcomed.--We have also to\nacknowledge the receipt of a tastefully produced volume entitled\n\"The More Excellent Way\" (Henry Frowde), in which the Hon. Mrs.\nLyttelton Gell has carefully arranged the choicest extracts from\nthe works of ancient and modern authors on \"The Life of Love\"; a\ncollection of addresses on the Beatitudes by the Rev. J. R. Miller,\nD.D., entitled \"The Master's Blesseds\" (Hodder and Stoughton); an\ninteresting and instructive work on medical missionary work amongst\nthe blind in India, entitled \"They Shall See His Face\" (Bocardo\nPress, Oxford); \"Aids to Belief\" (Elliot Stock), a series of studies\non the divine origin of Christianity by the Rev. W. H. Langthorne;\nand a volume of sermons by the late Charles H. Spurgeon, which have\nbeen published by Messrs. Passmore and Alabaster under the title\n\"The Metropolitan Tabernacle Pulpit.\"\n\n\nA Wolf-Boy.\n\n[Illustration: (_Photo supplied by the Missionary Leaves Association._)\n\n  AS A BOY.      THE WOLF-BOY OF SECUNDRA.      AS A MAN.]\n\nWhat was to be done with such a boy! The magistrate sahib of\nBulandshahr had heard of Romulus and Remus, but rational people\nrejected the legend of their infancy. Yet here was a child of five\nor six years of age, crawling on the ground before him, and the\nstatement of several witnesses that he had been smoked out of a\nwolf's den could not be disputed. These men were natives of India.\nWhilst travelling in a jungle of the Bulandshahr district, they\nsaw a queer though undoubted specimen of humanity crawl into a\nhole. By the magistrate's order a fire was lighted at the mouth.\nOut sprang a snarling and indignant mother-wolf, which, after\nscattering the bystanders, fled for life. Behind her ran on all\nfours a little boy, who was speedily secured and conveyed to the\nmagistrate. He was imbecile. He would eat no food but raw meat,\nand he tore any clothing placed on him into shreds. The magistrate\nsent him to the Church Missionary Orphanage at Secundra, a refuge\nfor between four and five hundred children, nearly all infants\npicked up in the streets or by the roadside. There this child,\nwho was found on Saturday, February 4th, 1867, grew up into\nmanhood. On the same principle that Robinson Crusoe called his man\nFriday, the wolf-boy was named Sanichar, or Saturday. By degrees\na certain amount of intelligence and a decided religious instinct\ndeveloped. He became gentle and sociable, and ready with cheerful\nunselfishness to share the many little presents he received with\nhis companions. He attached himself with great affection to one of\nthe caretakers. On the death of this man, Sanichar in dumb sorrow\nand bewilderment looked from one to another of his friends for an\nexplanation. They pointed to the grave, and then to the sky. The\nboy was deeply impressed, and ever afterwards, if he felt ill, he\nwould feign sleep, and point first to the ground and then to the\nsky. He never learnt to speak, but perhaps he was trying to convey\nthe impression that he looked forward to following his dear friend.\nTwo other wolf-boys and one wolf-girl were brought to the Secundra\norphanage, but they died soon afterwards. Whether they had been cast\nout by their parents or kidnapped by the inveterate robber-wolves\nof the district could not be discovered. They were a witness that\ntenderness, too often lost in heathenism, may be found in one of\nthe most rapacious beasts. With hundreds of little outcasts under\nChristian care, they tell of a Father above who remembers even\nthough parents may forget their children.\n\n[Illustration: THE LOCKHART MEMORIAL.\n\n(_In Lewisham Congregational Church._)]\n\n\nMemorial to a Medical Missionary.\n\nMedical missions have come into deservedly increasing prominence of\nlate years; and a few months ago a beautiful tablet was erected in\nLewisham Congregational Church to the memory of Dr. Lockhart, the\nfirst Protestant medical missionary to China, who went out about the\nyear 1838. The tablet is a beautiful piece of work in alabaster and\nmarble, and is carved in the form of a triptych, _i.e._ in three\npanels, the medallion portrait occupying the centre. On the left\nhand panel appears the following inscription:--\"In affectionate\nmemory of Dr. Lockhart, first medical missionary to China, founder\nof hospitals at Macao, Shanghai and Pekin, who served the London\nMissionary Society with untiring zeal for twenty-six years in the\nmission field, and with unabated devotion in England to the last\nday of his life. Member of this church for thirty-seven years.\nDeacon and Church Secretary. Born October 3rd, 1811. Died April\n29th, 1896.\" The following inscription appears on the right hand\npanel:--\"This memorial is erected by those who admired him as a\nstrong man, loved him as a friend, hold his services in grateful\nmemory, and who pray that his zeal for missions and his devotion\nto the Church may inspire all who shall ever worship within these\nwalls.\" The tablet is placed on the wall of the church near the\nvestry door, where Dr. Lockhart used often to stand before the\nservice, watching the people enter.\n\n\nSelf-control.\n\nA man who lately came over from America told the writer that on\nboard the steamer one of the passengers went up to another in the\nsmoking-room and asked him to have a drink with him. The man thus\ninvited continued reading a newspaper and made no reply. The other\nman again asked him to drink with him. No answer again. A third\ninvitation was then given in these words: \"Sir, I have asked you in\nas friendly a way as possible to drink with me, and each time you\nwent on with your reading, and had not the civility to answer me.\nNow I ask you for the third time if you will drink wine, whisky,\nor anything else with me?\" The man then put aside his paper and\nanswered very quietly: \"Do you see that glass, sir? Well, if I were\nto take even a quarter of it, I could not leave off until I had\ndrunk all the liquor on board. This is why I would not drink with\nyou.\" All present admired the man's self-control, and learned a\nstriking lesson on the danger of putting temptation in a brother's\nway.\n\n\nAn Ever-Recurring Question.\n\nTwo friends of the writer were sitting in a close carriage,\ndiscussing the problems of life--where we came from and whither we\nare going. The driver of the carriage went rather too near another\nvehicle. \"Where are you going to?\" shouted the driver of the latter.\nThe occupants of the carriage looked at each other and remarked,\n\"That is just what we were wanting to know.\" So it is that the great\nproblems of life cannot be ignored, for they are reflected in the\nsmall incidents of daily existence. Particularly is this the case\nwith the question whence we came and whither we are going. This can\nnever be shelved.\n\n\nThe Circulation of the Bible.\n\nFew people have any idea of the enormous number of Bibles published\nannually in this country. Mere figures of so many millions mean\nlittle to most folks. But it may give some more adequate idea of\nthe vast number to put it as follows: The British and Foreign Bible\nSociety, of Queen Victoria Street, alone publish above a million\nand a half of Bibles every year, or more than 4,100 every day. Now,\nif each of these 4,100 Bibles was of the average thickness of one\nand a half inches, they would, if piled upon one another, reach to\na height of 6,159 inches. As the top of St. Paul's cross is about\n364 feet or so above the level of St. Paul's Churchyard, this huge\npile of Bibles would reach to a height nearly one and a half times\nas great as the top of the famous cross! Or we might represent the\nwhole lot by one immense Bible, which would be 66 feet by 47 feet by\n14 feet, and would reach from the steps leading to St. Paul's right\nto the top of the pillars there! And this would but represent the\noutput for a single day of only one of the great Bible circulating\nmediums of this country!\n\n[Illustration: A BIBLE 66 FT. BY 47 FT. BY 14 FT.\n\n(_Representing one day's output of the British and Foreign Bible\nSociety._)]\n\n\n\n\n_OUR INTERNATIONAL LEAGUE OF PEACE._\n\n\nWe are glad to be able to report that requests for forms are\nsteadily being received, and a goodly number have been returned\nfilled with signatures. To those of our readers who are striving\nto obtain the distinction of being the first to send in a thousand\nnames (for which a prize of Ten Pounds is offered) we would say that\nit is not necessary for all the signatures to be given together.\nThey should be forwarded in batches of fifty or a hundred, and\ncredit will be given for every name so sent. The following letter\nwhich we have received from a correspondent at Birmingham is of\ninterest, as it emphasises the fact that the Ten Pounds we offer\nwill not only act as an incentive to activities on behalf of\npeace, but may also at the same time benefit some local charity.\n\"Please send me,\" the correspondent writes, \"some sheets of the\nInternational League of Peace. If I am fortunate enough to get the\nTen Pounds, I am going to give it to some good society--whichever\nour clergyman thinks best. Trusting to hear from you by return.\"\n\nThe following is the form in which our memorial has been issued:--\n\n     \"=We, the undersigned, desire to express our earnest sympathy\n     with the peace proposals contained in the recent Rescript of his\n     Imperial Majesty the Czar of Russia, and hereby authorise the\n     attachment of our names to any international Memorial having for\n     its object the promotion of Universal Peace upon a Christian\n     basis.=\"\n\nThis may be copied at the head of blank sheets of paper, and the\nsignatures placed beneath; but we shall be very pleased to send\n(post free) any number of printed forms on receipt of an application\naddressed to the Editor of THE QUIVER, La Belle Sauvage,\nLondon, E.C.\n\nThe objects of our League have already been endorsed, amongst other\nprominent men, by the =Lord Bishop of London=, the =Rev. Hugh\nPrice Hughes= (President of the Wesleyan Conference), the =Rev.\nSamuel Vincent= (President of the Baptist Union of Great Britain\nand Ireland), and =Pastor Thomas Spurgeon= of the Metropolitan\nTabernacle.\n\n\nTHE QUIVER FUNDS.\n\nThe following is a list of contributions received from January 1st,\n1899, up to and including January 31st, 1899. Subscriptions received\nafter this date will be acknowledged next month:--\n\n     For \"_The Quiver_\" _Waifs' Fund_: R. Hutchinson, Boston Spa, 2s.\n     6d.; Readers of _The Christian_, per Morgan and Scott, \u00a35; Miss\n     Ren\u00e9e Benson, Grenoble, 1s. 6d.; J.J.E., Govan (134th donation),\n     5s.; A Glasgow Mother (104th donation), 1s.; E.A., 2s. 6d.;\n     R.S., Crouch End, 5s.\n\n     For _Dr. Barnardo's Homes_: A Scotch Lassie, 5s.; Baby George,\n     2s. 6d.; J.R., 5s.; E.H., Devon, 2s.; Gertie, Finsbury Park.\n     3s.; M.A.C, 5s., An Irish Girl, 10s. 6d.; Madame Scaravaglion\u00e9,\n     10s.; A.K., 5s.; A Warwickshire Lass, 5s.; Anon., 2s. The\n     following amounts have been sent direct:--R.H.B.P., 4s.; A.H.,\n     10s; M.M.Q., \u00a35; E.A.H., 7s. 6d.; A.W.O., 4s.; M. M., 5s.;\n     M.E.B., 15s.; J H.W., 5s.; \"Inasmuch,\" 6s.; T.P., Leamington, \u00a31.\n\n     For _The Children's Country Holiday Fund_: Madame Scaravaglion\u00e9,\n     10s.; J. and E.H., \u00a31.\n\n     For _Miss Weston's Homes, Portsmouth_: J. and E.H., \u00a31.\n\n     For _The Robin Dinners_: Alice Bishop, 3s.\n\n     For _St. Mark's Hospital, City Road, E.C._: A Thank-offering, 1s.\n\n     The Superintendent of the St. Giles Christian Mission asks us\n     to acknowledge the receipt of a parcel of clothing from Oakham,\n     Rutland.\n\n\nOUR FINE ART PLATES.\n\nDoubtless many of our readers are interested in the announcement\nwhich has been appearing for several months past on our wrapper to\nthe effect that certain coupons will entitle the holder to receive a\nset of Fine Art Plates for a trifling sum. We desire to supplement\nthat announcement by stating that the pictures will be of sacred\nsubjects, and will, moreover, be printed on specially prepared\nplate paper in order to obtain the best possible results. The\nselected paintings are by Lord Leighton, Sir John Millais, Edward\nArmitage, R.A., Ford Madox Brown, W. C. T. Dobson, R.A., and William\nDyce, R.A., and the series will form an admirable selection of the\nbest-known works of these famous artists--well worthy of a permanent\nplace in every home.\n\n\nROLL OF HONOUR FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL WORKERS.\n\nThe =Special Silver Medal= and =Presentation Bible= offered for the\nlongest known Sunday-school service in the county of =Durham= (for\nwhich applications were invited up to January 31st, 1899) have been\ngained by\n\n  MR. JOHN J. BAILEY,\n  Newgate Street, Barnard Castle,\n\nwho has distinguished himself by _fifty-six_ years' service,\nprincipally in the Sunday School of the Barnard Castle Parish Church.\n\nAs already announced, the next territorial county for which claims\nare invited for the _Silver_ Medal is\n\n  DEVONSHIRE,\n\nand applications, on the special form, must be received on or before\nFebruary 28th, 1899. We may add that =Kent= is the following county\nselected, the date-limit for claims in that case being March 30th,\n1899. This county, in its turn, will be followed by the territorial\ncounty of =Cheshire=, for which the date will be one month\nlater--viz. April 30th, 1899.\n\nThe names of members recently enrolled will be found in our\nadvertisement pages.\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUIVER BIBLE CLASS.\n\n(BASED ON THE INTERNATIONAL SCRIPTURE LESSONS.)\n\n\nQUESTIONS.\n\n49. From what parable of our Lord do we gather that the sheepfolds\nin ancient times were large and surrounded by a high fence?\n\n50. By what illustration does our Lord teach us that it is through\nHim alone we can be saved? Quote passage.\n\n51. In what way does our Lord contrast His care of His people with\nthe neglect shown by the Jewish teachers?\n\n52. Quote passage which shows that Jesus had never attended any of\nthe public Jewish schools?\n\n53. In what words does our Lord speak of the Scriptures as God's\nrevelation of Himself to man?\n\n54. What were the two miracles performed by our Lord at Cana of\nGalilee?\n\n55. What was especially remarkable in the miracle of raising Lazarus\nfrom the dead?\n\n56. What reason did our Lord give for His delay in going to Lazarus\nwhen he was ill?\n\n57. What was the effect of the miracle of raising Lazarus?\n\n58. What reason have we for supposing that Simon the Leper was the\nhusband of Martha, the sister of Lazarus?\n\n59. What information does St. John give as to the character of Judas\nIscariot?\n\n60. What prophecy concerning our Lord was delivered by Caiaphas, the\nHigh Priest?\n\n\nANSWERS TO QUESTIONS ON PAGE 383.\n\n37. In a desert (or uninhabited) place near Bethsaida on the\nnorth-west side of the Sea of Galilee (St. Luke ix. 10).\n\n38. It was known as the Sea of Chinnereth (Numb. xxxiv. 11; Josh.\nxii. 3).\n\n39. Because St. Philip was a native of the district of Bethsaida\n(St. John i. 44, and vi. 5).\n\n10. The Jews thought that Jesus was the son of Joseph the carpenter,\nand born in Galilee; whereas they had been taught that no one would\nknow of the birthplace or parentage of the Messiah (St. John vii.\n27, 41; St. Luke iv. 22).\n\n41. They sent officers to arrest Jesus (St. John vii. 2, 32).\n\n42. Because on the last day of the Feast special sacrifices were\noffered for all Israel, and the priest, having taken water from the\nPool of Siloam, poured it upon the altar (St. John vii. 37).\n\n43. Because they understood that, as the \"Light of the World,\" Jesus\nclaimed to be the Messiah (St. John viii. 12; Isaiah ix. 2, and lx.\n1).\n\n44. \"When ye have lifted up the Son of Man\" (St. John viii. 28).\n\n45. Jesus appears to have made the Jews unable to see Him, and so\npassed out of the Temple, going through the midst of them (St. John\nviii. 59; 2 Kings vi. 18).\n\n46. That the disciples believed in the doctrine of \"transmigration\nof souls,\" which was taught by the Jewish Rabbis at that time (St.\nJohn ix. 2; Josephus, \"Ant.\" xviii. ch. 1, sec. 3).\n\n47. By telling him to go and wash in the Pool of Siloam (St. John\nix. 7).\n\n48. The Jews excommunicated the man whose sight Jesus had\nrestored--that is, they shut him out of the synagogue--thus\ndepriving him of all religious privileges (St. John ix. 22, 34).\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nMinor typographical errors have been corrected without note.\nIrregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as\nprinted.\n\nMissing page numbers are page numbers that were not shown in the\noriginal text.\n\nThe illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up\nparagraphs, thus the page number of the illustration might not match\nthe page number in the List of Illustrations.","title":"The Quiver, 2/1900","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":51131}