WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.

WHERE SWALLOWS BUILD.BySARAH DOUDNEY.CHAPTER II."I havenever been so happy before in all my life!" Alice said.All around her was the common, seldom-heeded loveliness of an English lane in August.A long colonnade of oaks barred the way with shadows. The bindweed hung its garlands of little leafy hearts across the hedges. The bramble showed an abundance of green fruit which would swell and turn black by-and-by; and among the ground-ivy and strawberry leaves a few poison-berries shone out brightly, like witches' jewels. This was the grassy road leading to Swallow's Nest, and Alice had loved it from the very first day when she came here with her luggage, just a fortnight ago.The farmhouse was very old, and no one could ever remember a summer when the swallows had not built there. It was a place that did not change as other places do. The birds always knew that they should find a convenient shelter just under the roof of the ample porch. No matter how far they had flown, no matter what fairer scenes they had visited, they never failed to come back to this quiet English home.Not only in the porch did they build, but under the eaves, in little nooks about the roof, in every place which would hold their funny nests, made of little lumps of clay artistically massed together. The house was haunted by shrill notes and glancing wings. You could not pass through the door without sending a swallow flying out into the sunlight.They were not content merely with the outside of the old dwelling. Very often they flashed in through an open window and flew in circles round the room, chattering as they flew. Alice sometimes wished that she could understand that rapid bird-language, so full of hidden meanings and quick changes of expression. What a companion a swallow might be, if we could but interpret the wisdom that he brings!Alice and her pupils were already getting plenty of work to do. She had dropped down, quite happily, into the middle of a very pleasant family who were all pulling one way—and that was a good way. But it took all her own good sense, and the judicious hints of Mrs. Bower, to reconcile her to making up the hideous materials brought by the surrounding neighbours. The crude reds and greens, the staring blues and yellows, filled her with disgust. And as she sauntered through the lane on a golden afternoon, she wondered why people did not study colour in the hedges.Here was the delicate lilac of the wild geranium; here were the beautiful shades of olive and brown and buff so dear to an artist's eyes. Alice enjoyed them all; and drew in deep breaths of sweet-scented air, with a pitying remembrance of those who lived in the sickening atmosphere of heated London.So the peaceful days went and came. Miss Harper's services became more and more in request, and by the time that the blackberries were ripe, she was employed by the "best families" in the neighbourhood.One day a young lady trundled up to the gate in a pretty little pony-cart; and Ethel Bower, catching a glimpse of her through the open window, said in a low tone that it was Mrs. Monteagle."Our squire's wife," she added, as she went to the door. Alice, sitting among silks and cashmeres and tweeds, did not feel any special interest in the new-comer. But at the first sight of Mrs. Monteagle's pretty, piquant little face, she had a flash of remembrance.The lady made just the slightest pause before speaking. Miss Harper, however, met her with grave politeness and an impassive face. So Mrs. Monteagle plunged into business at once, and explained that she wanted a really pretty tea-gown.She had brought a parcel of soft rich silk, and plenty of delicate lace. Miss Harper examined and approved, and promised to execute the order in a week."Letty Foster always had good taste," she thought, as the cart trundled away, "And so she has married 'our squire.' Well, she will find that I, at any rate, can be utterly oblivious of our meetings elsewhere. It is quite a pleasure to make up such lovely silk as this; and I am really very much obliged to Mrs. Letty."On the evening of the same day "Mrs. Letty" went to the door of her husband's dressing-room, just before dinner, and told him that she had made a discovery."Well, what have you discovered?" asked he. "Upon my word, I wish it was a pot of gold.""It's not a pot of gold. It's a former acquaintance under the guise of a dressmaker!" cried Mrs. Monteagle gleefully. "It's Alice Harper, who used to live in Park Lane—Alice Harper, the daughter of that old company man who blew out his brains. Isn't it funny?""It doesn't strike me that it's funny when a man blows out his brains," said the squire. "I wish he hadn't done it. If he had lived I might have made him useful.""What could he have done for you, Gerald?" asked Mrs. Monteagle, opening her eyes.They stood fronting each other alone for a minute or two. She noticed that he had some deep lines on his face, and looked worn."Well, he could have got some money for me," said he simply. "I say, Letty, I don't want to bother you, but we must contrive to pull in a bit. Cardigan is coming here to-morrow. If I can, I shall get him to buy Swallow's Nest.""Oh, the charming old farm! That's where Miss Harper is living," said his wife. "I am sorry that you must part with it. Yes, I will be very economical, dear. Mr. Cardigan is awfully rich, they say."Robert Cardigan alighted at the little rural station in rather a gloomy mood. It is a truism that rich men are by no means the most cheerful; and Robert, perhaps, was feeling the embarrassment of wealth.The squire's dog-cart was waiting, and, as he drove through the autumn lanes, the beauty of the country stole over him like a charm. He wished all at once that he could be a boy again, and go a-nutting in the deep woods. Monteagle, he thought, was a lucky man to own these acres of woodland, and these beautiful fields stretching away to ranges of quiet hills. It was the kind of country that he liked; neither wild nor grand, but just simply pastoral and sweet.He hoped that he should not find a big house-party. Miss de Vigny had called him refreshingly natural, and it was certain that vanity was not his principal fault. But a man with many thousands a year is never left long in ignorance of his own importance. Cardigan had been hunted from pillar to post, pelted with showers of invitations, courted discreetly and indiscreetly, until he was weary of a life so over-sweet. What would he not have given for a true friend?There was a certain face which rose up often in his memory; a girl's face, calm, and a little proud, with serious grey eyes. That girl had been always devising impossible plans for doing good to others. He had smiled while he listened to her earnest talk, and wondered how such notions could have got into the head of Harper's daughter.He did not know what had become of her. Mary de Vigny seemed to know, but had not been disposed to say much. He wished now that he had plied the little maiden lady with questions. He would call on her, he thought, when he returned to town, and plainly ask her to tell him all about that girl.To his relief he found that there were only a few people at Courland Hall.The squire had been married only twelve months. He had chosen for a wife a thoughtless good-natured girl, with very little money. Letty had always been accustomed to rely to a great extent on her own brains when she was in want of a little extra finery. She had contrived to make a charming appearance on a small allowance. To marry Gerald Monteagle was, to her fancy, like coming into the possession of a gold mine.She had begun by spending freely. Those few words, spoken in the dressing-room, had been the first hint of tightening the purse-strings. They had sobered her spirit, and brought her closer to her husband than she had ever been before.No wedded pair can ever be perfectly united until they have passed out of the sunshine into the shade. When the sun goes down behind a bank of clouds, and a chill wind sighs across the roses, then the bride becomes the wife in real earnest, and creeps nearer to her husband's side. It is then that he discovers what a deep well of tenderness lies in the heart of the girl who was perhaps lightly wooed and easily won.Letty's gaiety was just tinged with gravity, and Cardigan, who had thought to find her a mere trifler, liked her better than he had expected, and was ready to be a friend to the young couple. He went into the woods with the squire, and the two men grew intimate."I wouldn't part with a foot of my land if it could be helped," Monteagle confessed. "But times are bad, and I must let Swallows' Nest go.""It's a beautiful country," said Cardigan."Swallows' Nest is one of our prettiest bits," the squire said. "Just come and have a look at it. You can get a good view from the top of that field."The old farm-house was bathed in the mellow light of the October afternoon. A few late roses still lingered in the front garden, and clambered up the rough flint walls; and there were geraniums blooming on the ledges inside the porch. It was not a big house, by any means, and the latticed windows were small and mean. Looking down upon this dwelling, Cardigan only thought that it was not pretty enough to be set in such a lovely spot. It never occurred to him just then that it was a home."WITH A SAD HEART SHE WENT TO HER LATTICED WINDOW AND LEANED OUT INTO THE SOFT DARKNESS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHT.""Upon my word, Monteagle," said he suddenly, "I'm half inclined to buy the place myself. It would be easy enough to pull down that ugly little barn, and put up something really picturesque.""Quite easy," said the squire."I know exactly the sort of thing I should like to build there," Cardigan went on. "Nothing showy, you understand, but something that would harmonise with the surroundings. Well, Monteagle, we must talk the matter over."And the matter was talked over, and settled after dinner that very evening. Cardigan was not the man to worry about the price. The squire went up to his room that night with a lightened heart."I am sorry that the Bowers will have to turn out; that's the worst part of it," he said to his wife."Mrs. Bower and the girls are so nice," Letty answered. "And, oh, Alice Harper lives there, I was forgetting that! But they will easily find a place somewhere else, darling. It is such a relief to me to see that you have cheered up.""The money will just set me straight, Letty," said he.Ill news generally flies apace. The Monteagles' butler was one of Bower's old friends. A few days after the arrangement was made the farmer came in one evening with a downcast face."I couldn't have thought the squire would have done such a thing!" he cried. "He's sold the old place right over our heads! My father lived here, and my grandfather, and my great-grandfather. And now its going to be pulled down, and a new place'll be stuck up to please a chap who comes from nobody knows where!"Little Milly was listening with all her ears. She burst out crying, and ran at once into the next room to tell the doleful tidings to her sisters and Miss Harper.Ethel Bower lifted her fair Madonna face from her work, and stared at the child in surprise. Ada, dark-eyed and pretty, tossed her head and said she didn't believe a word of it. And Alice Harper, putting the finishing touches to Mrs. Monteagle's tea-gown, said very earnestly that she hoped it was not true. But before she went to bed that night she learnt that it was really true.With a sad heart she went to her latticed window and leaned out into the soft darkness of the autumn night. The air was full of those sweet earthy scents that breathed of home and rest. Under this peaceful roof she had found a safe refuge from the storms of life. A refuge, and something more. True hearts that turned to her for helpful love; young spirits trusting to her stronger spirit for that uplifting that she could give them. Simple souls, clinging in human fashion to the old walls that had sheltered them so long—must they be driven out to seek a new dwelling at a rich man's will?Then Alice knelt down and prayed with all her strength, lifting up her face to the eternal stars above her. She prayed that she, who had come a stranger to this dear old house, might bring a blessing under its protecting roof. Lonely and sad, with a scanty purse and a tired body, she had come to dwell with these people, to work with them, and share their life. And He who had led her there would surely help her to assist them in their hour of sorrow and need.She rose early next morning, and went downstairs to see sad faces at the breakfast-table. Just before the farmer went out to his daily tasks, it came into her head to ask him a question."Mr. Bower," she said, "did you hear the name of the person who has bought your farm?""Yes," he answered; "but it is a name not known to any of us. It's Cardigan. He's a young man, I'm told, who has come into a lot of money. The squire asked him to stay at the Hall, and it seems that he's taking a mighty fancy to the neighbourhood."Alice's heart began to throb fast. If Robert Cardigan were the man that Mary de Vigny thought him, it might be very easy to move his heart. But when, and in what manner, could this be done?Her brain was still busy with these thoughts while she was carefully folding up the tea-gown and packing it into a box to send it up to the Hall. It was carried to the house that very morning, and Mrs. Monteagle, when she took it out, was quite charmed with her new dressmaker's skill.When the men came in from the covers that afternoon, the squire's eyes took note of the pretty gown."Why, Letty," said he, "where did you get that original-looking thing."He spoke in an undertone, standing near her little tea-table, and looking at her with an amused smile. Cardigan came up at the moment to have his cup refilled, and caught her reply."Alice Harper made it. A wonderful woman, isn't she?"Had Alice Harper taken to dressmaking? Miss de Vigny had told him that she was working for herself. Later, he contrived to lead the conversation back to that tragedy which had been enacted, nearly three years ago, in Park Lane."I have often wondered," he said, "what became of poor Harper's daughter."(To be concluded.)

BySARAH DOUDNEY.

"I havenever been so happy before in all my life!" Alice said.

All around her was the common, seldom-heeded loveliness of an English lane in August.

A long colonnade of oaks barred the way with shadows. The bindweed hung its garlands of little leafy hearts across the hedges. The bramble showed an abundance of green fruit which would swell and turn black by-and-by; and among the ground-ivy and strawberry leaves a few poison-berries shone out brightly, like witches' jewels. This was the grassy road leading to Swallow's Nest, and Alice had loved it from the very first day when she came here with her luggage, just a fortnight ago.

The farmhouse was very old, and no one could ever remember a summer when the swallows had not built there. It was a place that did not change as other places do. The birds always knew that they should find a convenient shelter just under the roof of the ample porch. No matter how far they had flown, no matter what fairer scenes they had visited, they never failed to come back to this quiet English home.

Not only in the porch did they build, but under the eaves, in little nooks about the roof, in every place which would hold their funny nests, made of little lumps of clay artistically massed together. The house was haunted by shrill notes and glancing wings. You could not pass through the door without sending a swallow flying out into the sunlight.

They were not content merely with the outside of the old dwelling. Very often they flashed in through an open window and flew in circles round the room, chattering as they flew. Alice sometimes wished that she could understand that rapid bird-language, so full of hidden meanings and quick changes of expression. What a companion a swallow might be, if we could but interpret the wisdom that he brings!

Alice and her pupils were already getting plenty of work to do. She had dropped down, quite happily, into the middle of a very pleasant family who were all pulling one way—and that was a good way. But it took all her own good sense, and the judicious hints of Mrs. Bower, to reconcile her to making up the hideous materials brought by the surrounding neighbours. The crude reds and greens, the staring blues and yellows, filled her with disgust. And as she sauntered through the lane on a golden afternoon, she wondered why people did not study colour in the hedges.

Here was the delicate lilac of the wild geranium; here were the beautiful shades of olive and brown and buff so dear to an artist's eyes. Alice enjoyed them all; and drew in deep breaths of sweet-scented air, with a pitying remembrance of those who lived in the sickening atmosphere of heated London.

So the peaceful days went and came. Miss Harper's services became more and more in request, and by the time that the blackberries were ripe, she was employed by the "best families" in the neighbourhood.

One day a young lady trundled up to the gate in a pretty little pony-cart; and Ethel Bower, catching a glimpse of her through the open window, said in a low tone that it was Mrs. Monteagle.

"Our squire's wife," she added, as she went to the door. Alice, sitting among silks and cashmeres and tweeds, did not feel any special interest in the new-comer. But at the first sight of Mrs. Monteagle's pretty, piquant little face, she had a flash of remembrance.

The lady made just the slightest pause before speaking. Miss Harper, however, met her with grave politeness and an impassive face. So Mrs. Monteagle plunged into business at once, and explained that she wanted a really pretty tea-gown.

She had brought a parcel of soft rich silk, and plenty of delicate lace. Miss Harper examined and approved, and promised to execute the order in a week.

"Letty Foster always had good taste," she thought, as the cart trundled away, "And so she has married 'our squire.' Well, she will find that I, at any rate, can be utterly oblivious of our meetings elsewhere. It is quite a pleasure to make up such lovely silk as this; and I am really very much obliged to Mrs. Letty."

On the evening of the same day "Mrs. Letty" went to the door of her husband's dressing-room, just before dinner, and told him that she had made a discovery.

"Well, what have you discovered?" asked he. "Upon my word, I wish it was a pot of gold."

"It's not a pot of gold. It's a former acquaintance under the guise of a dressmaker!" cried Mrs. Monteagle gleefully. "It's Alice Harper, who used to live in Park Lane—Alice Harper, the daughter of that old company man who blew out his brains. Isn't it funny?"

"It doesn't strike me that it's funny when a man blows out his brains," said the squire. "I wish he hadn't done it. If he had lived I might have made him useful."

"What could he have done for you, Gerald?" asked Mrs. Monteagle, opening her eyes.

They stood fronting each other alone for a minute or two. She noticed that he had some deep lines on his face, and looked worn.

"Well, he could have got some money for me," said he simply. "I say, Letty, I don't want to bother you, but we must contrive to pull in a bit. Cardigan is coming here to-morrow. If I can, I shall get him to buy Swallow's Nest."

"Oh, the charming old farm! That's where Miss Harper is living," said his wife. "I am sorry that you must part with it. Yes, I will be very economical, dear. Mr. Cardigan is awfully rich, they say."

Robert Cardigan alighted at the little rural station in rather a gloomy mood. It is a truism that rich men are by no means the most cheerful; and Robert, perhaps, was feeling the embarrassment of wealth.

The squire's dog-cart was waiting, and, as he drove through the autumn lanes, the beauty of the country stole over him like a charm. He wished all at once that he could be a boy again, and go a-nutting in the deep woods. Monteagle, he thought, was a lucky man to own these acres of woodland, and these beautiful fields stretching away to ranges of quiet hills. It was the kind of country that he liked; neither wild nor grand, but just simply pastoral and sweet.

He hoped that he should not find a big house-party. Miss de Vigny had called him refreshingly natural, and it was certain that vanity was not his principal fault. But a man with many thousands a year is never left long in ignorance of his own importance. Cardigan had been hunted from pillar to post, pelted with showers of invitations, courted discreetly and indiscreetly, until he was weary of a life so over-sweet. What would he not have given for a true friend?

There was a certain face which rose up often in his memory; a girl's face, calm, and a little proud, with serious grey eyes. That girl had been always devising impossible plans for doing good to others. He had smiled while he listened to her earnest talk, and wondered how such notions could have got into the head of Harper's daughter.

He did not know what had become of her. Mary de Vigny seemed to know, but had not been disposed to say much. He wished now that he had plied the little maiden lady with questions. He would call on her, he thought, when he returned to town, and plainly ask her to tell him all about that girl.

To his relief he found that there were only a few people at Courland Hall.

The squire had been married only twelve months. He had chosen for a wife a thoughtless good-natured girl, with very little money. Letty had always been accustomed to rely to a great extent on her own brains when she was in want of a little extra finery. She had contrived to make a charming appearance on a small allowance. To marry Gerald Monteagle was, to her fancy, like coming into the possession of a gold mine.

She had begun by spending freely. Those few words, spoken in the dressing-room, had been the first hint of tightening the purse-strings. They had sobered her spirit, and brought her closer to her husband than she had ever been before.

No wedded pair can ever be perfectly united until they have passed out of the sunshine into the shade. When the sun goes down behind a bank of clouds, and a chill wind sighs across the roses, then the bride becomes the wife in real earnest, and creeps nearer to her husband's side. It is then that he discovers what a deep well of tenderness lies in the heart of the girl who was perhaps lightly wooed and easily won.

Letty's gaiety was just tinged with gravity, and Cardigan, who had thought to find her a mere trifler, liked her better than he had expected, and was ready to be a friend to the young couple. He went into the woods with the squire, and the two men grew intimate.

"I wouldn't part with a foot of my land if it could be helped," Monteagle confessed. "But times are bad, and I must let Swallows' Nest go."

"It's a beautiful country," said Cardigan.

"Swallows' Nest is one of our prettiest bits," the squire said. "Just come and have a look at it. You can get a good view from the top of that field."

The old farm-house was bathed in the mellow light of the October afternoon. A few late roses still lingered in the front garden, and clambered up the rough flint walls; and there were geraniums blooming on the ledges inside the porch. It was not a big house, by any means, and the latticed windows were small and mean. Looking down upon this dwelling, Cardigan only thought that it was not pretty enough to be set in such a lovely spot. It never occurred to him just then that it was a home.

"WITH A SAD HEART SHE WENT TO HER LATTICED WINDOW AND LEANED OUT INTO THE SOFT DARKNESS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHT."

"WITH A SAD HEART SHE WENT TO HER LATTICED WINDOW AND LEANED OUT INTO THE SOFT DARKNESS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHT."

"WITH A SAD HEART SHE WENT TO HER LATTICED WINDOW AND LEANED OUT INTO THE SOFT DARKNESS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHT."

"Upon my word, Monteagle," said he suddenly, "I'm half inclined to buy the place myself. It would be easy enough to pull down that ugly little barn, and put up something really picturesque."

"Quite easy," said the squire.

"I know exactly the sort of thing I should like to build there," Cardigan went on. "Nothing showy, you understand, but something that would harmonise with the surroundings. Well, Monteagle, we must talk the matter over."

And the matter was talked over, and settled after dinner that very evening. Cardigan was not the man to worry about the price. The squire went up to his room that night with a lightened heart.

"I am sorry that the Bowers will have to turn out; that's the worst part of it," he said to his wife.

"Mrs. Bower and the girls are so nice," Letty answered. "And, oh, Alice Harper lives there, I was forgetting that! But they will easily find a place somewhere else, darling. It is such a relief to me to see that you have cheered up."

"The money will just set me straight, Letty," said he.

Ill news generally flies apace. The Monteagles' butler was one of Bower's old friends. A few days after the arrangement was made the farmer came in one evening with a downcast face.

"I couldn't have thought the squire would have done such a thing!" he cried. "He's sold the old place right over our heads! My father lived here, and my grandfather, and my great-grandfather. And now its going to be pulled down, and a new place'll be stuck up to please a chap who comes from nobody knows where!"

Little Milly was listening with all her ears. She burst out crying, and ran at once into the next room to tell the doleful tidings to her sisters and Miss Harper.

Ethel Bower lifted her fair Madonna face from her work, and stared at the child in surprise. Ada, dark-eyed and pretty, tossed her head and said she didn't believe a word of it. And Alice Harper, putting the finishing touches to Mrs. Monteagle's tea-gown, said very earnestly that she hoped it was not true. But before she went to bed that night she learnt that it was really true.

With a sad heart she went to her latticed window and leaned out into the soft darkness of the autumn night. The air was full of those sweet earthy scents that breathed of home and rest. Under this peaceful roof she had found a safe refuge from the storms of life. A refuge, and something more. True hearts that turned to her for helpful love; young spirits trusting to her stronger spirit for that uplifting that she could give them. Simple souls, clinging in human fashion to the old walls that had sheltered them so long—must they be driven out to seek a new dwelling at a rich man's will?

Then Alice knelt down and prayed with all her strength, lifting up her face to the eternal stars above her. She prayed that she, who had come a stranger to this dear old house, might bring a blessing under its protecting roof. Lonely and sad, with a scanty purse and a tired body, she had come to dwell with these people, to work with them, and share their life. And He who had led her there would surely help her to assist them in their hour of sorrow and need.

She rose early next morning, and went downstairs to see sad faces at the breakfast-table. Just before the farmer went out to his daily tasks, it came into her head to ask him a question.

"Mr. Bower," she said, "did you hear the name of the person who has bought your farm?"

"Yes," he answered; "but it is a name not known to any of us. It's Cardigan. He's a young man, I'm told, who has come into a lot of money. The squire asked him to stay at the Hall, and it seems that he's taking a mighty fancy to the neighbourhood."

Alice's heart began to throb fast. If Robert Cardigan were the man that Mary de Vigny thought him, it might be very easy to move his heart. But when, and in what manner, could this be done?

Her brain was still busy with these thoughts while she was carefully folding up the tea-gown and packing it into a box to send it up to the Hall. It was carried to the house that very morning, and Mrs. Monteagle, when she took it out, was quite charmed with her new dressmaker's skill.

When the men came in from the covers that afternoon, the squire's eyes took note of the pretty gown.

"Why, Letty," said he, "where did you get that original-looking thing."

He spoke in an undertone, standing near her little tea-table, and looking at her with an amused smile. Cardigan came up at the moment to have his cup refilled, and caught her reply.

"Alice Harper made it. A wonderful woman, isn't she?"

Had Alice Harper taken to dressmaking? Miss de Vigny had told him that she was working for herself. Later, he contrived to lead the conversation back to that tragedy which had been enacted, nearly three years ago, in Park Lane.

"I have often wondered," he said, "what became of poor Harper's daughter."

(To be concluded.)

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.CHAPTER I.INTRODUCES THE HOUSEHOLD.Ona raw, foggy-looking morning in November, three happy-looking girls sat in their cosy little sitting-room, taking their breakfast by lamplight. Neither the bitter weather, nor the fact that it was only eight o'clock on a winter morning, had power to damp their spirits. Their lives were much too full and occupied for any time to be given to depression. The tall, handsome girl of eighteen, with the brilliant complexion and nut-brown hair is Jane Orlingbury, the slighter one who sits at the side of the table near the fire is her sister Ada, the elder by five years. They are both eating their early breakfasts with hearty appetites, and quickly too, for there is not much time to lose. Ada is a type-writer in a very good office in the City. She has got on so well that she is earning £100 a year. Jane is a cookery teacher in a distant parish, and she must start off with her sister, for although her work does not begin so early as Ada's, who is due at her office at nine o'clock, she has a good way to go, and the marketing for her classes to do before she starts work at ten o'clock. The bright-eyed little woman at the head of the table, who is pouring out the coffee, is Marion Thomas. In appearance she presents a marked contrast to the two sisters, for she is short, plump, and dark. She lives with them, and does the housekeeping of the joint establishment and nearly all the cooking. If it were not for Marion, Ada laughingly tells their friends, it is more than probable that she and Jane, who come back in the evening rather tired and certainly disinclined for housework, would live altogether on tea, eggs, and toast, as some flippant individual once remarked that all women would be sure to do if left entirely to themselves. The Orlingburys and the Thomases all lived in the same little village in Nottinghamshire. About a year and a half ago the Orlingburys' home was broken up when their father died. The two girls warehoused their little stock of furniture, and spent some of the little capital that was left them in training to earn their own living, and as they had no relations with whom they could conveniently live, they stayed in a boarding-house while Ada was at Pitman's and Jane going backwards and forwards to the cookery-school. But they both felt a great lack of cosiness about the arrangement, and they were more than thankful when their old friend Marion, who had come to town a little time before them, and was staying with some cousins in Norland Square whilst she worked up a connection of music pupils, arranged to come and live with them.Three months before our story begins they had taken unfurnished apartments in a little house in West Hampstead, for which they paid fifteen shillings a week. These consisted of a nice little sitting-room, a moderate-sized bedroom for the sisters and a small one for Marion, and a little room on the floor above the sitting-room, which had been fitted up as a kitchen, and the glories of which we will reveal later. They all made their own beds, and dusted their rooms before breakfast. On alternate weeks they took it in turns to get up half an hour earlier, dust the sitting-room, and lay and prepare the breakfast, for which everything was put ready overnight. The breakfast generally consisted of ham, brawn, pressed beef, or something similar. If any cooking had to be done, it was something that was finished very quickly, such as fried bacon or scrambled eggs.Most of the furniture in the rooms belonged to the Orlingburys; they had brought it from their old home, so there was very little to buy. Marion was not an orphan, as they were; she was one of a very large family, and her father was a hardworking doctor. She was an excellent pianist and a clever housekeeper, for she and her sisters all had to help at home.She was sorry to leave her country home, but her parents were quite willing for her to do so, as there was little opportunity in their remote village for her to make practical use of her musical talent, which had been excellently cultivated. Marion had thirty pounds a year of her own that had been left her by her godmother, and she earned sixty pounds a year by her music pupils. As she taught only in the afternoons, her mornings were free for domestic matters.Some of Jane's friends asked her once why she did not do the cooking instead of Marion, as she was duly qualified, but she declared that she had so much to do with food all the day long that she felt very disinclined to have to do with it after she got back in the evenings, whereas Marion had always been accustomed in her own home to spend her mornings in this manner, and she did not mind at all. In fact, the suggestion was Marion's own. Jane nearly always helped Marion in the final preparations, however, as we shall see. The friends had now been living together for three months, and the arrangement may be said to have answered in every way, for they were still on just as good terms as when they first set up house together."This ham toast is delicious, Jenny," said Ada. "You may make us some more whenever you feel inclined; but you must own you were lucky to have had Marion to cut it all up for you yesterday. Do you think you would have had the energy to do it all yourself this morning if she had not, or should we have had to eat the remains of the ham in all its bare coldness?""Don't tease, Jenny; I won't have it," laughed Marion. "I don't mind preparing the ham toast the least in the world. It is so seldom that we have anything for breakfast that needs more than five minutes cooking, and it would have been such a pity not to have ham toast when the opportunity came.""Are you ever going to let Abigail do any of your cooking?" asked Ada. "Give us fair warning if you do, or, at all events, do not allow her to have too much scope for startling innovations."At this the others laughed. Abigail was a girl of thirteen from the National School in the next street. She was a "half-timer." That is to say, she had only to spend half her time at school, either morning or afternoon, as she preferred. So she came from eight to nine every morning to brush the floors and wash up, and on every alternate morning she stayed until twelve o'clock and turned out a room, Marion superintending her work and giving her such help as she could spare from her cooking. Abigail was provided with breakfast, consisting of cocoa and bread and butter, and on days when she turned out a room she had dinner at twelve o'clock. Then she went home. She went to school in the afternoons, and at half-past six came back to "The Rowans," as the little house where the three friends lived was called (in honour of a mountain-ash in the front garden), to lay the table, dish up the seven o'clock dinner, clear away, wash up, and put everything ready for the next morning. Abigail's wages were two shillings and sixpence a week. Dinner was always over by a quarter past seven."I have not seen any signs of culinary genius at present," said Marion, "so I do not think you need fear for the present. In the meantime, have you two girls had enough? I must insist on your eating good breakfasts.""Don't you begin to scold us, Mrs. Housekeeper," cried Jenny. "What about the lunches that you eat? You let out some shocking facts about some biscuits and a glass of milk the other day. I shall bribe the hand-maiden to watch you and see that you take proper care of yourself."Marion meekly promised to be constant in her attentions to the brawn or similar solid dainties, and the two sisters, who by this time had finished their breakfasts and put on their things, kissed their friend affectionately and set off.Marion helped Abigail to wash up the breakfast things, and then set her to work in the sitting-room. Abigail's full name was Susannah Abigail Bellamy."Please, ma'am, we call 'er 'Susie' at 'ome," said her mother when Marion went to engage her, but the Orlingburys thought the name "Abigail" such a delicious one for a little housemaid that they insisted on using it, and Abigail grinned delightedly.Ada and Marion had provided her with neat print dresses and good serviceable aprons, and Jenny had prevailed upon her to put back the larger portion of a very unbecoming fringe, and had even managed to get her to do her hair so that it did not stick out in tufts.When Abigail had got to work, Marion did her marketing, bringing most of the things back with her in a wonderful marketing-basket, and then she went to her kitchen. This, as we have said, was a little room on the floor above the sitting-room. Just outside was a housemaid's sink, which was very useful, as Marion had no scullery. A nice gas-stove had been fitted up on the "penny-in-the-slot" system which the gas company did free of cost, and by this all the cooking was done. Gas for five hours could be had by putting in a penny; if it was not wanted for five hours right off, the rest of the same pennyworth could be used next time cooking was to be done. This arrangement was very economical and formed their only gas bill, for they used a lamp in their sitting-room and candles in the bed-rooms. The gas bill was under a shilling a week.Two shelves went all round the walls, one above the other, with nails in the edge for hanging jugs, measures, the dredger, and the grater. The shelves served instead of a dresser. A very small kitchen table stood just by the window, with two drawers in it. In one of these the tea and glass cloths in use were kept, and in the other the knives and forks.The iron and wooden spoons used in cooking were kept in a box on the shelves. By its side the paste-board and rolling-pin might be seen, the latter a good straight thick one that rolled very evenly. The dripping-tins, baking-tins, baking-sheet, and meat-rack were on the shelves as well, and also the small dinner-service of which the establishment boasted.Under the shelves on one side was a cupboard, which Marion now proceeded to unlock. On the top shelf of this was a row of coloured tins, containing tea, coffee, brown sugar, loaf sugar, rice, lentils, tapioca, and sultanas, several jars of jam (which had been sent them from the country), a packet of corn-flour, and a few other things. On the lower shelf were kept all cleaning materials, soap, soda, sand, emery, and house-flannel, and a spare scrubbing-brush.Fortunately there was a cupboard under the stairs in which the housemaid's box with its blacking-brushes and the zinc pail and pan used for scrubbing and washing up could be kept. And on this cupboard Marion kept an sharp eye, and saw that it was kept very clean and the zinc pans well rinsed with hot water and soda after being used to prevent their getting greasy. The six enamel saucepans of varying sizes stood on a tripod stand in one corner.The fittings up of the little kitchen were all new when the three friends started housekeeping, and it was economically managed, as the following account will show—£s.d.Two small enamel saucepans at 8½d. and 6½d.013Two medium ditto at 1s. 2d. and 1s. 4d.026Two enamel stewpans at 1s. 9d. and 2s.039One paste-board019One rolling-pin010One dripping-tin008One dripping-tin with meat-rack010One baking-sheet008Three pint pie-dishes at 3¾d.0011¼Two large basins at 6½d.011Three pudding-basins at 2d., 4d. and 6d.010Three wooden spoons at 1d.003Three iron spoons003Flour dredger008½Fine wire sieve019½Enamel omelette-pan006½Small iron frying-pan0010Enamel pint and half-pint measures, 4½d. and 6½d.0011Three jugs, quart, one and a half pints, and pint (to hold)019Weights and scales0146Set of skewers004½Tin fish-kettle086£260¼The pretty dinner-service that they used belonged to the Orlingburys, and the tea-service was Marion's. The tea-service and the tumblers and wine-glasses were kept in a cupboard in the sitting-room. The house-linen was kept in a cupboard on the landing outside the Orlingburys' bed-room. A good deal of it they had brought with them and the rest had been lent to the establishment by Mrs. Thomas, Marion's mother.Coals were only needed for the sitting-room fire, as the three hardy country girls never indulged in such a luxury as a fire in their bed-rooms, and they found that half a ton of coals lasted them for six weeks.Marion arranged her cooking so as to have as little as possible to do just before the dinner was served. For instance, on days when they had soup it would be made in the morning and warmed up at dinner-time; pies and milk puddings the same. Fish would be filleted, egged, and crumbed, ready to be fried at the last minute; and so would rissoles or cutlets. As there were only three of them, they never had big joints. Stews and curries were made early and warmed up; also such dishes as macaroni cheese.By eleven o'clock Marion had generally done her cooking, and was free to read or work until two, when she went to her pupils. She came back at six o'clock, having had afternoon tea in the course of her work, and by that time the Orlingburys were back as well. She and Jane finished the preparations for dinner between them, and at half-past six Abigail returned to dish up and wait at table.(To be continued.)

ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

INTRODUCES THE HOUSEHOLD.

Ona raw, foggy-looking morning in November, three happy-looking girls sat in their cosy little sitting-room, taking their breakfast by lamplight. Neither the bitter weather, nor the fact that it was only eight o'clock on a winter morning, had power to damp their spirits. Their lives were much too full and occupied for any time to be given to depression. The tall, handsome girl of eighteen, with the brilliant complexion and nut-brown hair is Jane Orlingbury, the slighter one who sits at the side of the table near the fire is her sister Ada, the elder by five years. They are both eating their early breakfasts with hearty appetites, and quickly too, for there is not much time to lose. Ada is a type-writer in a very good office in the City. She has got on so well that she is earning £100 a year. Jane is a cookery teacher in a distant parish, and she must start off with her sister, for although her work does not begin so early as Ada's, who is due at her office at nine o'clock, she has a good way to go, and the marketing for her classes to do before she starts work at ten o'clock. The bright-eyed little woman at the head of the table, who is pouring out the coffee, is Marion Thomas. In appearance she presents a marked contrast to the two sisters, for she is short, plump, and dark. She lives with them, and does the housekeeping of the joint establishment and nearly all the cooking. If it were not for Marion, Ada laughingly tells their friends, it is more than probable that she and Jane, who come back in the evening rather tired and certainly disinclined for housework, would live altogether on tea, eggs, and toast, as some flippant individual once remarked that all women would be sure to do if left entirely to themselves. The Orlingburys and the Thomases all lived in the same little village in Nottinghamshire. About a year and a half ago the Orlingburys' home was broken up when their father died. The two girls warehoused their little stock of furniture, and spent some of the little capital that was left them in training to earn their own living, and as they had no relations with whom they could conveniently live, they stayed in a boarding-house while Ada was at Pitman's and Jane going backwards and forwards to the cookery-school. But they both felt a great lack of cosiness about the arrangement, and they were more than thankful when their old friend Marion, who had come to town a little time before them, and was staying with some cousins in Norland Square whilst she worked up a connection of music pupils, arranged to come and live with them.

Three months before our story begins they had taken unfurnished apartments in a little house in West Hampstead, for which they paid fifteen shillings a week. These consisted of a nice little sitting-room, a moderate-sized bedroom for the sisters and a small one for Marion, and a little room on the floor above the sitting-room, which had been fitted up as a kitchen, and the glories of which we will reveal later. They all made their own beds, and dusted their rooms before breakfast. On alternate weeks they took it in turns to get up half an hour earlier, dust the sitting-room, and lay and prepare the breakfast, for which everything was put ready overnight. The breakfast generally consisted of ham, brawn, pressed beef, or something similar. If any cooking had to be done, it was something that was finished very quickly, such as fried bacon or scrambled eggs.

Most of the furniture in the rooms belonged to the Orlingburys; they had brought it from their old home, so there was very little to buy. Marion was not an orphan, as they were; she was one of a very large family, and her father was a hardworking doctor. She was an excellent pianist and a clever housekeeper, for she and her sisters all had to help at home.She was sorry to leave her country home, but her parents were quite willing for her to do so, as there was little opportunity in their remote village for her to make practical use of her musical talent, which had been excellently cultivated. Marion had thirty pounds a year of her own that had been left her by her godmother, and she earned sixty pounds a year by her music pupils. As she taught only in the afternoons, her mornings were free for domestic matters.

Some of Jane's friends asked her once why she did not do the cooking instead of Marion, as she was duly qualified, but she declared that she had so much to do with food all the day long that she felt very disinclined to have to do with it after she got back in the evenings, whereas Marion had always been accustomed in her own home to spend her mornings in this manner, and she did not mind at all. In fact, the suggestion was Marion's own. Jane nearly always helped Marion in the final preparations, however, as we shall see. The friends had now been living together for three months, and the arrangement may be said to have answered in every way, for they were still on just as good terms as when they first set up house together.

"This ham toast is delicious, Jenny," said Ada. "You may make us some more whenever you feel inclined; but you must own you were lucky to have had Marion to cut it all up for you yesterday. Do you think you would have had the energy to do it all yourself this morning if she had not, or should we have had to eat the remains of the ham in all its bare coldness?"

"Don't tease, Jenny; I won't have it," laughed Marion. "I don't mind preparing the ham toast the least in the world. It is so seldom that we have anything for breakfast that needs more than five minutes cooking, and it would have been such a pity not to have ham toast when the opportunity came."

"Are you ever going to let Abigail do any of your cooking?" asked Ada. "Give us fair warning if you do, or, at all events, do not allow her to have too much scope for startling innovations."

At this the others laughed. Abigail was a girl of thirteen from the National School in the next street. She was a "half-timer." That is to say, she had only to spend half her time at school, either morning or afternoon, as she preferred. So she came from eight to nine every morning to brush the floors and wash up, and on every alternate morning she stayed until twelve o'clock and turned out a room, Marion superintending her work and giving her such help as she could spare from her cooking. Abigail was provided with breakfast, consisting of cocoa and bread and butter, and on days when she turned out a room she had dinner at twelve o'clock. Then she went home. She went to school in the afternoons, and at half-past six came back to "The Rowans," as the little house where the three friends lived was called (in honour of a mountain-ash in the front garden), to lay the table, dish up the seven o'clock dinner, clear away, wash up, and put everything ready for the next morning. Abigail's wages were two shillings and sixpence a week. Dinner was always over by a quarter past seven.

"I have not seen any signs of culinary genius at present," said Marion, "so I do not think you need fear for the present. In the meantime, have you two girls had enough? I must insist on your eating good breakfasts."

"Don't you begin to scold us, Mrs. Housekeeper," cried Jenny. "What about the lunches that you eat? You let out some shocking facts about some biscuits and a glass of milk the other day. I shall bribe the hand-maiden to watch you and see that you take proper care of yourself."

Marion meekly promised to be constant in her attentions to the brawn or similar solid dainties, and the two sisters, who by this time had finished their breakfasts and put on their things, kissed their friend affectionately and set off.

Marion helped Abigail to wash up the breakfast things, and then set her to work in the sitting-room. Abigail's full name was Susannah Abigail Bellamy.

"Please, ma'am, we call 'er 'Susie' at 'ome," said her mother when Marion went to engage her, but the Orlingburys thought the name "Abigail" such a delicious one for a little housemaid that they insisted on using it, and Abigail grinned delightedly.

Ada and Marion had provided her with neat print dresses and good serviceable aprons, and Jenny had prevailed upon her to put back the larger portion of a very unbecoming fringe, and had even managed to get her to do her hair so that it did not stick out in tufts.

When Abigail had got to work, Marion did her marketing, bringing most of the things back with her in a wonderful marketing-basket, and then she went to her kitchen. This, as we have said, was a little room on the floor above the sitting-room. Just outside was a housemaid's sink, which was very useful, as Marion had no scullery. A nice gas-stove had been fitted up on the "penny-in-the-slot" system which the gas company did free of cost, and by this all the cooking was done. Gas for five hours could be had by putting in a penny; if it was not wanted for five hours right off, the rest of the same pennyworth could be used next time cooking was to be done. This arrangement was very economical and formed their only gas bill, for they used a lamp in their sitting-room and candles in the bed-rooms. The gas bill was under a shilling a week.

Two shelves went all round the walls, one above the other, with nails in the edge for hanging jugs, measures, the dredger, and the grater. The shelves served instead of a dresser. A very small kitchen table stood just by the window, with two drawers in it. In one of these the tea and glass cloths in use were kept, and in the other the knives and forks.

The iron and wooden spoons used in cooking were kept in a box on the shelves. By its side the paste-board and rolling-pin might be seen, the latter a good straight thick one that rolled very evenly. The dripping-tins, baking-tins, baking-sheet, and meat-rack were on the shelves as well, and also the small dinner-service of which the establishment boasted.

Under the shelves on one side was a cupboard, which Marion now proceeded to unlock. On the top shelf of this was a row of coloured tins, containing tea, coffee, brown sugar, loaf sugar, rice, lentils, tapioca, and sultanas, several jars of jam (which had been sent them from the country), a packet of corn-flour, and a few other things. On the lower shelf were kept all cleaning materials, soap, soda, sand, emery, and house-flannel, and a spare scrubbing-brush.

Fortunately there was a cupboard under the stairs in which the housemaid's box with its blacking-brushes and the zinc pail and pan used for scrubbing and washing up could be kept. And on this cupboard Marion kept an sharp eye, and saw that it was kept very clean and the zinc pans well rinsed with hot water and soda after being used to prevent their getting greasy. The six enamel saucepans of varying sizes stood on a tripod stand in one corner.

The fittings up of the little kitchen were all new when the three friends started housekeeping, and it was economically managed, as the following account will show—

£s.d.Two small enamel saucepans at 8½d. and 6½d.013Two medium ditto at 1s. 2d. and 1s. 4d.026Two enamel stewpans at 1s. 9d. and 2s.039One paste-board019One rolling-pin010One dripping-tin008One dripping-tin with meat-rack010One baking-sheet008Three pint pie-dishes at 3¾d.0011¼Two large basins at 6½d.011Three pudding-basins at 2d., 4d. and 6d.010Three wooden spoons at 1d.003Three iron spoons003Flour dredger008½Fine wire sieve019½Enamel omelette-pan006½Small iron frying-pan0010Enamel pint and half-pint measures, 4½d. and 6½d.0011Three jugs, quart, one and a half pints, and pint (to hold)019Weights and scales0146Set of skewers004½Tin fish-kettle086£260¼

The pretty dinner-service that they used belonged to the Orlingburys, and the tea-service was Marion's. The tea-service and the tumblers and wine-glasses were kept in a cupboard in the sitting-room. The house-linen was kept in a cupboard on the landing outside the Orlingburys' bed-room. A good deal of it they had brought with them and the rest had been lent to the establishment by Mrs. Thomas, Marion's mother.

Coals were only needed for the sitting-room fire, as the three hardy country girls never indulged in such a luxury as a fire in their bed-rooms, and they found that half a ton of coals lasted them for six weeks.

Marion arranged her cooking so as to have as little as possible to do just before the dinner was served. For instance, on days when they had soup it would be made in the morning and warmed up at dinner-time; pies and milk puddings the same. Fish would be filleted, egged, and crumbed, ready to be fried at the last minute; and so would rissoles or cutlets. As there were only three of them, they never had big joints. Stews and curries were made early and warmed up; also such dishes as macaroni cheese.

By eleven o'clock Marion had generally done her cooking, and was free to read or work until two, when she went to her pupils. She came back at six o'clock, having had afternoon tea in the course of her work, and by that time the Orlingburys were back as well. She and Jane finished the preparations for dinner between them, and at half-past six Abigail returned to dish up and wait at table.

(To be continued.)

OUR LILY GARDEN;PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES.Everyperson needs some form of hobby—something to employ his time when the work of day is over. The mind wants some kind of recreation from the worries of business cares. We have felt this want, but we found that when we came to consider what our hobby should be many difficulties presented themselves.Lilium Giganteum.Lilium Cordifolium.In the first place, we wanted a hobby which would really interest and instruct us; one which would tell us something which we would be glad to know. Secondly, as our lives are spent in the heart of London, we wanted some form of recreation which would prove healthful and invigorating. We can find but one amusement which fulfils this last necessity, and that is the study of natural history.But natural history is a very large subject, and we have not the time to study all its branches. We must decide on one branch. And here the great difficulty occurred. Which branch shall we take up? Well, after discussing the various pros and cons of the subject we at length determined upon gardening. But gardening is a very hackneyed subject, and besides, it has too wide a scope. Let us decide to cultivate one family or genus of plants. But which shall it be? Let us think. We do not want to grow vegetables; we want flowers. Shall we say roses? No, we have numbers of roses already, and besides, our country garden is in the most sandy part of Surrey, the very worst soil for many kinds of roses. Well, shall we try lilies? Ah, why not? No one, we know, gives special attention to lilies. Yes; let us decide upon lilies.You see, there are so few lilies that we can easily grow them all! Why, we only know of five or six different kinds, and are quite sure that there cannot be very many other varieties! Fond delusion! There are not only five, nor fifty, different varieties of lilies; there are over one hundred and twenty varieties known to botanists. This was rather a damper to our enthusiasm, but on further consideration we congratulated ourselves upon this discovery. For if there are one hundred and twenty distinct varieties of lilies, and only some half-a-dozen kinds are well known, what a chance there is for us to do something original!How splendid it would be to be able to grow lilies which not one person in a thousand has ever seen! With what pride could we show to our friends a beautiful garden filled with magnificent flowers, not one of which they had ever seen before. What interest will this spirit of adventure lend to an otherwise tame recreation! Yes; lilies are the plants for us. Yes, and we hope that we can instil into the reader an enthusiasm for growing lilies.Most rare plants are curious rather than beautiful, and nothing palls so much as curiosity alone. But the little known lilies are beautiful; they are among the most magnificent flowers that grow. Have you ever seen a row of stately Madonna lilies in an old cottage-garden? Is it not a sight to remember throughout your life? The beauty of its pure white flower, with which the bright yellow of its anthers forms such a striking contrast, renders this lily one of the most delightful of all flowers.And then its scent, filling the air for yards around on a still, warm evening at the end of July! Or, if later in the summer, while strolling in a large, well-kept garden in the evening of a fierce day in August, you have beheld, in a shady nook, a clump of the magnificent "Golden Lily of Japan"[A]standing as high as yourself, with its small leaves and crown of immense white blossoms, striped and spotted with gold, and have recognised the luscious scent exhaled from the blossoms, you will no longer wonder at the enthusiasm of the lily-grower. For many of the almost unknown lilies are quite as beautiful as these.We were pleased to find that most of the lilies are but little known, but we were destined to find that this same fact had its own particular disadvantages. We found difficulties which were by no means trivial. Lilies will not grow of themselves. Like most plants which bear blossoms out of proportionto their leaves, lilies are rather difficult to cultivate. If you merely stick the bulbs in the ground, the chances are that they will either be eaten by slugs or die. Again, not all the one hundred and twenty kinds of lilies want the same treatment. Coming, as they do, from every part of the northern temperate zone of the earth, some from the vast mountains of the Himalayas, others from the plains of India, and others from the woodlands of Japan or the swamps of North America, lilies will not all grow in the same soil or situation. Each wants its own particular treatment, and if this is denied it, failure must of necessity follow. But when we consider the different habits and habitats of this wonderful genus of plants, it is astonishing that, with the exception of two or three kinds, all the lilies are hardy in our English gardens. Although this family of flowers has the name amongst gardeners for being unsatisfactory and difficult to grow, we have found the reverse to be true, and that, if their few requirements are attended to, you need not fear disappointment.Suppose this day is the 1st of November. We are going to-day to a sale of lily bulbs. What lilies shall we get? How shall we choose our bulbs? What price ought we to pay for them? Let us glance through our gardening books and see. What do these books tell us? Nothing whatever! Or rather nothing which is of any value. You will find so little information about lilies in books on gardening, and that little is so full of errors, that it is best to ignore it altogether, except in the case of lilies which are commonly cultivated. And there is no practical book upon lilies alone before the public. Elwes'Monograph of the Genus Liliumis a good book in its way, and the plates are excellent, but the information is much too scanty, and it is also out of date. As this book is not published by any house, is out of print, and is very rarely met with, and as its price is about £12, we may well say that this volume is impracticable. Wallace's little volume onLilies and Their Cultureis twenty years old. There is practically no satisfactory book about lilies, and it is to fill this blank that we write these papers. Our knowledge of the subject is mainly the result of actual experience, for we have grown eighty-seven distinct varieties of lilies, to which is added a little information obtained from books tested by ourselves, and a good many valuable hints derived from gardeners and others who have devoted some of their time to the study of these plants.Determination will solve nearly all difficulties. We have been to the sale and bought our lilies; now how are we to grow them? In pots? In the ground? Will they grow out of doors, or must they be kept in the greenhouse? When we first took up our hobby we could not have answered these questions, but we can do so now, for we have found out these points for ourselves, and are more than satisfied with our results.Upon arriving at the conclusion, that if we wished to cultivate lilies we must find out all about them, we got a large note-book, and therein we kept a record of the year's work. We will describe this book a little later in the year, when we will not be so busy in the garden.For the lily grower, November is one of the busiest months in the whole year. It is during this month that most of the planting should be done, for though lily bulbs are perhaps better planted a month or two earlier than this, they are exceedingly difficult to obtain until November has begun.If you wish to grow lilies, the first necessity is to obtain your bulbs. You can grow lilies from seed, and we will explain how to do this later, but for a beginner it is a most tedious and unsatisfactory proceeding. Whichever way you may grow lilies when you thoroughly know them, commence by growing them from bulbs only. Well, we must get these bulbs, and how are we to obtain them? We can either go to a seedsman and buy what we choose, or we can obtain our lilies from public auction-rooms. Both methods have their advantages, and both have their disadvantages. If you go to the seedsman you can buy all your bulbs at once, you can make your choice, and you need buy but one lily of each species. But you will have to pay high, often fancy prices for them, and you can never be sure that the bulbs are fresh. On the other hand, in the auction-room you usually must get a large number of one variety, and you cannot obtain all kinds at the same auction. But you will have but a small price to pay, in fact, only the current market price of the day. You will usually find that the bulbs are fresh, and when you know how to choose bulbs you will be able to secure first-rate articles for your money.LILY BULBS. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1.Lilium Umbellatum.2.Lilium Auratum(small but good bulb).3. Bulb and rhizome ofLilium Canadense.4. Bulb ofLilium Wallacei.5. Bulb ofLilium Roezlii.6. Bulb ofLilium Hansoni.7. Bulb ofLilium Humboldti.The next question which you will ask is, "How much ought to be paid for the bulbs?" The bulbs vary much in price from several causes. Of course the price of one kind of lily is very different from that of another kind. For instance, bulbs ofLilium Davuricumcan be purchased at an auction for half-a-crown a dozen, whereas you will have to pay about a sovereign for a moderately good bulb ofLilium Dalhansoni. Again, the bulbs vary in price according to their size and condition;Lilium Auratumbulbs cost from fourpence to half-a-crown each. The time of year also greatly influences the price of lily bulbs. Last May we bought twenty-five bulbs ofLilium Auratumfor a shilling. Six months previous, these same bulbs would have fetched about twenty-five shillings. Then the price varies much in different years owing to the success of the growers in Holland or Japan. For theguidance of our reader we will give some average prices for a few lilies.Lilium Brownii, ten for nine shillings.Lilium Longiflorum(several varieties) from two to five shillings for ten.Lilium Auratumabout four shillings for ten.Lilium Giganteum, nine shillings for a single bulb.Lilium Tigrinum,Candidum,Calcedonicum,Pyranaicum,Speciosum, andElegans, from four to six shillings a dozen.BULBS OFLilium CandidumOR MADONNA LILY. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1. Good sound bulb showing one crown.2. Bulb showing two crowns.3. Mammoth bulb.4. Young bulb of two years' growth.5 and 6. Bulblets removed from No. 1.(From photographs of fresh bulbs exhumed in August. The roots have been left entire.)We said that lily bulbs are very much cheaper at the end of the season than they are in October or November, and some persons might be tempted to put off buying their bulbs till March or April. But this is a great mistake, for very few of such bulbs ever live to flower.The greatest difficulty in lily culture is to know how to choose the bulbs. There are so many ways in which the unwary may be "done," that many persons give up growing lilies from the constant disappointment which results from their ignorance of how to choose good, sound, flowering bulbs.Lily bulbs vary a good deal in appearance and size, but there are certain qualities by which the value of any bulb can be more or less accurately determined. All the bulbs should be of moderate size for the species; very firm and compact; fresh and not withered; not broken; showing one or two points from which the shoot will appear (they should not show the flower spike itself); well ripened; not in any way attacked by vermin, or spotted by mildew, and if possible home grown.We said lily bulbs should be of moderate size. No point is more misleading or less important than this question of size. Mere size goes for nothing! Some of the "mammoth" bulbs ofauratum, so much advertised by nurserymen, often send up a miserable spike of flower-buds which wither ere the flowers open. We think that we know what is the cause of so many large bulbs going wrong. If the buds of a lily be cut off, the bulb increases enormously in size, and next year sends up a very superior shoot bearing many fine blossoms. Lily growers often cut off the flower buds from their lilies so as to improve the bulbs. These large bulbs are excellent. But the bulbs greatly increase in size if the plant does not flower for a year. Even if the whole plant dies from drought (a very common cause of failure with lilies), or if the roots are destroyed by vermin or by disease, the bulbs often become enormous. These large bulbs rarely do well, as the disease which killed their shoots the first year will probably do so again the second year.Good bulbs are very firm and compact. This is much more important than that they should be large. We would rather have a small, compact, but heavy bulb than a light bulb with wide open scales, even though it be twice the size of the smaller bulb.Always choose bulbs which are fresh and plump. Bulbs which have been kept one or two years out of the ground very rarely blossom or, indeed, come up at all. Such bulbs may be recognised by the outside scales being dry and withered. Always choose bulbs which are entire, if you can. But it is not very important that the bulbs should be perfect. We have done very well with bulbs which have lost the majority of their outer scales. Beware of purchasing bulbs which have begun to grow. Bulbs must be planted in the dormant condition. If you plant a bulb which has already thrown up an inch or two of flower-spike, the chances are that it will form no root, and that the stem will wither ere the flowering period arrives.Unfortunately we have no way of telling whether bulbs are thoroughly ripened. Many bulbs, especially those ofLilium Auratum, come over from Japan, which, though they look perfectly sound and healthy, never live to flower. This is due in part to the bulbs having been sent from abroad in an immature state. Foreign bulbs purchased in July, August or September, must either be immature, or else rubbish left over from last year.Examine the outer scales of the bulbs for little worms or mildew spots, and do not purchase any which show either of these parasites.We are always told that lilies give greater satisfaction if grown from bulbs which have been established in England for some years. You should, therefore, choose these in place of those imported from Japan or Holland. English bulbs are, however, a little dearer than imported bulbs.There is a popular delusion that you can grow lilies in sand. You cannot do so. All lilies require a rich soil; many require peat, and some excel only when grown in earth strongly enriched with manure.The question of soil for lilies is an important one, and, as it is in general overlooked, we will carefully describe in tabular form the soils suitable for various lilies. For this purpose we will divide lilies into various classes dependent upon what soil they require.Class 1.—Lilies which will grow in any good soil:Tigrinum,Bulbiferum,Croceum,Davuricum,Elegans,Hansoni,Henryi, etc.Class 2.—Lilies which require a moderately light soil with a slight admixture of peat and leaf mould:Auratum,Speciosum,Longiflorum,Krameri,Brownii,Japonicum odorum, etc.Class 3.—Lilies which want a heavy loam, well enriched and of good depth:Cordifolium,Wallichianum,Candidum,Washingtonianum,Humboldti,Martagon,Testaceum,Calcedonicum, etc.Class 4.—Lilies which require a large admixture of peat and leaf mould with plenty of sharp sand:Canadense,Superbum,Pardalinum,Roezlii,Leichtlini,Philadelphicum, etc.Class 5.—Lilies that want a very rich soil with large quantities of well rotted manure and leaf mould of great depth:Giganteum,Monodephum.As a matter of fact many lilies will grow in two or three different kinds of soil. We have only given the form of culture by which we have ourselves obtained, or friends have obtained, the best results.Position is of first importance in the cultivation of lilies. All kinds like partial shade, but not a position overhung with trees. It is best to plant them in a place where they can get the full sun for two or three hours daily, but where they are sheltered from the sun at midday. The position chosen should be well drained, preferably on the slope of a hill, and protected from high winds which can do very serious damage to plants which grow to such a height as these.The best position in which to plant lilies is a bed devoted to azaleas, rhododendrons, or other shrubs. These protect the bulbs from severe frost in winter and shelter the young shoots from the high winds in spring. Moreover the soil which suits rhododendrons—a peaty leaf mould—is also an admirable soil for many lilies.We planted a number of lily bulbs among beds of pinks last year, thinking that this situation would afford all that was required. But, alas! we had forgotten an enemy, of which you will hear more later, which has proved the very worst of our foes—the slugs. Oh, those slugs! We go out on a warm morning in March and see five hundred thick, healthy, green shoots, looking like tender asparagus. We have a slight rain in the night and go out next morning to see how our lilies are faring. During the night the slugs have eaten the tops off all those that were most promising!The swamp lilies such asL. Canadense,L. Pardalinum, andL. Superbum, are best grown in damp situations, as these lilies require plenty of moisture. The dry bank of a stream suits them admirably.Let us now proceed with the planting, which should be done at once. Take the bulb you are going to plant, examine it carefully and pull off any diseased or mildewy scale. Wash it well in lime water to destroy any hidden enemy and leave it a few hours to dry.While the bulb is drying dig a hole, which must vary in size according to the size of the bulb, in which to plant your bulb. SupposeLilium Auratumbe the kind that you are planting. Dig the hole two feet deep. Place an inch or two of broken crocks in the hole, and fill half full with the compost which the species requires.Take the bulb and dust it over with powdered charcoal, which prevents the development of mildew. Place it in the hole prepared with a thin layer of peat (preferably burnt or previously strongly heated to kill all insects, etc., which it may have contained) below and around it and with a good handful of sharp river sand. Then fill up with the soil suitable to the species.Our work for November is done, and we return to town to tell our friends of our new venture. We meet with nothing but discouragement. One says, "Oh, you cannot grow lilies satisfactorily!" Another tells us that she has never yet succeeded in growing these troublesome plants. One gardener tells us that lilies are the most difficult of all plants to grow. Another gravely informs us that though some lilies will grow in pots, only one or two kinds will do anything in the ground. But next day we read in a gardening paper that lilies cannot be grown in pots, but some will do well in the open border! What are we to believe? Shall we be successful, or are we doomed to disappointment?We have gone through the year, having grown lilies both in the ground and in pots. Several hundreds were planted in the ground, and one hundred and three (eighty-seven varieties) in pots. Of the latter we have lost four plants. Twenty-two have not flowered but will flower another year; so that we are highly delighted with our success. To see the constant succession of the loveliest blooms filled our heart day after day with delight, and we trust many of our readers will receive for themselves pleasure as innocent and great.(To be continued.)

Everyperson needs some form of hobby—something to employ his time when the work of day is over. The mind wants some kind of recreation from the worries of business cares. We have felt this want, but we found that when we came to consider what our hobby should be many difficulties presented themselves.

Lilium Giganteum.Lilium Cordifolium.

Lilium Giganteum.Lilium Cordifolium.

In the first place, we wanted a hobby which would really interest and instruct us; one which would tell us something which we would be glad to know. Secondly, as our lives are spent in the heart of London, we wanted some form of recreation which would prove healthful and invigorating. We can find but one amusement which fulfils this last necessity, and that is the study of natural history.

But natural history is a very large subject, and we have not the time to study all its branches. We must decide on one branch. And here the great difficulty occurred. Which branch shall we take up? Well, after discussing the various pros and cons of the subject we at length determined upon gardening. But gardening is a very hackneyed subject, and besides, it has too wide a scope. Let us decide to cultivate one family or genus of plants. But which shall it be? Let us think. We do not want to grow vegetables; we want flowers. Shall we say roses? No, we have numbers of roses already, and besides, our country garden is in the most sandy part of Surrey, the very worst soil for many kinds of roses. Well, shall we try lilies? Ah, why not? No one, we know, gives special attention to lilies. Yes; let us decide upon lilies.

You see, there are so few lilies that we can easily grow them all! Why, we only know of five or six different kinds, and are quite sure that there cannot be very many other varieties! Fond delusion! There are not only five, nor fifty, different varieties of lilies; there are over one hundred and twenty varieties known to botanists. This was rather a damper to our enthusiasm, but on further consideration we congratulated ourselves upon this discovery. For if there are one hundred and twenty distinct varieties of lilies, and only some half-a-dozen kinds are well known, what a chance there is for us to do something original!

How splendid it would be to be able to grow lilies which not one person in a thousand has ever seen! With what pride could we show to our friends a beautiful garden filled with magnificent flowers, not one of which they had ever seen before. What interest will this spirit of adventure lend to an otherwise tame recreation! Yes; lilies are the plants for us. Yes, and we hope that we can instil into the reader an enthusiasm for growing lilies.

Most rare plants are curious rather than beautiful, and nothing palls so much as curiosity alone. But the little known lilies are beautiful; they are among the most magnificent flowers that grow. Have you ever seen a row of stately Madonna lilies in an old cottage-garden? Is it not a sight to remember throughout your life? The beauty of its pure white flower, with which the bright yellow of its anthers forms such a striking contrast, renders this lily one of the most delightful of all flowers.

And then its scent, filling the air for yards around on a still, warm evening at the end of July! Or, if later in the summer, while strolling in a large, well-kept garden in the evening of a fierce day in August, you have beheld, in a shady nook, a clump of the magnificent "Golden Lily of Japan"[A]standing as high as yourself, with its small leaves and crown of immense white blossoms, striped and spotted with gold, and have recognised the luscious scent exhaled from the blossoms, you will no longer wonder at the enthusiasm of the lily-grower. For many of the almost unknown lilies are quite as beautiful as these.

We were pleased to find that most of the lilies are but little known, but we were destined to find that this same fact had its own particular disadvantages. We found difficulties which were by no means trivial. Lilies will not grow of themselves. Like most plants which bear blossoms out of proportionto their leaves, lilies are rather difficult to cultivate. If you merely stick the bulbs in the ground, the chances are that they will either be eaten by slugs or die. Again, not all the one hundred and twenty kinds of lilies want the same treatment. Coming, as they do, from every part of the northern temperate zone of the earth, some from the vast mountains of the Himalayas, others from the plains of India, and others from the woodlands of Japan or the swamps of North America, lilies will not all grow in the same soil or situation. Each wants its own particular treatment, and if this is denied it, failure must of necessity follow. But when we consider the different habits and habitats of this wonderful genus of plants, it is astonishing that, with the exception of two or three kinds, all the lilies are hardy in our English gardens. Although this family of flowers has the name amongst gardeners for being unsatisfactory and difficult to grow, we have found the reverse to be true, and that, if their few requirements are attended to, you need not fear disappointment.

Suppose this day is the 1st of November. We are going to-day to a sale of lily bulbs. What lilies shall we get? How shall we choose our bulbs? What price ought we to pay for them? Let us glance through our gardening books and see. What do these books tell us? Nothing whatever! Or rather nothing which is of any value. You will find so little information about lilies in books on gardening, and that little is so full of errors, that it is best to ignore it altogether, except in the case of lilies which are commonly cultivated. And there is no practical book upon lilies alone before the public. Elwes'Monograph of the Genus Liliumis a good book in its way, and the plates are excellent, but the information is much too scanty, and it is also out of date. As this book is not published by any house, is out of print, and is very rarely met with, and as its price is about £12, we may well say that this volume is impracticable. Wallace's little volume onLilies and Their Cultureis twenty years old. There is practically no satisfactory book about lilies, and it is to fill this blank that we write these papers. Our knowledge of the subject is mainly the result of actual experience, for we have grown eighty-seven distinct varieties of lilies, to which is added a little information obtained from books tested by ourselves, and a good many valuable hints derived from gardeners and others who have devoted some of their time to the study of these plants.

Determination will solve nearly all difficulties. We have been to the sale and bought our lilies; now how are we to grow them? In pots? In the ground? Will they grow out of doors, or must they be kept in the greenhouse? When we first took up our hobby we could not have answered these questions, but we can do so now, for we have found out these points for ourselves, and are more than satisfied with our results.

Upon arriving at the conclusion, that if we wished to cultivate lilies we must find out all about them, we got a large note-book, and therein we kept a record of the year's work. We will describe this book a little later in the year, when we will not be so busy in the garden.

For the lily grower, November is one of the busiest months in the whole year. It is during this month that most of the planting should be done, for though lily bulbs are perhaps better planted a month or two earlier than this, they are exceedingly difficult to obtain until November has begun.

If you wish to grow lilies, the first necessity is to obtain your bulbs. You can grow lilies from seed, and we will explain how to do this later, but for a beginner it is a most tedious and unsatisfactory proceeding. Whichever way you may grow lilies when you thoroughly know them, commence by growing them from bulbs only. Well, we must get these bulbs, and how are we to obtain them? We can either go to a seedsman and buy what we choose, or we can obtain our lilies from public auction-rooms. Both methods have their advantages, and both have their disadvantages. If you go to the seedsman you can buy all your bulbs at once, you can make your choice, and you need buy but one lily of each species. But you will have to pay high, often fancy prices for them, and you can never be sure that the bulbs are fresh. On the other hand, in the auction-room you usually must get a large number of one variety, and you cannot obtain all kinds at the same auction. But you will have but a small price to pay, in fact, only the current market price of the day. You will usually find that the bulbs are fresh, and when you know how to choose bulbs you will be able to secure first-rate articles for your money.

LILY BULBS. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1.Lilium Umbellatum.2.Lilium Auratum(small but good bulb).3. Bulb and rhizome ofLilium Canadense.4. Bulb ofLilium Wallacei.5. Bulb ofLilium Roezlii.6. Bulb ofLilium Hansoni.7. Bulb ofLilium Humboldti.

LILY BULBS. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1.Lilium Umbellatum.2.Lilium Auratum(small but good bulb).3. Bulb and rhizome ofLilium Canadense.4. Bulb ofLilium Wallacei.5. Bulb ofLilium Roezlii.6. Bulb ofLilium Hansoni.7. Bulb ofLilium Humboldti.

The next question which you will ask is, "How much ought to be paid for the bulbs?" The bulbs vary much in price from several causes. Of course the price of one kind of lily is very different from that of another kind. For instance, bulbs ofLilium Davuricumcan be purchased at an auction for half-a-crown a dozen, whereas you will have to pay about a sovereign for a moderately good bulb ofLilium Dalhansoni. Again, the bulbs vary in price according to their size and condition;Lilium Auratumbulbs cost from fourpence to half-a-crown each. The time of year also greatly influences the price of lily bulbs. Last May we bought twenty-five bulbs ofLilium Auratumfor a shilling. Six months previous, these same bulbs would have fetched about twenty-five shillings. Then the price varies much in different years owing to the success of the growers in Holland or Japan. For theguidance of our reader we will give some average prices for a few lilies.Lilium Brownii, ten for nine shillings.Lilium Longiflorum(several varieties) from two to five shillings for ten.Lilium Auratumabout four shillings for ten.Lilium Giganteum, nine shillings for a single bulb.Lilium Tigrinum,Candidum,Calcedonicum,Pyranaicum,Speciosum, andElegans, from four to six shillings a dozen.

BULBS OFLilium CandidumOR MADONNA LILY. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1. Good sound bulb showing one crown.2. Bulb showing two crowns.3. Mammoth bulb.4. Young bulb of two years' growth.5 and 6. Bulblets removed from No. 1.(From photographs of fresh bulbs exhumed in August. The roots have been left entire.)

BULBS OFLilium CandidumOR MADONNA LILY. (To scale ¼ of original diameter.)1. Good sound bulb showing one crown.2. Bulb showing two crowns.3. Mammoth bulb.4. Young bulb of two years' growth.5 and 6. Bulblets removed from No. 1.(From photographs of fresh bulbs exhumed in August. The roots have been left entire.)

We said that lily bulbs are very much cheaper at the end of the season than they are in October or November, and some persons might be tempted to put off buying their bulbs till March or April. But this is a great mistake, for very few of such bulbs ever live to flower.

The greatest difficulty in lily culture is to know how to choose the bulbs. There are so many ways in which the unwary may be "done," that many persons give up growing lilies from the constant disappointment which results from their ignorance of how to choose good, sound, flowering bulbs.

Lily bulbs vary a good deal in appearance and size, but there are certain qualities by which the value of any bulb can be more or less accurately determined. All the bulbs should be of moderate size for the species; very firm and compact; fresh and not withered; not broken; showing one or two points from which the shoot will appear (they should not show the flower spike itself); well ripened; not in any way attacked by vermin, or spotted by mildew, and if possible home grown.

We said lily bulbs should be of moderate size. No point is more misleading or less important than this question of size. Mere size goes for nothing! Some of the "mammoth" bulbs ofauratum, so much advertised by nurserymen, often send up a miserable spike of flower-buds which wither ere the flowers open. We think that we know what is the cause of so many large bulbs going wrong. If the buds of a lily be cut off, the bulb increases enormously in size, and next year sends up a very superior shoot bearing many fine blossoms. Lily growers often cut off the flower buds from their lilies so as to improve the bulbs. These large bulbs are excellent. But the bulbs greatly increase in size if the plant does not flower for a year. Even if the whole plant dies from drought (a very common cause of failure with lilies), or if the roots are destroyed by vermin or by disease, the bulbs often become enormous. These large bulbs rarely do well, as the disease which killed their shoots the first year will probably do so again the second year.

Good bulbs are very firm and compact. This is much more important than that they should be large. We would rather have a small, compact, but heavy bulb than a light bulb with wide open scales, even though it be twice the size of the smaller bulb.

Always choose bulbs which are fresh and plump. Bulbs which have been kept one or two years out of the ground very rarely blossom or, indeed, come up at all. Such bulbs may be recognised by the outside scales being dry and withered. Always choose bulbs which are entire, if you can. But it is not very important that the bulbs should be perfect. We have done very well with bulbs which have lost the majority of their outer scales. Beware of purchasing bulbs which have begun to grow. Bulbs must be planted in the dormant condition. If you plant a bulb which has already thrown up an inch or two of flower-spike, the chances are that it will form no root, and that the stem will wither ere the flowering period arrives.

Unfortunately we have no way of telling whether bulbs are thoroughly ripened. Many bulbs, especially those ofLilium Auratum, come over from Japan, which, though they look perfectly sound and healthy, never live to flower. This is due in part to the bulbs having been sent from abroad in an immature state. Foreign bulbs purchased in July, August or September, must either be immature, or else rubbish left over from last year.

Examine the outer scales of the bulbs for little worms or mildew spots, and do not purchase any which show either of these parasites.

We are always told that lilies give greater satisfaction if grown from bulbs which have been established in England for some years. You should, therefore, choose these in place of those imported from Japan or Holland. English bulbs are, however, a little dearer than imported bulbs.

There is a popular delusion that you can grow lilies in sand. You cannot do so. All lilies require a rich soil; many require peat, and some excel only when grown in earth strongly enriched with manure.

The question of soil for lilies is an important one, and, as it is in general overlooked, we will carefully describe in tabular form the soils suitable for various lilies. For this purpose we will divide lilies into various classes dependent upon what soil they require.

Class 1.—Lilies which will grow in any good soil:Tigrinum,Bulbiferum,Croceum,Davuricum,Elegans,Hansoni,Henryi, etc.

Class 2.—Lilies which require a moderately light soil with a slight admixture of peat and leaf mould:Auratum,Speciosum,Longiflorum,Krameri,Brownii,Japonicum odorum, etc.

Class 3.—Lilies which want a heavy loam, well enriched and of good depth:Cordifolium,Wallichianum,Candidum,Washingtonianum,Humboldti,Martagon,Testaceum,Calcedonicum, etc.

Class 4.—Lilies which require a large admixture of peat and leaf mould with plenty of sharp sand:Canadense,Superbum,Pardalinum,Roezlii,Leichtlini,Philadelphicum, etc.

Class 5.—Lilies that want a very rich soil with large quantities of well rotted manure and leaf mould of great depth:Giganteum,Monodephum.

As a matter of fact many lilies will grow in two or three different kinds of soil. We have only given the form of culture by which we have ourselves obtained, or friends have obtained, the best results.

Position is of first importance in the cultivation of lilies. All kinds like partial shade, but not a position overhung with trees. It is best to plant them in a place where they can get the full sun for two or three hours daily, but where they are sheltered from the sun at midday. The position chosen should be well drained, preferably on the slope of a hill, and protected from high winds which can do very serious damage to plants which grow to such a height as these.

The best position in which to plant lilies is a bed devoted to azaleas, rhododendrons, or other shrubs. These protect the bulbs from severe frost in winter and shelter the young shoots from the high winds in spring. Moreover the soil which suits rhododendrons—a peaty leaf mould—is also an admirable soil for many lilies.

We planted a number of lily bulbs among beds of pinks last year, thinking that this situation would afford all that was required. But, alas! we had forgotten an enemy, of which you will hear more later, which has proved the very worst of our foes—the slugs. Oh, those slugs! We go out on a warm morning in March and see five hundred thick, healthy, green shoots, looking like tender asparagus. We have a slight rain in the night and go out next morning to see how our lilies are faring. During the night the slugs have eaten the tops off all those that were most promising!

The swamp lilies such asL. Canadense,L. Pardalinum, andL. Superbum, are best grown in damp situations, as these lilies require plenty of moisture. The dry bank of a stream suits them admirably.

Let us now proceed with the planting, which should be done at once. Take the bulb you are going to plant, examine it carefully and pull off any diseased or mildewy scale. Wash it well in lime water to destroy any hidden enemy and leave it a few hours to dry.

While the bulb is drying dig a hole, which must vary in size according to the size of the bulb, in which to plant your bulb. SupposeLilium Auratumbe the kind that you are planting. Dig the hole two feet deep. Place an inch or two of broken crocks in the hole, and fill half full with the compost which the species requires.

Take the bulb and dust it over with powdered charcoal, which prevents the development of mildew. Place it in the hole prepared with a thin layer of peat (preferably burnt or previously strongly heated to kill all insects, etc., which it may have contained) below and around it and with a good handful of sharp river sand. Then fill up with the soil suitable to the species.

Our work for November is done, and we return to town to tell our friends of our new venture. We meet with nothing but discouragement. One says, "Oh, you cannot grow lilies satisfactorily!" Another tells us that she has never yet succeeded in growing these troublesome plants. One gardener tells us that lilies are the most difficult of all plants to grow. Another gravely informs us that though some lilies will grow in pots, only one or two kinds will do anything in the ground. But next day we read in a gardening paper that lilies cannot be grown in pots, but some will do well in the open border! What are we to believe? Shall we be successful, or are we doomed to disappointment?

We have gone through the year, having grown lilies both in the ground and in pots. Several hundreds were planted in the ground, and one hundred and three (eighty-seven varieties) in pots. Of the latter we have lost four plants. Twenty-two have not flowered but will flower another year; so that we are highly delighted with our success. To see the constant succession of the loveliest blooms filled our heart day after day with delight, and we trust many of our readers will receive for themselves pleasure as innocent and great.

(To be continued.)

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