ORPHEUS.

THE NEW SOPRANO.

THE NEW SOPRANO.

THE NEW SOPRANO.

ORPHEUS.By "A. N."Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to theeSmiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee—she, thrice fair,And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian grovesWandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.For she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast—Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken—when thy song ceased.And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless skyWhen this thou knewest—that Eurydice thy love could die?The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breathAnd the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocksO'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.

By "A. N."

Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to theeSmiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee—she, thrice fair,And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian grovesWandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.For she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast—Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken—when thy song ceased.And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless skyWhen this thou knewest—that Eurydice thy love could die?The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breathAnd the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocksO'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.

Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to theeSmiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.

She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee—she, thrice fair,And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian grovesWandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.For she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.

The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast—Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken—when thy song ceased.And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.

Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain belowPent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.

What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless skyWhen this thou knewest—that Eurydice thy love could die?The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breathAnd the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.

So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocksO'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.

FATHER ANTHONY.BySOMERVILLE GIBNEY.CHAPTER II.Sixteenyears had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter, the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king, and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village, and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed? Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence, and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden. She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twigrecalled her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name whispered—"Cecily!"She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the next words reassured her."'Tis I—Hugh—make no sound!""Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it—we have heard all"; and the girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it was seized and held."Yes, they are after me—hunting me down as though I were some red deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have come, bringing peril to my mother and you.""No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help you—you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which would not be instantly discovered.""The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one must know I am near the place. Hark!"—and far away in the distance could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel."Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do—what can we do?"For answer the young man pushed his way through the branches, and, standing beside his cousin, said:"What is this you are wearing, child?""My cloak.""The very thing! Give it to me"; and as he took it off her shoulders, "Now go and see that there is no one in front of the house. It will be in shadow at present, till the moon is higher, and, thank God, there will not be much of that this night, for she is yet but young; if none be about, then raise your kerchief to your face and continue your walk.""And you?" asked Cecily, as she turned back down the path."Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the horses rising the hill."Cecily made her way along the front of the Abbey, and then, turning, retraced her steps with her handkerchief held to her face. She did her best to assume the manner of a person taking a careless evening stroll, but at the same time her eyes were on the alert, and she could just discern the figure of her cousin creeping along close to the wall of the Abbey, until her steps carried her beyond, and she dare not turn her head for fear the simple movement might be seen by someone and attract attention. In a few minutes she had reached the evergreens again, and here she once more turned, and again passed in front of the Abbey; but, though she scanned the building as well as she was able through the gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What had become of him? There was no door near through which he could have entered the house, and the cessation of the slight scrunching of the gravel beneath his feet had told her that he had not proceeded further. But she had small space for conjecture, for there were galloping steads on the drive leading to the house, and the next moment she found herself surrounded by a number of the dreaded Ironsides."Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that maiden, and bring her within the house; she may possess the information we desire. Sergeant Piety, follow me with six men. The rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go out or come in, and search the bushes and thickets.""What is the meaning of this, sir?" inquired Cecily, assuming an indignant and surprised air, in answer to the commands given by the leader of the party."I wot ye know full well already, maiden; but if it be otherwise, ye shortly shall know. Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to your duties."Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was led back into the house, and here the leader took up his position in front of the huge fireplace and kicked the logs on the hearth into a blaze, as he indicated the spot where his prisoner was to stand. After warming his hands a moment or two in silence, he turned about and said:"One of you remain here with the maid and me; the rest search the house, and mind ye find him, for he is here. We have certain knowledge of the fact. Leave no hole or corner unvisited, but bring him before me alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what gentle means may do in this direction"—nodding towards the girl.The troopers separated, some making their way to the kitchen and chambers on the ground floor, while others mounted the stairs to the upper rooms and attics.Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in face of the peril. In after times when she came to think it all over she wondered at herself, but she recalled the fact that at the moment she was well-nigh certain her cousin was not on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the Abbey, and she had felt that if there were a safe hiding-place to be found his intimate knowledge of his own home would stand him in good stead in the emergency."Well, maiden, where is this traitor? You had best speak at once, and save time and trouble, for I doubt not you are well informed of his movements.""We have no traitors among the dwellers at Combe Abbey, sir, and if there be any here now they are no welcome guests, I promise you," replied the girl calmly, looking the officer straight in the face."I would have you keep a civil tongue in your head, as becomes a modest maid," replied her interrogator. "Tell me at once, where is this pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?""I know of no 'pestilent rogue' of that name, though that same name is the property of my cousin and the owner of this house.""And he is here at this moment.""Is he? Then why detain and question me, since you are so well informed? Permit me to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who is but poorly, and who will be disturbed by this unwonted turmoil, for Combe Abbey is a peace-loving house." And Cecily made as though she would cross the hall and mount the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid his hand on her arm and detained her as the officer continued:"Stay where you are, wench; this giddy talking will avail you nothing.""Sir, methinks those that preach would do well to set an example," said Cecily, with a slight curl of disdain on her lip."Ah, in what way mean you?""Those that prate of civil tongues should be possessed of the same.""Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy slut!""After that I listen to no more of your instructions, sir. I will not have you as my master"; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference to the officer, who, losing his temper, said loudly—"A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh Travers?""I know not.""But he is here.""So you tell me.""You have seen him.""So you say.""I will have him!""That is as may be. Can I tell you ought else?""I can tellyouthat it will be the worse for all here if he be not given up at once. The Lord Protector has his eye upon this house.""Then I wonder he has not seen the owner, since you say he is here.""Faugh! 'Tis folly to bandy words with a woman! Ah, here is something!"—as a trooper was seen coming down the stairs leading Lady Travers.At the sight Cecily broke away from her captor, and, running to meet her aunt, offered her arm as a support."What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?" asked the old lady."It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman has brought us news of Cousin Hugh, since he asserts that he is here.""Hugh—here? Where? Why was I not informed?""Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready with her tongue, and by verbal quips has been endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin's presence here.""Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I have not seen my son for this many a long day. Would God I had! But that he was with the army at Worcester we know full well, since he sent us word of the fact but a few days since.""You hear, sir?""Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and I will——""As you will, sir. The word of a lady counts nought with a soldier nowadays, it seems."The officer gave a glance at the young girl as if about to frame a retort, but it may be the presence of Lady Travers deterred him, for with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to the troopers and bade one of them follow him upstairs, while the other remained as a guard over the ladies. This latter man—the one who had brought Lady Travers from her room—appeared to possess some shade of good feeling, for as soon as his officer had disappeared he withdrew to the other side of the hall, leaving the ladies practically alone in front of the fire, where they could converse undisturbed.Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear as unconcerned as possible, informed her aunt, in a tone that could easily reach the sentry's ears, how her evening stroll had been so rudely interrupted by the soldiers, and how she had been made a prisoner and detained in the hall while the house was being searched. Lady Travers, being totally unconscious of the near presence of her son, had nothing to conceal, and therefore, all unknowingly by what she said, ably seconded Cecily's efforts. It was in this way the ladies conversed for some time, until the captain descended the stairs after what, from his manner, had evidently been an unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied him with questions as to her son's fate. These he answered grudgingly, as though doubting their genuineness.Meanwhile the servants had been driven into the hall like a frightened flock of sheep, and were each interrogated in turn; but their answers threw no light on the subject, and the officer's expression at the conclusion of the examination was more puzzled than at the commencement. He sent for Lieutenant Champneys, and on his arrival he could report no better success than had attended his captain. Not a soul had been seen outside the building, save the grooms in the stable-yard; the gardens, the park and the plantations had been searched without a trace being found. There were no suspicious circumstances; no one seemed to wish to conceal anything; no obstacles had been placed in the way, and yet, from certain information possessed by the officer, he knew that Hugh Travers, if he had not actually been in the house or grounds, had been very close to them. He was baffled. He had anticipated an easycapture, but instead of that the chances of one seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh Travers was not the only fugitive on whose head was set a price; there were others suspected of being in the neighbourhood, and it would be folly to sacrifice all for the sake of this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was piqued by Cecily's taunts, and loth to own himself defeated. At any rate, he would make one more effort. He himself would go round the outside of the Abbey, and Cecily should accompany him. The moon had risen by this time, and there was more light than when he had arrived. He might possibly to able to discover something, or the girl might betray herself in some way, though he was by no means so certain now as he had felt at first that she had anything to betray.Cecily offered no objection to his request for her company, and, having sent one of the maids for a wrap, they set out together. At first little was said by either of them, but then it occurred to the girl that the sound of her voice might act as a warning of danger to her cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at hand, and she commenced to talk loudly and rapidly about anything that came into her mind.They were passing the front of the Abbey, and, as the faint moonlight fell upon the grey stone face, making the shadows that lingered in the corners still more deep, Cecily was pointing out the windows of the various rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved above the doorway. "And higher up," she continued, "are two niches, in the one stands the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of the house, for, as its name must have informed you, sir, it was formerly a religious house, and I trust it is worthy of the designation now, though in a slightly different sense; and in the other—— Oh!"—and Cecily swayed, and almost fell, but the next moment caught the arm of her companion and steadied herself."Ah, what is it?" exclaimed the officer, looking round suspiciously."Forgive me," said Cecily, looking on the ground as if seeking something. "It was very sharp at the moment. A newly broken flint, I suppose. May I take your hand for a minute? It is hard to see where one puts one's foot in this light.""Certainly, madam," said the officer, rather pleased than otherwise; for, though a Puritan, he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially when no one was by to see him. "I trust you feel better already?""I thank you, sir—yes.""You were saying——""Ah, yes—about the niches. In one was placed the figure of Abbot Swincow, and in the other that of a Father Anthony, who was supposed to have aided him in the building and institution of the house. But they have suffered much through time and weather, and now bear but small resemblance to the originals, I trow.""As a true servant of the Lord Protector it is my duty to destroy such images, as contrary to the tables of the law, and being the work of men's hands, but other business is to the fore at the moment, and the capture of rebels is a more meritorious employment than knocking off the heads of statues.""Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your time, seeing it is some hundreds of years since they took up their position.""Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks are not seemly in a woman, nor in a man either, seeing the days are evil. You and I have got on better since you have bridled your tongue.""As you will, sir; and now, if it be your pleasure, I will lead you to the gardens and stables.""Ah, trooper! Any news?"—as a figure approached them from out the gloom."None, captain—not a living soul—not so much as a rabbit has crossed my path.""Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your ears and eyes open, and we may yet prevail. Lead on, maiden."Round the gardens, through the stables, up into the loft and store chambers went the captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the time, but in a lower tone and far more naturally than before the stumble on the gravel in front of the Abbey.At length the round was completed, and as the officer again entered the hall with Cecily, he said—"Well, all has been done that can be done. The man I want is not here. He must have passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot wherein to rest. But I'll have him yet.""That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case, I trust that you will not deem either my aunt or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you all the help in our poor power in your search.""Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have done all you can to aid the ruler of this realm. You have done your duty.""I have," thought Cecily, though she merely bowed modestly and kept silence."Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the men together; we must away.""Not before you have supped with us, sir?" said the courteous Lady Travers. "Combe Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were he friend or enemy.""I thank you, madam—not to-night. There is work to be done, and the soldiers of the Lord think less of their stomachs than their duty." And going to the door, the officer watched the mounting of his men.It was then that Cecily found the opportunity to whisper to one of the serving-men."Count how many there be, Roger, and then away to the village through the orchard and see if the numbers be the same there, and that they have left none behind to spy. Bring me word as soon as may be."A few minutes later, and with a farewell salute, the officer led his men down the avenue, and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.It was after supper, and when Lady Travers had retired, that Roger returned."The number was the same, mistress, and I followed them a good two miles or more, and none fell out.""That is well, Roger; then we may have peace again for a time. And now to bed, for we are all upset by this night intrusion."But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads. "Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words, "Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow below."A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that came upwards in reply, almost like an echo."It is I—Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father, since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support.""And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to boot."The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until at length came the direction—"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The place is clear of the bloodhounds?""Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to Meerdale.""Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?""Of a surety, yes.""Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at once. He will not see me.""It shall be done.""My mother—does she know I am here?""No one knows but me.""Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done, and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart, little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time.""Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in the ivy.More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king. And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple, seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.[THE END.]

BySOMERVILLE GIBNEY.

Sixteenyears had sped by, leaving their footprints behind them. Sir Ralph Travers was no more, and his son Hugh reigned in his stead at Combe. Lady Travers still lived, and with her, almost as a daughter, the little Cecily we last saw beneath the copper-beech tree, but now grown into a graceful young woman of one-and-twenty. The kindness of the aunt had brought its reward in the devotion of the niece, whose loving care and attention was the more appreciated now that the mainstay of the house was often away at his duties. Hugh was an officer in the army, and, like his father before him, had sided with his king, and more recently with that unfortunate monarch's son. But at this moment the affairs of royalty were not prospering. The fatal fight at Worcester had taken place the previous day, and already rumours had reached Combe as to the result. A packman had arrived at the village, and had told how, on his journey that morning, he had seen parties of Cromwell's Ironsides searching the country for remnants of the royal troops. The news had quickly been carried to the Abbey, increasing the already terrible anxiety of the two ladies. They were well aware that Hugh was in the battle, for he had sent them word, by one of his troopers, only a few days previously as to his whereabouts. But what was his fate? Was he a prisoner? Was he a fugitive? Was he killed? Lady Travers, as she sat alone in her chamber asking herself these questions, felt that definite news, even if it were the worst, would be better than the fearful uncertainty that was crushing her. Cecily had been with her, doing her best to appear cheerful and minimise the perils of the situation, though the part she played was that of a would-be deceiver as far as her own convictions went. She knew Hugh would be no lag-behind where danger threatened. He was not one to hang back when his right arm was needed, and she felt that if he had escaped a soldier's fate it was only through the intervention of Providence, and not from any regard for his own safety. She had striven to put a bold face on the matter, but the terrible anxieties of the mother had communicated themselves to her, and as dusk was falling on that September evening she found it impossible to remain longer without breaking down, and on some trivial plea had quitted the room. Passing down the broad oaken staircase she crossed the hall, and wrapping herself in her cloak, which she had that morning left on one of the chairs, she drew the hood over her head and went out into the garden. She felt she could breathe more freely there, and relax the strain on her countenance, since there was none to watch her. But her anxiety was not relieved by one tittle; the crushing weight pressed no less heavily on her here beneath the shy stars that were just beginning to peep than in her lady aunt's chamber. Her heart and her thoughts were with her soldier cousin, and once and again she paused in her walk to listen, as she fancied she caught the sound of galloping hoofs and the clatter of steel in the village below. But all seemed at peace. The wind had sunk with the sun, and hardly a leaf stirred. The sounds that met her ears were only the uncouth voices of the herdsmen and labourers discussing the news of the day in front of the tavern door. Her steps had led her some short distance from the Abbey among the clumps of evergreens that formed a screen on its eastern front. It was darker there, and the loneliness and gloom suited her state of mind. She wandered on with bent head, lost in thought, until the cracking of a dry twigrecalled her to herself. She looked up, and fancied she could see the boughs of a laurel on her right move. The next moment she heard her own name whispered—

"Cecily!"

She started back frightened, and would have turned and fled, but the next words reassured her.

"'Tis I—Hugh—make no sound!"

"Hugh? And you are in danger! I know it—we have heard all"; and the girl stepped forward and thrust her hand among the branches, when it was seized and held.

"Yes, they are after me—hunting me down as though I were some red deer. They will soon be here. It was my last chance or I would not have come, bringing peril to my mother and you."

"No, no; 'tis your home. It was right you should come; we may help you—you must hide; but where? I know of no spot in the house which would not be instantly discovered."

"The house will not do. I must not be seen by a soul but you. No one must know I am near the place. Hark!"—and far away in the distance could be heard the clatter of galloping horses and the rattle of steel.

"Oh, Hugh, they are coming! What can we do—what can we do?"

For answer the young man pushed his way through the branches, and, standing beside his cousin, said:

"What is this you are wearing, child?"

"My cloak."

"The very thing! Give it to me"; and as he took it off her shoulders, "Now go and see that there is no one in front of the house. It will be in shadow at present, till the moon is higher, and, thank God, there will not be much of that this night, for she is yet but young; if none be about, then raise your kerchief to your face and continue your walk."

"And you?" asked Cecily, as she turned back down the path.

"Wait and see. Hurry, for I hear the horses rising the hill."

Cecily made her way along the front of the Abbey, and then, turning, retraced her steps with her handkerchief held to her face. She did her best to assume the manner of a person taking a careless evening stroll, but at the same time her eyes were on the alert, and she could just discern the figure of her cousin creeping along close to the wall of the Abbey, until her steps carried her beyond, and she dare not turn her head for fear the simple movement might be seen by someone and attract attention. In a few minutes she had reached the evergreens again, and here she once more turned, and again passed in front of the Abbey; but, though she scanned the building as well as she was able through the gloom, she could see no sign of Hugh.

Puzzled, and yet thankful was she. What had become of him? There was no door near through which he could have entered the house, and the cessation of the slight scrunching of the gravel beneath his feet had told her that he had not proceeded further. But she had small space for conjecture, for there were galloping steads on the drive leading to the house, and the next moment she found herself surrounded by a number of the dreaded Ironsides.

"Trooper Flee-the-Devil, detain that maiden, and bring her within the house; she may possess the information we desire. Sergeant Piety, follow me with six men. The rest under Lieutenant Champneys surround the dwelling, keep strict guard, let none go out or come in, and search the bushes and thickets."

"What is the meaning of this, sir?" inquired Cecily, assuming an indignant and surprised air, in answer to the commands given by the leader of the party.

"I wot ye know full well already, maiden; but if it be otherwise, ye shortly shall know. Trooper Flee-the-Devil, lead on. The rest to your duties."

Surrounded by the Ironsides, Cecily was led back into the house, and here the leader took up his position in front of the huge fireplace and kicked the logs on the hearth into a blaze, as he indicated the spot where his prisoner was to stand. After warming his hands a moment or two in silence, he turned about and said:

"One of you remain here with the maid and me; the rest search the house, and mind ye find him, for he is here. We have certain knowledge of the fact. Leave no hole or corner unvisited, but bring him before me alive or dead. Meanwhile I will try what gentle means may do in this direction"—nodding towards the girl.

The troopers separated, some making their way to the kitchen and chambers on the ground floor, while others mounted the stairs to the upper rooms and attics.

Cecily felt strangely calm and collected in face of the peril. In after times when she came to think it all over she wondered at herself, but she recalled the fact that at the moment she was well-nigh certain her cousin was not on the premises, or, at any rate, inside the Abbey, and she had felt that if there were a safe hiding-place to be found his intimate knowledge of his own home would stand him in good stead in the emergency.

"Well, maiden, where is this traitor? You had best speak at once, and save time and trouble, for I doubt not you are well informed of his movements."

"We have no traitors among the dwellers at Combe Abbey, sir, and if there be any here now they are no welcome guests, I promise you," replied the girl calmly, looking the officer straight in the face.

"I would have you keep a civil tongue in your head, as becomes a modest maid," replied her interrogator. "Tell me at once, where is this pestilent rogue, Hugh Travers?"

"I know of no 'pestilent rogue' of that name, though that same name is the property of my cousin and the owner of this house."

"And he is here at this moment."

"Is he? Then why detain and question me, since you are so well informed? Permit me to leave you; I must attend on my aunt, who is but poorly, and who will be disturbed by this unwonted turmoil, for Combe Abbey is a peace-loving house." And Cecily made as though she would cross the hall and mount the stairs; but the trooper beside her laid his hand on her arm and detained her as the officer continued:

"Stay where you are, wench; this giddy talking will avail you nothing."

"Sir, methinks those that preach would do well to set an example," said Cecily, with a slight curl of disdain on her lip.

"Ah, in what way mean you?"

"Those that prate of civil tongues should be possessed of the same."

"Heyday! A plague on you for a saucy slut!"

"After that I listen to no more of your instructions, sir. I will not have you as my master"; and Cecily curtseyed in mock deference to the officer, who, losing his temper, said loudly—

"A truce to this folly! Where is Hugh Travers?"

"I know not."

"But he is here."

"So you tell me."

"You have seen him."

"So you say."

"I will have him!"

"That is as may be. Can I tell you ought else?"

"I can tellyouthat it will be the worse for all here if he be not given up at once. The Lord Protector has his eye upon this house."

"Then I wonder he has not seen the owner, since you say he is here."

"Faugh! 'Tis folly to bandy words with a woman! Ah, here is something!"—as a trooper was seen coming down the stairs leading Lady Travers.

At the sight Cecily broke away from her captor, and, running to meet her aunt, offered her arm as a support.

"What is the meaning of all this, Cecily?" asked the old lady.

"It means, aunt, that this gallant gentleman has brought us news of Cousin Hugh, since he asserts that he is here."

"Hugh—here? Where? Why was I not informed?"

"Nay, madam, this young lady is too ready with her tongue, and by verbal quips has been endeavouring to deny the fact of her cousin's presence here."

"Then she did but speak the truth, sir. I have not seen my son for this many a long day. Would God I had! But that he was with the army at Worcester we know full well, since he sent us word of the fact but a few days since."

"You hear, sir?"

"Yes, I hear. But seeing is believing, and I will——"

"As you will, sir. The word of a lady counts nought with a soldier nowadays, it seems."

The officer gave a glance at the young girl as if about to frame a retort, but it may be the presence of Lady Travers deterred him, for with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to the troopers and bade one of them follow him upstairs, while the other remained as a guard over the ladies. This latter man—the one who had brought Lady Travers from her room—appeared to possess some shade of good feeling, for as soon as his officer had disappeared he withdrew to the other side of the hall, leaving the ladies practically alone in front of the fire, where they could converse undisturbed.

Cecily, deeming it the wiser plan to appear as unconcerned as possible, informed her aunt, in a tone that could easily reach the sentry's ears, how her evening stroll had been so rudely interrupted by the soldiers, and how she had been made a prisoner and detained in the hall while the house was being searched. Lady Travers, being totally unconscious of the near presence of her son, had nothing to conceal, and therefore, all unknowingly by what she said, ably seconded Cecily's efforts. It was in this way the ladies conversed for some time, until the captain descended the stairs after what, from his manner, had evidently been an unsuccessful search, when Lady Travers plied him with questions as to her son's fate. These he answered grudgingly, as though doubting their genuineness.

Meanwhile the servants had been driven into the hall like a frightened flock of sheep, and were each interrogated in turn; but their answers threw no light on the subject, and the officer's expression at the conclusion of the examination was more puzzled than at the commencement. He sent for Lieutenant Champneys, and on his arrival he could report no better success than had attended his captain. Not a soul had been seen outside the building, save the grooms in the stable-yard; the gardens, the park and the plantations had been searched without a trace being found. There were no suspicious circumstances; no one seemed to wish to conceal anything; no obstacles had been placed in the way, and yet, from certain information possessed by the officer, he knew that Hugh Travers, if he had not actually been in the house or grounds, had been very close to them. He was baffled. He had anticipated an easycapture, but instead of that the chances of one seemed to be receding each moment. Hugh Travers was not the only fugitive on whose head was set a price; there were others suspected of being in the neighbourhood, and it would be folly to sacrifice all for the sake of this one somewhat vague chance. Still he was piqued by Cecily's taunts, and loth to own himself defeated. At any rate, he would make one more effort. He himself would go round the outside of the Abbey, and Cecily should accompany him. The moon had risen by this time, and there was more light than when he had arrived. He might possibly to able to discover something, or the girl might betray herself in some way, though he was by no means so certain now as he had felt at first that she had anything to betray.

Cecily offered no objection to his request for her company, and, having sent one of the maids for a wrap, they set out together. At first little was said by either of them, but then it occurred to the girl that the sound of her voice might act as a warning of danger to her cousin, if he were hiding anywhere near at hand, and she commenced to talk loudly and rapidly about anything that came into her mind.

They were passing the front of the Abbey, and, as the faint moonlight fell upon the grey stone face, making the shadows that lingered in the corners still more deep, Cecily was pointing out the windows of the various rooms, and the Travers coat-of-arms carved above the doorway. "And higher up," she continued, "are two niches, in the one stands the figure of Abbot Swincow, the founder of the house, for, as its name must have informed you, sir, it was formerly a religious house, and I trust it is worthy of the designation now, though in a slightly different sense; and in the other—— Oh!"—and Cecily swayed, and almost fell, but the next moment caught the arm of her companion and steadied herself.

"Ah, what is it?" exclaimed the officer, looking round suspiciously.

"Forgive me," said Cecily, looking on the ground as if seeking something. "It was very sharp at the moment. A newly broken flint, I suppose. May I take your hand for a minute? It is hard to see where one puts one's foot in this light."

"Certainly, madam," said the officer, rather pleased than otherwise; for, though a Puritan, he had an eye for a pretty face, more especially when no one was by to see him. "I trust you feel better already?"

"I thank you, sir—yes."

"You were saying——"

"Ah, yes—about the niches. In one was placed the figure of Abbot Swincow, and in the other that of a Father Anthony, who was supposed to have aided him in the building and institution of the house. But they have suffered much through time and weather, and now bear but small resemblance to the originals, I trow."

"As a true servant of the Lord Protector it is my duty to destroy such images, as contrary to the tables of the law, and being the work of men's hands, but other business is to the fore at the moment, and the capture of rebels is a more meritorious employment than knocking off the heads of statues."

"Doubtless, sir, and surely they will wait your time, seeing it is some hundreds of years since they took up their position."

"Cease jesting, maiden. Quips and cranks are not seemly in a woman, nor in a man either, seeing the days are evil. You and I have got on better since you have bridled your tongue."

"As you will, sir; and now, if it be your pleasure, I will lead you to the gardens and stables."

"Ah, trooper! Any news?"—as a figure approached them from out the gloom.

"None, captain—not a living soul—not so much as a rabbit has crossed my path."

"Is it so? Keep your loins girt and your ears and eyes open, and we may yet prevail. Lead on, maiden."

Round the gardens, through the stables, up into the loft and store chambers went the captain and Cecily, the latter talking all the time, but in a lower tone and far more naturally than before the stumble on the gravel in front of the Abbey.

At length the round was completed, and as the officer again entered the hall with Cecily, he said—

"Well, all has been done that can be done. The man I want is not here. He must have passed on, deeming it too dangerous a spot wherein to rest. But I'll have him yet."

"That is as may be, sir. Still, in any case, I trust that you will not deem either my aunt or myself wanting in courtesy in affording you all the help in our poor power in your search."

"Nay, maiden. If I judge rightly, you have done all you can to aid the ruler of this realm. You have done your duty."

"I have," thought Cecily, though she merely bowed modestly and kept silence.

"Trooper Piety, bid the lieutenant get the men together; we must away."

"Not before you have supped with us, sir?" said the courteous Lady Travers. "Combe Abbey never turned away a hungry man, were he friend or enemy."

"I thank you, madam—not to-night. There is work to be done, and the soldiers of the Lord think less of their stomachs than their duty." And going to the door, the officer watched the mounting of his men.

It was then that Cecily found the opportunity to whisper to one of the serving-men.

"Count how many there be, Roger, and then away to the village through the orchard and see if the numbers be the same there, and that they have left none behind to spy. Bring me word as soon as may be."

A few minutes later, and with a farewell salute, the officer led his men down the avenue, and peace once more reigned at Combe Abbey.

It was after supper, and when Lady Travers had retired, that Roger returned.

"The number was the same, mistress, and I followed them a good two miles or more, and none fell out."

"That is well, Roger; then we may have peace again for a time. And now to bed, for we are all upset by this night intrusion."

But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads. "Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words, "Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow below.

"A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that came upwards in reply, almost like an echo.

"It is I—Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father, since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support."

"And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to boot."

The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until at length came the direction—

"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The place is clear of the bloodhounds?"

"Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to Meerdale."

"Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?"

"Of a surety, yes."

"Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at once. He will not see me."

"It shall be done."

"My mother—does she know I am here?"

"No one knows but me."

"Then tell her not of my coming. I hope to reach France, and if so will send you word. Till then tell her nothing. And now go; you must be nigh spent with what has taken place to-night. But 'twas bravely done, and has saved my neck. I heard every word as you led that bear on his wild-goose chase. And you uttered no wiser one than the 'Oh!' as you feigned to tread on something sharp and hurt your foot. But away with you. We will talk of all this in happier days to come, please God. I would I could kiss you once. But it may not be. Keep a brave heart, little girl, and Father Anthony shall enjoy his own again in good time."

"Farewell, Father Anthony, and the saints have you in their keeping!"

And again there was silence over Combe Abbey, save for a rustling in the ivy.

More years have passed, and merry England is itself once more. Laughter and mirth have ascended the throne side by side with the restored king. And nowhere in all the land is there more happiness than at Combe Abbey in the "West Countree." The lord of the soil is home again, and the villagers are busy with evergreens and wreaths, since on the morrow he takes to wife his cousin, Cecily Wharton. And as the happy couple, seated side by side with Lady Travers beneath the copper-beach, gaze on the old grey Abbey and the empty niche, their thoughts revert to the night when it afforded shelter to the second Father Anthony.

[THE END.]

CHINA MARKS.ENGLISH PORCELAIN.PART II.The Swansea Works.Theintroduction of porcelain manufacture into the earthenware factory of Swansea was due to Messrs. Hains & Co. towards the close of the last century; but it was of an inferior kind. In 1802 Mr. Dillwyn purchased the works, and in 1814 they had arrived at great perfection under the management of Billingsley. The former retired in 1813 and was succeeded by his son. The next year the porcelain manufacture was revived and carried on for about seven years very successfully; Baxter, an accomplished figure painter, having entered the service of Mr. Dillwyn, junior, and continuing with him for three years, but returning to the Worcester works in 1819.Dillwyn's china seems to have been, as a rule, distinguished by the impressed or stencilled name (in red) "Swansea," also the tridents, as illustrated.The factory was closed about the year 1820, John Rose of Coalport having purchased the plant and removed it to his own works.Sometimes the name "Swansea" is stencilled in red and sometimes impressed only. A very scarce mark is "Dillwyn & Co."; also the two words stamped in capitals are enclosed in lines all round.Derbyshire Works.Derbyshire porcelain represents four different periods, the manufactory having been founded by William Duesbury, of Longton, Staffordshire, in 1781. It was formed from the Bow and Chelsea china, the founder having purchased part of the plant of the former factory and the whole of the works of the latter, carrying on the Chelsea and Derby works simultaneously. His son succeeded him in 1788, taking Michael Kean into partnership; who ultimately disposed of the works to Robert Bloor (in 1815), at whose death they were closed. But a small factory was opened by Locker, Bloor's manager, which afterwards passed into the management of Messrs. Stevenson, Sharp, & Co., and then Stevenson & Hancock. In the hands of Robert Bloor the manufacture declined in excellence.The earliest mark is a "D" or the name "Derby" incised or painted in red. On the union of the works with those of Chelsea and Bow there was an indication of the combination as seen in the second and third illustrations given (a "D" crossed horizontally by an anchor), and the crown was added above the anchor after the Royal visit in 1737, the mark being, as a general rule, painted in blue. The crown, crossed batons, dots, and letter "D" were painted diversely, sometimes in gold, blue, or puce, and subsequently in vermilion. Later on three Chinese marks were employed, known as "the potter's stool," the Sèvres mark (a "D" in the centre and crown above), and the crossed swords of the Meissen factory. The batons in early use are now transformed into the swords by the present manufacturers, Stevenson & Hancock, and they have added their own initials; the whole device (crown, swords, dots, and initials) surmounting the letter "D," as will be seen in the last illustration.It was in the third epoch of the manufacture of what is distinguished as the "Crown Derby," that porcelain works were established in the same county by John Coke at Pinxton (near Alfreton), 1793-5. Fine transparent, soft paste was used there; but the factory was closed in 1812. The patterns distinguishing this ware was a small sprig copied from the Angouleme porcelain—such as a blue forget-me-not, or cornflower, and a gold sprig. At Church-Gresley and at Winksworth (in the same country) there were other factories connected with the name of Gill, but undistinguished by any special marks.The counterfeit mark employed at times on the Worcester china was likewise used on genuine Derby work, a sign borrowed from the Meissen factory to which reference has been made. The Duke of Cumberland, Sir F. Fawkner, and Nicholas Sprimont (a Frenchman) were amongst the first proprietors, and were succeeded by the latter (Sprimont).As I observed, the Derby china manufacture passed through four periods or states of artistic development, the Duesbury being the first and best (1749), and then the younger Duesbury and Kean. Under the Bloor direction—lasting from 1815 to 1849—for some reason or other the artistic excellence declined.Bloor's agent, Locker & Co., Stevenson, Sharp & Co., and Courtsay marked their work with their own names. The proprietors at the present time are Messrs. Stevenson & Hancock, and they have ceased to use the old mark as regards the batons, and now employ hilted swords, and have added their initials ("S" and "H") one on either side, as will be seen in the illustration. It may be well to observe that a six-pointed star, stamped in the centre, at the bottom of any article may be accepted as a Crown Derby mark. The porcelain produced by Mr. Duesbury resembled the Venetian in the Cozzi period.It would be impossible to enter into a detailed account of all the various marks that distinguish the Derby china; but I may observe, as regards the last given (in a square form), that it appears on a plate of Oriental pattern, the crown and letter "D" painted in red. The square is not always surmounted by the crown. The capital "D" in italic lettering surmounting the written name "Derby" is the early mark used before 1769, and is found on very old china. The "N" is an incised mark and is probably an indicationthat the porcelain was produced in the old works in Nottingham Road; and when in 1769 the Chelsea works were united to those of Derby, the union was indicated by the anchor of Chelsea crossing an italic capital of the letter "D." Derby figures are generally very roughly marked with three round blotches underneath them and the number scratched on the clay.The Liverpool Works.To Mr. Richard Chaffers—contemporary of Josiah Wedgwood—we owe the introduction of porcelain ware into the pottery factory in Liverpool in 1769. Of him, the latter said, "Mr. Chaffers beats us in all his colours." After ten years' work, having caught a fever from his manager Podmore, he died.Philip Christian became the leading potter after that, and he produced large china vases equal to Oriental work and of great perfection. His china is marked "Christian" in capital letters.John Pennington was specially celebrated for beautiful punch-bowls and for a very fine blue, for the recipe for making which he refused 1,000 guineas from a Staffordshire house. His business began in 1760 and lasted for thirty years. His mark was "P" "p" or his name in capital letters. He had been apprenticed to Josiah Wedgwood, thence he went to Worcester as foreman and chief artist to Flight & Barr, before he conducted the works at Liverpool.Pennington carried on the china manufacture in Liverpool from 1760 to 1790. And, prior to him, I may name the factory of W. Reid & Co., of Castle Street, Liverpool, whose principal manufactures were in all descriptions of blue and white said to have been as good as any produced elsewhere in England.Chaffers was drawing soap-rock from Mullion (Cornwall) in 1756 in preparation for the manufacture, even before Cookworthy of Plymouth had produced his hard-paste porcelain.Besides the Penningtons and Philip Christian, Barnes, Abbey, Mort, Case and Simpson are all names celebrated in the Liverpool factory and in the neighbourhood.The Lowestoft Porcelain.The Lowestoft manufactory in Suffolk was founded by Hewlin Luson, Esq., in 1756 and erected on his own estate in the first instance at Gunton Hall.In 1775 the Lowestoft porcelain had attained great perfection. Hard paste was then introduced, after a period of twenty years of the use of the soft, which was of fine quality. The hard was of very thick substance, but with a fine glaze.So close was the resemblance acquired to Oriental porcelain at this factory that it was difficult for the general observer to distinguish between them, which difficulty was enhanced by the fact that no mark was ever used as it was an object with the proprietors to make their work pass for genuine Oriental ware. Yet there were certain peculiarities in style and colouring which were sufficient to betray their origin. Amongst these the prevalence of the rose in the declaration of a very large proportion of the china often served to identify it, being painted by Thomas Rose. The flower was generally pink and represented as having fallen from the stem. The most difficult of recognition amongst the varieties of Lowestoft china are the examples in white and blue.Amongst other designs, the "fan and feather" pattern was striking in character in imitation of the Capo di Monte; painted in blue, purple, and red, and often in diaper work in gold and colours. Here also a very fine egg-shell china was produced bearing delicately-painted ciphers, coats of arms, crests and scrolls, and designs in pink camaieu, with highly-finished gold borders, pearled with colours; also dessert services with raised mayflowers on blue and white grounds and pierced sides; transfer-painting being also in use.As every description of device taken from nature, including Oriental figures and other designs, was produced at this factory, it is impossible to describe them all. I may here observe that a china teapot of the distinctive "owl service" pattern was recently sold for upwards of £50.The revival of the works after the opposition raised to them in Luson's time by the London manufacturers was due to Messrs. Walker, Browne, senior and junior, Aldred, and Richman, and Allen, who carried on a large trade with Holland.The ultimate closure of the works was due to a disastrous combination of circumstances, which took place about 1803-4. There was a decline in the art some few years previously. It became too showy and over-gilded.I said that the Lowestoft manufactory had no distinctive mark, nevertheless some pieces may be found bearing the painted initials "F. R." in capital letters, standing for "Frederick Rex" (the Great), and two other examples of marking are those of a head of Christ, which is inscribed "R. Allen, Lowestoft, aged 88, 1832," and a teapot (in hard paste) of Oriental design has the name "Allen" surmounting "Lowestoft," painted in red underneath it.(To be continued.)

ENGLISH PORCELAIN.

Theintroduction of porcelain manufacture into the earthenware factory of Swansea was due to Messrs. Hains & Co. towards the close of the last century; but it was of an inferior kind. In 1802 Mr. Dillwyn purchased the works, and in 1814 they had arrived at great perfection under the management of Billingsley. The former retired in 1813 and was succeeded by his son. The next year the porcelain manufacture was revived and carried on for about seven years very successfully; Baxter, an accomplished figure painter, having entered the service of Mr. Dillwyn, junior, and continuing with him for three years, but returning to the Worcester works in 1819.

Dillwyn's china seems to have been, as a rule, distinguished by the impressed or stencilled name (in red) "Swansea," also the tridents, as illustrated.

The factory was closed about the year 1820, John Rose of Coalport having purchased the plant and removed it to his own works.

Sometimes the name "Swansea" is stencilled in red and sometimes impressed only. A very scarce mark is "Dillwyn & Co."; also the two words stamped in capitals are enclosed in lines all round.

Derbyshire porcelain represents four different periods, the manufactory having been founded by William Duesbury, of Longton, Staffordshire, in 1781. It was formed from the Bow and Chelsea china, the founder having purchased part of the plant of the former factory and the whole of the works of the latter, carrying on the Chelsea and Derby works simultaneously. His son succeeded him in 1788, taking Michael Kean into partnership; who ultimately disposed of the works to Robert Bloor (in 1815), at whose death they were closed. But a small factory was opened by Locker, Bloor's manager, which afterwards passed into the management of Messrs. Stevenson, Sharp, & Co., and then Stevenson & Hancock. In the hands of Robert Bloor the manufacture declined in excellence.

The earliest mark is a "D" or the name "Derby" incised or painted in red. On the union of the works with those of Chelsea and Bow there was an indication of the combination as seen in the second and third illustrations given (a "D" crossed horizontally by an anchor), and the crown was added above the anchor after the Royal visit in 1737, the mark being, as a general rule, painted in blue. The crown, crossed batons, dots, and letter "D" were painted diversely, sometimes in gold, blue, or puce, and subsequently in vermilion. Later on three Chinese marks were employed, known as "the potter's stool," the Sèvres mark (a "D" in the centre and crown above), and the crossed swords of the Meissen factory. The batons in early use are now transformed into the swords by the present manufacturers, Stevenson & Hancock, and they have added their own initials; the whole device (crown, swords, dots, and initials) surmounting the letter "D," as will be seen in the last illustration.

It was in the third epoch of the manufacture of what is distinguished as the "Crown Derby," that porcelain works were established in the same county by John Coke at Pinxton (near Alfreton), 1793-5. Fine transparent, soft paste was used there; but the factory was closed in 1812. The patterns distinguishing this ware was a small sprig copied from the Angouleme porcelain—such as a blue forget-me-not, or cornflower, and a gold sprig. At Church-Gresley and at Winksworth (in the same country) there were other factories connected with the name of Gill, but undistinguished by any special marks.

The counterfeit mark employed at times on the Worcester china was likewise used on genuine Derby work, a sign borrowed from the Meissen factory to which reference has been made. The Duke of Cumberland, Sir F. Fawkner, and Nicholas Sprimont (a Frenchman) were amongst the first proprietors, and were succeeded by the latter (Sprimont).

As I observed, the Derby china manufacture passed through four periods or states of artistic development, the Duesbury being the first and best (1749), and then the younger Duesbury and Kean. Under the Bloor direction—lasting from 1815 to 1849—for some reason or other the artistic excellence declined.

Bloor's agent, Locker & Co., Stevenson, Sharp & Co., and Courtsay marked their work with their own names. The proprietors at the present time are Messrs. Stevenson & Hancock, and they have ceased to use the old mark as regards the batons, and now employ hilted swords, and have added their initials ("S" and "H") one on either side, as will be seen in the illustration. It may be well to observe that a six-pointed star, stamped in the centre, at the bottom of any article may be accepted as a Crown Derby mark. The porcelain produced by Mr. Duesbury resembled the Venetian in the Cozzi period.

It would be impossible to enter into a detailed account of all the various marks that distinguish the Derby china; but I may observe, as regards the last given (in a square form), that it appears on a plate of Oriental pattern, the crown and letter "D" painted in red. The square is not always surmounted by the crown. The capital "D" in italic lettering surmounting the written name "Derby" is the early mark used before 1769, and is found on very old china. The "N" is an incised mark and is probably an indicationthat the porcelain was produced in the old works in Nottingham Road; and when in 1769 the Chelsea works were united to those of Derby, the union was indicated by the anchor of Chelsea crossing an italic capital of the letter "D." Derby figures are generally very roughly marked with three round blotches underneath them and the number scratched on the clay.

To Mr. Richard Chaffers—contemporary of Josiah Wedgwood—we owe the introduction of porcelain ware into the pottery factory in Liverpool in 1769. Of him, the latter said, "Mr. Chaffers beats us in all his colours." After ten years' work, having caught a fever from his manager Podmore, he died.

Philip Christian became the leading potter after that, and he produced large china vases equal to Oriental work and of great perfection. His china is marked "Christian" in capital letters.

John Pennington was specially celebrated for beautiful punch-bowls and for a very fine blue, for the recipe for making which he refused 1,000 guineas from a Staffordshire house. His business began in 1760 and lasted for thirty years. His mark was "P" "p" or his name in capital letters. He had been apprenticed to Josiah Wedgwood, thence he went to Worcester as foreman and chief artist to Flight & Barr, before he conducted the works at Liverpool.

Pennington carried on the china manufacture in Liverpool from 1760 to 1790. And, prior to him, I may name the factory of W. Reid & Co., of Castle Street, Liverpool, whose principal manufactures were in all descriptions of blue and white said to have been as good as any produced elsewhere in England.

Chaffers was drawing soap-rock from Mullion (Cornwall) in 1756 in preparation for the manufacture, even before Cookworthy of Plymouth had produced his hard-paste porcelain.

Besides the Penningtons and Philip Christian, Barnes, Abbey, Mort, Case and Simpson are all names celebrated in the Liverpool factory and in the neighbourhood.

The Lowestoft manufactory in Suffolk was founded by Hewlin Luson, Esq., in 1756 and erected on his own estate in the first instance at Gunton Hall.

In 1775 the Lowestoft porcelain had attained great perfection. Hard paste was then introduced, after a period of twenty years of the use of the soft, which was of fine quality. The hard was of very thick substance, but with a fine glaze.

So close was the resemblance acquired to Oriental porcelain at this factory that it was difficult for the general observer to distinguish between them, which difficulty was enhanced by the fact that no mark was ever used as it was an object with the proprietors to make their work pass for genuine Oriental ware. Yet there were certain peculiarities in style and colouring which were sufficient to betray their origin. Amongst these the prevalence of the rose in the declaration of a very large proportion of the china often served to identify it, being painted by Thomas Rose. The flower was generally pink and represented as having fallen from the stem. The most difficult of recognition amongst the varieties of Lowestoft china are the examples in white and blue.

Amongst other designs, the "fan and feather" pattern was striking in character in imitation of the Capo di Monte; painted in blue, purple, and red, and often in diaper work in gold and colours. Here also a very fine egg-shell china was produced bearing delicately-painted ciphers, coats of arms, crests and scrolls, and designs in pink camaieu, with highly-finished gold borders, pearled with colours; also dessert services with raised mayflowers on blue and white grounds and pierced sides; transfer-painting being also in use.

As every description of device taken from nature, including Oriental figures and other designs, was produced at this factory, it is impossible to describe them all. I may here observe that a china teapot of the distinctive "owl service" pattern was recently sold for upwards of £50.

The revival of the works after the opposition raised to them in Luson's time by the London manufacturers was due to Messrs. Walker, Browne, senior and junior, Aldred, and Richman, and Allen, who carried on a large trade with Holland.

The ultimate closure of the works was due to a disastrous combination of circumstances, which took place about 1803-4. There was a decline in the art some few years previously. It became too showy and over-gilded.

I said that the Lowestoft manufactory had no distinctive mark, nevertheless some pieces may be found bearing the painted initials "F. R." in capital letters, standing for "Frederick Rex" (the Great), and two other examples of marking are those of a head of Christ, which is inscribed "R. Allen, Lowestoft, aged 88, 1832," and a teapot (in hard paste) of Oriental design has the name "Allen" surmounting "Lowestoft," painted in red underneath it.

(To be continued.)

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.CHAPTER VI.A weekafter this, Mrs. Saville came to pay her farewell visit before sailing for India. Mother and daughter went out for a long walk in the morning, and retired to the drawing-room together for the afternoon. There was much that they wanted to say to each other, yet for the most part they were silent, Peggy sitting with her head on her mother's shoulder, and Mrs. Saville's arms clasped tightly round her. Every now and then she stroked the smooth brown head, and sometimes Peggy raised her lips and kissed the cheek which leant against her own, but the sentences came at long intervals."If I were ill, mother—a long illness, would you come?""On wings, darling! As fast as boat and train could bring me.""And if you were ill?""I should send for you if it were within the bounds of possibility, I promise that! You must write often, Peggy—long, long letters. Tell me all you do, and feel, and think. You will be almost a woman when we meet again. Don't grow up a stranger to me, darling.""Every week, mother! I'll write something each day, and then it will be like a diary. I'll tell you every bit of my life....""Be a good girl, Peggy. Do all you can for Mrs. Asplin, who is so kind to you. She will give you what money you need, and if at anytime you should want more than your ordinary allowance, for presents or any special purpose, just tell her about it, and she will understand. You can have anything in reason; I want you to be happy. Don't fret, dearie. I shall be with father, and the time will pass. In three years I shall be back again, and then, Peg, then, how happy we shall be! Only three years."Peggy shivered and was silent. Three years seem an endless space when one is young. She shut her eyes and pondered drearily upon all that would happen before the time of separation was passed. She would be seventeen, nearly eighteen—a young lady who wore dresses down to her ankles, and did up her hair. This was the last time, the very, very last time when she would be a child in her mother's arms. The new relationship might be nearer, sweeter, but it could never be the same, and the very sound of the words "the last time" sends a pang to the heart.Half an hour later the carriage drove up to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Asplin came into the room to say a few words of farewell, and then left Peggy to see her mother off. There were no words spoken on the way, and so quietly did they move that Robert had no suspicion that anyone was near as he took off his shoes in the cloak-room opening off the hall. He tossed his cap on to a nail, picked up his book, and was just about to sally forth, when the sound of a woman's voice sent a chill through his veins. The tone of the voice was low, almost a whisper, yet he had never in his life heard anything so thrilling as its intense and yearning tenderness. "Oh, my Peggy!" it said. "My little Peggy!" And then, as in reply, came a low moaning sound, a feeble bleat like that of a little lamb torn from its mother's side. Robert charged back into the cloak-room, and kicked savagely at the boots and shoes which were scattered aboutthe floor, his lips pressed together, and his brows meeting in a straight black line across his forehead. Another minute and the carriage rolled away. He peeped out of the door in time to see a little figure fly out into the driving rain, and walking slowly towards the school-room came face to face with Mrs. Asplin."Gone?" she inquired sadly. "Well, I'm thankful it is over. Poor little dear, where is she? Flown up to her room, I suppose. We'll leave her alone until tea-time. It will be the truest kindness.""Yes," said Robert vaguely. He was afraid that the good lady would not be so willing to leave Peggy undisturbed if she knew her real whereabouts, and was determined to say nothing to undeceive her. He felt sure that the girl had hidden herself in the summer-house at the bottom of the garden, and a nice damp mouldy retreat it would be this afternoon, with the rain driving in through the open window, and the creepers dripping on the walls. Just the place in which to sit and break your heart and catch rheumatic fever with the greatest possible ease and comfort. And yet Robert said no word of warning to Mrs. Asplin. He had an inward conviction that if any one were to go to the rescue that person should be himself, and that he, more than anyone else, would be able to comfort Peggy in her affliction. He sauntered up and down the hall until the coast was clear, and then dashed once more into the cloak-room, took an Inverness coat from a nail, a pair of goloshes from the floor, and sped rapidly down the garden-path. In less than two minutes he had reached the summer-house and was peeping cautiously in at the door. Yes; he was right. There sat Peggy, with her arms stretched out before her on the rickety table, her shoulders heaving with long, gasping sobs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically, and the smooth little head rolled to and fro in an abandonment of grief. Robert stood looking on in silent misery. He had a boy's natural hatred of tears, and of anything like a scene, and his first impulse was to turn tail, go back to the house, and send someone to take his place, but even as he stood hesitating he shivered in the chilly damp, and remembered the principal reason of his coming. He stepped forward and dropped the cloak over the bent shoulders, whereupon Peggy started up and turned a scared white face upon him."Who, who—oh! it is you! What do you want?""Nothing. I saw you come out, and thought you would be cold. I brought you out my coat.""I don't want it; I am quite warm. I came here to be alone.""I know; I'm not going to bother. Mrs. Asplin thinks you are in your room, and I didn't tell her that I'd seen you go out. But it's damp. If you catch cold your mother will be sorry."Peggy looked at him thoughtfully, and there was a glimmer of gratitude in her poor tear-stained eyes."Yes; I p-p-romised to be careful. You are very kind, but I can't think of anything to-night. I am too miserably wretched.""I know; I've been through it. I was sent away to a boarding-school when I was a little kid of eight, and I howled myself to sleep every night for weeks. It is worse for you, because you are older, but you will be happy enough in this place when you get settled. Mrs. Asplin is a brick, and we have no end of fun. It is ever so much better than being at school, and, I say, you mustn't mind what Mellicent said the other night. She's a little muff, always saying the wrong thing. We were only chaffing when we said you were to be our fag. We never really meant to bully you.""You c-couldn't if you t-tried," stammered Peggy brokenly, but with a flash of her old spirit which delighted her hearer."No; of course not. You can stand up for yourself; I know that very well. But look here, I'll make a compact if you will. Let us be friends. I'll stick to you and help you when you need it, and you stick to me. The other girls have their brother to look after them, but if you want anything done, if anyone is cheeky to you and you want him kicked, for instance, just come to me and I'll do it for you. It's all nonsense about being a fag, but there are lots of things you could do for me if you would, and I'd be awfully grateful. We might be partners and help one another——"Robert stopped in some embarrassment, and Peggy stared fixedly at him, the pale face peeping out from the folds of the Inverness coat. She had stopped crying, though the tears still trembled on her eyelashes, and her chin quivered in uncertain fashion. Her eyes dwelt on the broad forehead, the overhanging brows, the square, massive chin, and brightened with a flash of approval."You are a nice boy," she said slowly. "I like you! You don't really need my help, but you thought it would cheer me to feel that I was wanted. Yes; I'll be your partner, and I'll be of real use to you yet. You'll find that out, Robert, before you have done with me.""All right, so much the better. I hope you will, but you know you can't expect to have your own way all the time. I'm the senior partner, and you will have to do what I tell you. Now I say it's damp in this hole, and you ought to come back to the house at once. It's enough to kill you to sit in this draught.""I'd rather like to be killed. I'm tired of life. I shouldn't mind dying a bit.""Humph!" said Robert shortly. "Jolly cheerful news that would be for your poor mother when she arrived at the end of her journey. Don't be so selfish. Now, then, up you get. Come along to the house.""I wo——" Peggy began, then suddenly softened, and glanced apologetically into his face. "Yes, I will, because you ask me. Smuggle me up to my room, Robert, and don't, don't, if you love me, let Mellicent come near me! I couldn't stand her chatter to-night!""She will have to fight her way over my dead body," said Robert firmly, and Peggy's sweet little laugh quavered out on the air."Nice boy!" she repeated heartily. "Nice boy, I do like you!"(To be continued.)

ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "A Girl in Springtime," "Sisters Three," etc.

A weekafter this, Mrs. Saville came to pay her farewell visit before sailing for India. Mother and daughter went out for a long walk in the morning, and retired to the drawing-room together for the afternoon. There was much that they wanted to say to each other, yet for the most part they were silent, Peggy sitting with her head on her mother's shoulder, and Mrs. Saville's arms clasped tightly round her. Every now and then she stroked the smooth brown head, and sometimes Peggy raised her lips and kissed the cheek which leant against her own, but the sentences came at long intervals.

"If I were ill, mother—a long illness, would you come?"

"On wings, darling! As fast as boat and train could bring me."

"And if you were ill?"

"I should send for you if it were within the bounds of possibility, I promise that! You must write often, Peggy—long, long letters. Tell me all you do, and feel, and think. You will be almost a woman when we meet again. Don't grow up a stranger to me, darling."

"Every week, mother! I'll write something each day, and then it will be like a diary. I'll tell you every bit of my life...."

"Be a good girl, Peggy. Do all you can for Mrs. Asplin, who is so kind to you. She will give you what money you need, and if at anytime you should want more than your ordinary allowance, for presents or any special purpose, just tell her about it, and she will understand. You can have anything in reason; I want you to be happy. Don't fret, dearie. I shall be with father, and the time will pass. In three years I shall be back again, and then, Peg, then, how happy we shall be! Only three years."

Peggy shivered and was silent. Three years seem an endless space when one is young. She shut her eyes and pondered drearily upon all that would happen before the time of separation was passed. She would be seventeen, nearly eighteen—a young lady who wore dresses down to her ankles, and did up her hair. This was the last time, the very, very last time when she would be a child in her mother's arms. The new relationship might be nearer, sweeter, but it could never be the same, and the very sound of the words "the last time" sends a pang to the heart.

Half an hour later the carriage drove up to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Asplin came into the room to say a few words of farewell, and then left Peggy to see her mother off. There were no words spoken on the way, and so quietly did they move that Robert had no suspicion that anyone was near as he took off his shoes in the cloak-room opening off the hall. He tossed his cap on to a nail, picked up his book, and was just about to sally forth, when the sound of a woman's voice sent a chill through his veins. The tone of the voice was low, almost a whisper, yet he had never in his life heard anything so thrilling as its intense and yearning tenderness. "Oh, my Peggy!" it said. "My little Peggy!" And then, as in reply, came a low moaning sound, a feeble bleat like that of a little lamb torn from its mother's side. Robert charged back into the cloak-room, and kicked savagely at the boots and shoes which were scattered aboutthe floor, his lips pressed together, and his brows meeting in a straight black line across his forehead. Another minute and the carriage rolled away. He peeped out of the door in time to see a little figure fly out into the driving rain, and walking slowly towards the school-room came face to face with Mrs. Asplin.

"Gone?" she inquired sadly. "Well, I'm thankful it is over. Poor little dear, where is she? Flown up to her room, I suppose. We'll leave her alone until tea-time. It will be the truest kindness."

"Yes," said Robert vaguely. He was afraid that the good lady would not be so willing to leave Peggy undisturbed if she knew her real whereabouts, and was determined to say nothing to undeceive her. He felt sure that the girl had hidden herself in the summer-house at the bottom of the garden, and a nice damp mouldy retreat it would be this afternoon, with the rain driving in through the open window, and the creepers dripping on the walls. Just the place in which to sit and break your heart and catch rheumatic fever with the greatest possible ease and comfort. And yet Robert said no word of warning to Mrs. Asplin. He had an inward conviction that if any one were to go to the rescue that person should be himself, and that he, more than anyone else, would be able to comfort Peggy in her affliction. He sauntered up and down the hall until the coast was clear, and then dashed once more into the cloak-room, took an Inverness coat from a nail, a pair of goloshes from the floor, and sped rapidly down the garden-path. In less than two minutes he had reached the summer-house and was peeping cautiously in at the door. Yes; he was right. There sat Peggy, with her arms stretched out before her on the rickety table, her shoulders heaving with long, gasping sobs. Her fingers clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically, and the smooth little head rolled to and fro in an abandonment of grief. Robert stood looking on in silent misery. He had a boy's natural hatred of tears, and of anything like a scene, and his first impulse was to turn tail, go back to the house, and send someone to take his place, but even as he stood hesitating he shivered in the chilly damp, and remembered the principal reason of his coming. He stepped forward and dropped the cloak over the bent shoulders, whereupon Peggy started up and turned a scared white face upon him.

"Who, who—oh! it is you! What do you want?"

"Nothing. I saw you come out, and thought you would be cold. I brought you out my coat."

"I don't want it; I am quite warm. I came here to be alone."

"I know; I'm not going to bother. Mrs. Asplin thinks you are in your room, and I didn't tell her that I'd seen you go out. But it's damp. If you catch cold your mother will be sorry."

Peggy looked at him thoughtfully, and there was a glimmer of gratitude in her poor tear-stained eyes.

"Yes; I p-p-romised to be careful. You are very kind, but I can't think of anything to-night. I am too miserably wretched."

"I know; I've been through it. I was sent away to a boarding-school when I was a little kid of eight, and I howled myself to sleep every night for weeks. It is worse for you, because you are older, but you will be happy enough in this place when you get settled. Mrs. Asplin is a brick, and we have no end of fun. It is ever so much better than being at school, and, I say, you mustn't mind what Mellicent said the other night. She's a little muff, always saying the wrong thing. We were only chaffing when we said you were to be our fag. We never really meant to bully you."

"You c-couldn't if you t-tried," stammered Peggy brokenly, but with a flash of her old spirit which delighted her hearer.

"No; of course not. You can stand up for yourself; I know that very well. But look here, I'll make a compact if you will. Let us be friends. I'll stick to you and help you when you need it, and you stick to me. The other girls have their brother to look after them, but if you want anything done, if anyone is cheeky to you and you want him kicked, for instance, just come to me and I'll do it for you. It's all nonsense about being a fag, but there are lots of things you could do for me if you would, and I'd be awfully grateful. We might be partners and help one another——"

Robert stopped in some embarrassment, and Peggy stared fixedly at him, the pale face peeping out from the folds of the Inverness coat. She had stopped crying, though the tears still trembled on her eyelashes, and her chin quivered in uncertain fashion. Her eyes dwelt on the broad forehead, the overhanging brows, the square, massive chin, and brightened with a flash of approval.

"You are a nice boy," she said slowly. "I like you! You don't really need my help, but you thought it would cheer me to feel that I was wanted. Yes; I'll be your partner, and I'll be of real use to you yet. You'll find that out, Robert, before you have done with me."

"All right, so much the better. I hope you will, but you know you can't expect to have your own way all the time. I'm the senior partner, and you will have to do what I tell you. Now I say it's damp in this hole, and you ought to come back to the house at once. It's enough to kill you to sit in this draught."

"I'd rather like to be killed. I'm tired of life. I shouldn't mind dying a bit."

"Humph!" said Robert shortly. "Jolly cheerful news that would be for your poor mother when she arrived at the end of her journey. Don't be so selfish. Now, then, up you get. Come along to the house."

"I wo——" Peggy began, then suddenly softened, and glanced apologetically into his face. "Yes, I will, because you ask me. Smuggle me up to my room, Robert, and don't, don't, if you love me, let Mellicent come near me! I couldn't stand her chatter to-night!"

"She will have to fight her way over my dead body," said Robert firmly, and Peggy's sweet little laugh quavered out on the air.

"Nice boy!" she repeated heartily. "Nice boy, I do like you!"

(To be continued.)

"IN MINE HOUSE."ByLINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of "The King's Daughters," etc.PART I.ITS CUPBOARDS.Minehouse is not an old-fashioned, picturesque one; it boasts of no mullioned windows or deep embrasures. It is like hundreds of others to be found scattered over England—built after the same plan and decorated after the same fashion. It stands in a street, and is reduplicated on every hand like a cardboard expanding toy. It draws a peaked gable roof over its red brick face, and has no originality to awake attention.In one thing only is mine house unique. Its general architecture it owes to its builder, its cupboards to a certain little old lady who lived therein for many years. Every spot has been utilised, and I rejoice in the most comfortable interior it is possible to imagine. "A place for everything and everything in its place" is a motto easily followed in this mine house.Nowadays most matrons have wakened to the delights of a well-cupboarded "manio," or abiding-place. The first thing looked for in taking a new house is its capabilities in this direction. The long-headed woman values every recess and corner as a possible press. She knows a few shillings spent in pine-boards, hooks, curtains, and locks, can transform dust-collecting angles into dust-resisting receptacles. With a little forethought and contrivance, our carpenter can be so superintended that such work need not be made into "fixtures"—sliding grooves and panels, a few staples and screws, insure easily taken-down wardrobes, and need not strain the purse of even a frequent flitter.The first necessary cupboard in mine houseis the linen press. This should, if possible, be built over those unseemly hot-water pipes which supply the bath from our kitchen boiler. There should be graduated shelves in it—wide ones to hold sheets, narrow ones for table napkins, d'oyleys, etc. Every shelf should be neatly lined with white paper, and one at least must have linen laps to tie over our least-used napery. Plenty of lavender bags—measuring the length of the press—should be placed everywhere; not tiny satchel-like things, which rumple into corners and get mislaid, but at least a yard in length and just as wide as each shelf.On the door should be pasted a list of the linen stored in this our press. This list varies much in each house; but I will tell you what I consider absolutely necessary only. First, there should be six Irish linen tablecloths for parlour use and three breakfast cloths; six fine table-napkins for every member of the family. For kitchen wear, three smaller coarser cloths are required, and, if you wish to inculcate habits of nicety in your maids, three napkins apiece must be provided. This allows for one in use, one at the laundry, and one in reserve. Half-a-dozen fringed tea-cloths, half-a-dozen sideboard slips, a couple of dozen oval, round, and square d'oyleys, and the embellishment of the dining-table is secured.We next come to the sleeping rooms. In our press we must number three pair of sheets for each bed—each upper one frilled and embroidered with our monogram. These sheets may be of twilled cotton, but their accompanying fellow slips must be of linen. Linen wears better, looks better, and feels nicer than cotton. There should be six to each single bed. Cash's hem-stitched frilling gives a dainty finish to these slips, and will wear as long as the linen. Beside the bed-linen should lie chamber-towels; of these it is nice to have several dozen, with different borders, when possible, so that each room may keep to its own set. Cheap towels are most expensive in the long run; those flimsy honeycomb ones requiring incessant laundrying. Buy good huckaback, or satin diaper, and beautify them with marking initials in cross stitch. This is easily done by tacking a small square of coarse canvas into the corner and withdrawing its strands after working. Ingrain cottons of all colours can now be bought for this work; the red wears and washes best.Our dressing-tables also claim a niche in our linen press. Three sets of covers being necessary for each.At the very top of our press, it is well to have some very wide shelves fixed. They will be overhead, so may jut out into the room. In this cupboard—lined with brown holland, and scented with camphor balls—we shall do well to store spare blankets in the summer, down quilts when not in use, and any straw pillows. They will always be warm and ready for immediate service, as the hot-water pipes will keep them well aired.So much about furnishing our linen press. The replenishment of it should be constant. Even when we use our dozens of towels in rotation, they will wear out, and it is necessary to keep up the stock by occasional purchases. Careful mending, too, is necessary. No pillow-slips minus buttons or tapes, no tiny hole in a tablecloth, should be seen in a well-kept linen press. When sheets wear thin, they should be split in half, sides brought to the centre, and the worn edges hemmed. When constant folding brings frays in a tablecloth, the laundress should be directed to fold them across instead of lengthways. This will double the life of our finest diaper. Towels, when ragged, can be doubled and made into bath cloths and chamber rubbers; loops of tape attached will be useful for hanging in place.The next cupboard claiming attention in mine house is the crockery one. Here are stored cups and saucers, plenty of spare glass, water-jugs and crofts. It is well to keep in this press extra lamp-chimneys and gas-globes. Best dessert dishes, too, should be placed on the top shelf and any ornaments not in daily use.Hanging presses are a great boon to the tidy housewife. One for spare dresses should be built on any landing large enough. American pegs screwed into the wall over a sheet of well-stretched holland answer the purpose of skirt-hanging. To each of them should be tied a double width of the same material to wrap round our silk and muslin robes. Sometimes bags, forty-six inches long, are preferred to draw over the skirt and to hang with it from a peg. With these bags it is unnecessary to have doors to this cupboard, as their use is a safeguard against dust, even if a curtain only be hung in front of the recess.A remnant cupboard is not always met with, but what a boon it is in mine house. My old lady had one fixed in a spare room. A top shelf is ready for rolls of wall paper, remnants of curtains, calicoes, and flannels, old square of blanket fit for scouring purposes, old linen for dust-cloths fill its pigeon-holes, whilst a rag-bag of red twill hangs below all, and is stuffed with scraps too small to be rolled or folded.A medicine cupboard is a necessity in mine house. One hung not higher than one's head is best. This should be divided in half; one partition provided with a well-locked door, the other protected only by a curtain. In this latter portion may be kept narrow and wide bandages, goldbeater's skin, and sticking plaster, cotton-wool, and a pair of scissors, some strong thread and tape, vaseline and powder. In the locked part all the family pharmacopœia must be secluded. "Poisons" should be printed legibly on the door, and the key should never leave our ownchatelaine. Have in this a bottle of sweet nitre for feverishness, and some pilules of aconite; spirits of camphor for a cold, and a screw of lump sugar; a two-ounce bottle of castor oil with an old teaspoon near it, spongia, Ipecacuanha wine, and syrup of squills ready for croup; a tin of linseed, another of mustard, a flask of sweet oil, a bottle each of eucalyptus, camphorated oil and glycerine; belladonna tincture for sore throats; carron or green oil for a burn; and liquorice powder or Cascara pellets for constipation. In mine house all these things are necessary, and should be found in the medicine cupboard.A jam press is a nice addition to our housewife's corner. Every pot of marmalade or jelly should have a label on it stating when it was made."Raspberry jam,No. 1 boiling,July 20th, 1899."In a dry situation there is no need to cover each crock. If well boiled and made of fresh sound fruit, it should "jell" enough to keep without excluding air. A sheet of newspaper laid over the rows of pots is all my old lady ever thought necessary for her home-made jam. But then her jam press had air-holes bored in the door. These were masked with finest wire netting, and effectually prevented mouldiness.A boot cupboard lengthens the lives of all our bottines. Two shelves about two feet apart should be protected in front with a chintz curtain hanging from tiny rings to a brass pole. Every pair of boots should be kept here, protected from dust and ready for wear. Trees fitted into each are really economical, as they double the existence of all outdoor footgear. Damp boots, too, can be filled with oats, and dry slowly in this cupboard, instead of being hardened and shrivelled over the kitchen range.Of course a store press is asine quâ nonin mine house. I do not keep this locked, for servants should be trusted in a family. Here everything likely to be wanted in an emergency is kept—tins of salmon, herrings and tomatoes, collared head,pâte de foie gras, corned beef, pickles and chutnees, potted meats, bottled fruit for pies, capers, peppers, spices, lentils by the stone, and all farinaceous preparations; soap by weight cut up and dried, currents washed and picked ready for use, raisins, sultanas, soda in a sack, etc., etc. In order to keep these things really nice and fresh, stone jars with covers are the best to put them in. But when these prove too expensive, wide-mouthed pickle bottles may be used, labelled clearly so that their contents are recognised at once. Flour should be kept in a tub, apples and sugar in casks. This store cupboard must be cleared out once a month, its shelves swept down, and fresh lining paper put there on them. It is easy then to note where our supply is running short, and to supplement it, easy to see where a bag has burst, or bottle is leaking, and to substitute other ones.Amultum in parvocupboard is one of the comforts in mine house. Here, under lock and key, are kept spare dozens of cotton, spools, papers of needles, boxes of pins, both hair and dress, tapes and measures, paper and envelopes, pens by the gross, and pencils by the score. These can often be picked up at sales for next to nothing, and a constant supply of such necessities is at hand.A carpenter's cupboard is a boon to every household. In mine house one is fitted up in a tiny closet under the stairs. So many little things go wrong in the framework of our homes—locks grow stiff, handles come off, window cords break, nails want driving. How well it is when the mistress of a house can wield hammer and gimlet and screwdriver; and yet how often are such tools missing when required. In my carpenter's cupboard there is always a heavy-headed, light-handled little hammer for adjusting carpets or putting in tacks; also a coal-hammer for heavier work. Here a gimlet may be found, and several different-sized screwdrivers, a box of assorted nails; hooks and screws are also found there when wanted. A small sharpening plate and flask of oil for keeping the family couch in easy trim, a smoothing plane and saw, wire nails and coils of thin cord, a pair of pincers, and a good knife. I find a stitch in time in carpentering saves more than the proverbial nine.And now I think I have told you about most of the cupboards in mine house, and what is found therein. I have not described the housemaid's closet with its hairbroom, its pope's head, its twig, its besom, its dustpan and brush, or its other et ceteras. Every mistress of a family knows what is required therein, only let me suggest that her usual feather-head dusting-brush should be conspicuous by its absence. Never was so senseless a plan devised for flicking particles from one place to another as that same feather whisk. Let the housemaid have plenty of damp dusters at hand, and germ-pregnant dust will be effectually removed.I have omitted, too, all account of the butler's pantry. Houses nowadays that keep such an official are governed by a housekeeper, and not by the mistress herself. Besides, I am writing about small establishments in which women do the work. For that reason, my next paper will be all about the ingle-nooks in mine house, and how to economise these.(To be continued.)

ByLINA ORMAN COOPER, Author of "The King's Daughters," etc.

ITS CUPBOARDS.

Minehouse is not an old-fashioned, picturesque one; it boasts of no mullioned windows or deep embrasures. It is like hundreds of others to be found scattered over England—built after the same plan and decorated after the same fashion. It stands in a street, and is reduplicated on every hand like a cardboard expanding toy. It draws a peaked gable roof over its red brick face, and has no originality to awake attention.

In one thing only is mine house unique. Its general architecture it owes to its builder, its cupboards to a certain little old lady who lived therein for many years. Every spot has been utilised, and I rejoice in the most comfortable interior it is possible to imagine. "A place for everything and everything in its place" is a motto easily followed in this mine house.

Nowadays most matrons have wakened to the delights of a well-cupboarded "manio," or abiding-place. The first thing looked for in taking a new house is its capabilities in this direction. The long-headed woman values every recess and corner as a possible press. She knows a few shillings spent in pine-boards, hooks, curtains, and locks, can transform dust-collecting angles into dust-resisting receptacles. With a little forethought and contrivance, our carpenter can be so superintended that such work need not be made into "fixtures"—sliding grooves and panels, a few staples and screws, insure easily taken-down wardrobes, and need not strain the purse of even a frequent flitter.

The first necessary cupboard in mine houseis the linen press. This should, if possible, be built over those unseemly hot-water pipes which supply the bath from our kitchen boiler. There should be graduated shelves in it—wide ones to hold sheets, narrow ones for table napkins, d'oyleys, etc. Every shelf should be neatly lined with white paper, and one at least must have linen laps to tie over our least-used napery. Plenty of lavender bags—measuring the length of the press—should be placed everywhere; not tiny satchel-like things, which rumple into corners and get mislaid, but at least a yard in length and just as wide as each shelf.

On the door should be pasted a list of the linen stored in this our press. This list varies much in each house; but I will tell you what I consider absolutely necessary only. First, there should be six Irish linen tablecloths for parlour use and three breakfast cloths; six fine table-napkins for every member of the family. For kitchen wear, three smaller coarser cloths are required, and, if you wish to inculcate habits of nicety in your maids, three napkins apiece must be provided. This allows for one in use, one at the laundry, and one in reserve. Half-a-dozen fringed tea-cloths, half-a-dozen sideboard slips, a couple of dozen oval, round, and square d'oyleys, and the embellishment of the dining-table is secured.

We next come to the sleeping rooms. In our press we must number three pair of sheets for each bed—each upper one frilled and embroidered with our monogram. These sheets may be of twilled cotton, but their accompanying fellow slips must be of linen. Linen wears better, looks better, and feels nicer than cotton. There should be six to each single bed. Cash's hem-stitched frilling gives a dainty finish to these slips, and will wear as long as the linen. Beside the bed-linen should lie chamber-towels; of these it is nice to have several dozen, with different borders, when possible, so that each room may keep to its own set. Cheap towels are most expensive in the long run; those flimsy honeycomb ones requiring incessant laundrying. Buy good huckaback, or satin diaper, and beautify them with marking initials in cross stitch. This is easily done by tacking a small square of coarse canvas into the corner and withdrawing its strands after working. Ingrain cottons of all colours can now be bought for this work; the red wears and washes best.

Our dressing-tables also claim a niche in our linen press. Three sets of covers being necessary for each.

At the very top of our press, it is well to have some very wide shelves fixed. They will be overhead, so may jut out into the room. In this cupboard—lined with brown holland, and scented with camphor balls—we shall do well to store spare blankets in the summer, down quilts when not in use, and any straw pillows. They will always be warm and ready for immediate service, as the hot-water pipes will keep them well aired.

So much about furnishing our linen press. The replenishment of it should be constant. Even when we use our dozens of towels in rotation, they will wear out, and it is necessary to keep up the stock by occasional purchases. Careful mending, too, is necessary. No pillow-slips minus buttons or tapes, no tiny hole in a tablecloth, should be seen in a well-kept linen press. When sheets wear thin, they should be split in half, sides brought to the centre, and the worn edges hemmed. When constant folding brings frays in a tablecloth, the laundress should be directed to fold them across instead of lengthways. This will double the life of our finest diaper. Towels, when ragged, can be doubled and made into bath cloths and chamber rubbers; loops of tape attached will be useful for hanging in place.

The next cupboard claiming attention in mine house is the crockery one. Here are stored cups and saucers, plenty of spare glass, water-jugs and crofts. It is well to keep in this press extra lamp-chimneys and gas-globes. Best dessert dishes, too, should be placed on the top shelf and any ornaments not in daily use.

Hanging presses are a great boon to the tidy housewife. One for spare dresses should be built on any landing large enough. American pegs screwed into the wall over a sheet of well-stretched holland answer the purpose of skirt-hanging. To each of them should be tied a double width of the same material to wrap round our silk and muslin robes. Sometimes bags, forty-six inches long, are preferred to draw over the skirt and to hang with it from a peg. With these bags it is unnecessary to have doors to this cupboard, as their use is a safeguard against dust, even if a curtain only be hung in front of the recess.

A remnant cupboard is not always met with, but what a boon it is in mine house. My old lady had one fixed in a spare room. A top shelf is ready for rolls of wall paper, remnants of curtains, calicoes, and flannels, old square of blanket fit for scouring purposes, old linen for dust-cloths fill its pigeon-holes, whilst a rag-bag of red twill hangs below all, and is stuffed with scraps too small to be rolled or folded.

A medicine cupboard is a necessity in mine house. One hung not higher than one's head is best. This should be divided in half; one partition provided with a well-locked door, the other protected only by a curtain. In this latter portion may be kept narrow and wide bandages, goldbeater's skin, and sticking plaster, cotton-wool, and a pair of scissors, some strong thread and tape, vaseline and powder. In the locked part all the family pharmacopœia must be secluded. "Poisons" should be printed legibly on the door, and the key should never leave our ownchatelaine. Have in this a bottle of sweet nitre for feverishness, and some pilules of aconite; spirits of camphor for a cold, and a screw of lump sugar; a two-ounce bottle of castor oil with an old teaspoon near it, spongia, Ipecacuanha wine, and syrup of squills ready for croup; a tin of linseed, another of mustard, a flask of sweet oil, a bottle each of eucalyptus, camphorated oil and glycerine; belladonna tincture for sore throats; carron or green oil for a burn; and liquorice powder or Cascara pellets for constipation. In mine house all these things are necessary, and should be found in the medicine cupboard.

A jam press is a nice addition to our housewife's corner. Every pot of marmalade or jelly should have a label on it stating when it was made.

"Raspberry jam,No. 1 boiling,July 20th, 1899."

In a dry situation there is no need to cover each crock. If well boiled and made of fresh sound fruit, it should "jell" enough to keep without excluding air. A sheet of newspaper laid over the rows of pots is all my old lady ever thought necessary for her home-made jam. But then her jam press had air-holes bored in the door. These were masked with finest wire netting, and effectually prevented mouldiness.

A boot cupboard lengthens the lives of all our bottines. Two shelves about two feet apart should be protected in front with a chintz curtain hanging from tiny rings to a brass pole. Every pair of boots should be kept here, protected from dust and ready for wear. Trees fitted into each are really economical, as they double the existence of all outdoor footgear. Damp boots, too, can be filled with oats, and dry slowly in this cupboard, instead of being hardened and shrivelled over the kitchen range.

Of course a store press is asine quâ nonin mine house. I do not keep this locked, for servants should be trusted in a family. Here everything likely to be wanted in an emergency is kept—tins of salmon, herrings and tomatoes, collared head,pâte de foie gras, corned beef, pickles and chutnees, potted meats, bottled fruit for pies, capers, peppers, spices, lentils by the stone, and all farinaceous preparations; soap by weight cut up and dried, currents washed and picked ready for use, raisins, sultanas, soda in a sack, etc., etc. In order to keep these things really nice and fresh, stone jars with covers are the best to put them in. But when these prove too expensive, wide-mouthed pickle bottles may be used, labelled clearly so that their contents are recognised at once. Flour should be kept in a tub, apples and sugar in casks. This store cupboard must be cleared out once a month, its shelves swept down, and fresh lining paper put there on them. It is easy then to note where our supply is running short, and to supplement it, easy to see where a bag has burst, or bottle is leaking, and to substitute other ones.

Amultum in parvocupboard is one of the comforts in mine house. Here, under lock and key, are kept spare dozens of cotton, spools, papers of needles, boxes of pins, both hair and dress, tapes and measures, paper and envelopes, pens by the gross, and pencils by the score. These can often be picked up at sales for next to nothing, and a constant supply of such necessities is at hand.

A carpenter's cupboard is a boon to every household. In mine house one is fitted up in a tiny closet under the stairs. So many little things go wrong in the framework of our homes—locks grow stiff, handles come off, window cords break, nails want driving. How well it is when the mistress of a house can wield hammer and gimlet and screwdriver; and yet how often are such tools missing when required. In my carpenter's cupboard there is always a heavy-headed, light-handled little hammer for adjusting carpets or putting in tacks; also a coal-hammer for heavier work. Here a gimlet may be found, and several different-sized screwdrivers, a box of assorted nails; hooks and screws are also found there when wanted. A small sharpening plate and flask of oil for keeping the family couch in easy trim, a smoothing plane and saw, wire nails and coils of thin cord, a pair of pincers, and a good knife. I find a stitch in time in carpentering saves more than the proverbial nine.

And now I think I have told you about most of the cupboards in mine house, and what is found therein. I have not described the housemaid's closet with its hairbroom, its pope's head, its twig, its besom, its dustpan and brush, or its other et ceteras. Every mistress of a family knows what is required therein, only let me suggest that her usual feather-head dusting-brush should be conspicuous by its absence. Never was so senseless a plan devised for flicking particles from one place to another as that same feather whisk. Let the housemaid have plenty of damp dusters at hand, and germ-pregnant dust will be effectually removed.

I have omitted, too, all account of the butler's pantry. Houses nowadays that keep such an official are governed by a housekeeper, and not by the mistress herself. Besides, I am writing about small establishments in which women do the work. For that reason, my next paper will be all about the ingle-nooks in mine house, and how to economise these.

(To be continued.)

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