LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.PART IV.The Temple.My dear Dorothy,—Before going away for your summer holiday, I should advise you to put all your valuables, such as your silver tea-set, etc., into a strong iron box and get Gerald to deposit the same at his bank, where it will be perfectly safe.The bank will not give you a receipt for the contents of the box, because they will not make themselves responsible for property which they are taking care of gratuitously; but they will give you an acknowledgment for the box itself, which is quite sufficient for your purpose.The landlady at Southsea had no justification for writing and telling you that you could not have the rooms, which you had previously engaged, for another week yet, because her present lodgers were staying on in them. She has broken her contract with you—which was to let her rooms to you from a certain date for a specified amount—so that if you find it more convenient to leave town at the date you originally fixed, you need not wait upon the Southsea landlady's pleasure. The contract to take her rooms is at an end, and you need not go to her at all unless it suits you to do so.From a strictly legal point of view, you have a right of action against her, which I do not advise nor suppose you would care to exercise, although it is most annoying to have your plans upset in this manner, and more especially too when you went to the trouble and expense of going down to Southsea so as to make certain of securing comfortable quarters.I would not advise your friend to have anything to do with those attractive advertisements which appear in the newspapers, offering home employment to gentlewomen at the rate of ten to thirty shillings a week. The dodge is little better than a swindle; perhaps not a swindle in a strictly legal sense, but a swindle all the same.The way it is worked is this: you are asked to send two or three shillings in the first instance and in return you get a quantity of rubber stamps which you have to sell to your friends at a profit, and when you have disposed of them all (a most unlikely event) you buy more rubber stamps at wholesale prices and sell them at retail ones; or else you receive a packet of wool, which you have to knit into an impossible number of socks and comforters, and for which you will be paid a small sum for so many dozen pairs.It is a particularly heartless swindle to my mind, because the unfortunate ladies who answer these advertisements can ill afford to waste even two or three shillings, and, of course, they are quite unable to sell the rubber stamps or similar rubbish received in return for their money.I have received frequent complaints from ladies who have been taken in by this trick, and I should like to see all such advertisements expunged from the newspapers. The advertisement columns contain a good many traps for the unwary. For instance, there is the “lady” who is offering silver fish-knives for sale at an immense sacrifice, unused, and less than half the original value.You will observe that the word is “value” not “cost”; but she omits to state that the value put upon them is that given to them by herself, and, curiously enough, she is offering a similar sacrifice every day in the year.I do not suggest that there is any swindle in the above style of advertisement. It is a trick of the trade, and if you are sharp enough you will find that the same “lady” is offering other articles for sale also at a sacrifice in another part of the paper.The fact also that nearly all these articles are advertised as “unused” ought to be sufficient to warn people that it is a dealer and not a private individual who is advertising; but people, especially ladies, my dear Dorothy, are so anxious to make a bargain that they cannot resist the temptation to purchase an article, with a fictitious value attached to it, at half price.A similar article, if bought at a shop in the ordinary way, costs less and lasts longer; but then it would not profess to be a bargain—wherein lies the charm.I am afraid that I cannot give you any comfort as regards the bill sent in by your stationer, whom you say you have already paid. If you cannot find or did not get a receipt from him you are powerless and will have to pay it over again.When tradespeople know your name and address, it is always advisable to ask for a receipt if they do not offer to give you one. Even when dealing with shops which profess to sell on cash terms only, I always make a point of asking for a receipt if the goods are to be sent to my address; and, for the future, I advise you to follow the example ofYour affectionate cousin,Bob Briefless.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—Before going away for your summer holiday, I should advise you to put all your valuables, such as your silver tea-set, etc., into a strong iron box and get Gerald to deposit the same at his bank, where it will be perfectly safe.

The bank will not give you a receipt for the contents of the box, because they will not make themselves responsible for property which they are taking care of gratuitously; but they will give you an acknowledgment for the box itself, which is quite sufficient for your purpose.

The landlady at Southsea had no justification for writing and telling you that you could not have the rooms, which you had previously engaged, for another week yet, because her present lodgers were staying on in them. She has broken her contract with you—which was to let her rooms to you from a certain date for a specified amount—so that if you find it more convenient to leave town at the date you originally fixed, you need not wait upon the Southsea landlady's pleasure. The contract to take her rooms is at an end, and you need not go to her at all unless it suits you to do so.

From a strictly legal point of view, you have a right of action against her, which I do not advise nor suppose you would care to exercise, although it is most annoying to have your plans upset in this manner, and more especially too when you went to the trouble and expense of going down to Southsea so as to make certain of securing comfortable quarters.

I would not advise your friend to have anything to do with those attractive advertisements which appear in the newspapers, offering home employment to gentlewomen at the rate of ten to thirty shillings a week. The dodge is little better than a swindle; perhaps not a swindle in a strictly legal sense, but a swindle all the same.

The way it is worked is this: you are asked to send two or three shillings in the first instance and in return you get a quantity of rubber stamps which you have to sell to your friends at a profit, and when you have disposed of them all (a most unlikely event) you buy more rubber stamps at wholesale prices and sell them at retail ones; or else you receive a packet of wool, which you have to knit into an impossible number of socks and comforters, and for which you will be paid a small sum for so many dozen pairs.

It is a particularly heartless swindle to my mind, because the unfortunate ladies who answer these advertisements can ill afford to waste even two or three shillings, and, of course, they are quite unable to sell the rubber stamps or similar rubbish received in return for their money.

I have received frequent complaints from ladies who have been taken in by this trick, and I should like to see all such advertisements expunged from the newspapers. The advertisement columns contain a good many traps for the unwary. For instance, there is the “lady” who is offering silver fish-knives for sale at an immense sacrifice, unused, and less than half the original value.

You will observe that the word is “value” not “cost”; but she omits to state that the value put upon them is that given to them by herself, and, curiously enough, she is offering a similar sacrifice every day in the year.

I do not suggest that there is any swindle in the above style of advertisement. It is a trick of the trade, and if you are sharp enough you will find that the same “lady” is offering other articles for sale also at a sacrifice in another part of the paper.

The fact also that nearly all these articles are advertised as “unused” ought to be sufficient to warn people that it is a dealer and not a private individual who is advertising; but people, especially ladies, my dear Dorothy, are so anxious to make a bargain that they cannot resist the temptation to purchase an article, with a fictitious value attached to it, at half price.

A similar article, if bought at a shop in the ordinary way, costs less and lasts longer; but then it would not profess to be a bargain—wherein lies the charm.

I am afraid that I cannot give you any comfort as regards the bill sent in by your stationer, whom you say you have already paid. If you cannot find or did not get a receipt from him you are powerless and will have to pay it over again.

When tradespeople know your name and address, it is always advisable to ask for a receipt if they do not offer to give you one. Even when dealing with shops which profess to sell on cash terms only, I always make a point of asking for a receipt if the goods are to be sent to my address; and, for the future, I advise you to follow the example of

Your affectionate cousin,Bob Briefless.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;OR,VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE DAYS.COTTAGE AT PINNER.PART IV.Wewill now describe a few examples of village architecture in the immediate neighbourhood of London, with illustrations from Pinner and Acton. The first, which is in “Post-and-pan” construction, is a simple but pleasing example of Gothic work, dating from the reign of Henry VIII., sketched at Pinner. The second is a porch to a cottage in the same pretty village; it is one of the most picturesque examples we know of, and the lovely rose bush which shades it adds much to its beauty. When we first saw it great clusters of these exquisite flowers clung around the ancient timbers and spread themselves over the ruddy tiles of the roof. It would be difficult to conceive a more charming bower, but, although some mending has been recently carried out, it will probably not last through many more winters; some cruel wind may wreck it, or some tempest ruin it, but when this catastrophe takes place it will have served its purpose for nearly four centuries, and can a wooden porch be expected to do more? As we heard an archæologist say, “it will have earned a right to tumble down.” Alas, we fear that most of the old village architecture in England has earned this right, and will, before very long, take advantage of it.In addition to this the wholesale “improving” away of picturesque village architecture in the vicinity of the metropolis will leave little for those who come after us to study or admire.A few years back how beautiful a place was Willesden, with its mediæval cottages, ancient wooden parsonage, inns and country houses surrounded by gardens, farm-yards, barns, wooden granaries, etc. All but one or two have lately disappeared, and they are threatened.What a pretty country village Acton was, but now how changed! The old forge still remains to speak to us of village life of the past; it is sweet and charming, its walls mantled with creepers and overshadowed with great elms and poplars. A quaint little garden with brick paths separates it from the road. The building itself is of brick partly framed in timber, though not of “Post-and-pan” construction, as the wood is simply introduced by way of bond, a kind of construction which came in towards the end of the seventeenth century. The chimneys are older than the house, and look quite Elizabethan. It is altogether a lovely village bit and strangely out of gear with the smart suburban villas growing up all around it.COTTAGE PORCH, PINNER.It is strange that in times within the memory of the writer the villages closely surrounding London were so countrified. Hampstead, Highgate, Acton, Fulham, Barnes, Kew, Richmond, Bow, Stratford, Bromley were quite separated from the metropolis and surrounded by pleasant fields, approached by lanes shaded by elms and tall hawthorn hedges, full of good old-fashioned houses shut in with lofty red brick walls, over which fruit trees might be seen, laden in autumn, with ruddy apples, golden pears or purple plums, offering a temptation to the passer-by. Fields of cabbages or fragrant beans, (can anything surpass the scent of a bean-field in full bloom with the sun upon it?) market gardens, orchards, and acres of more delicate vegetables, cucumbers, etc., grown under glass; great waggons laden withthe produce of the land jolting and jingling along the road or stopping for refreshment for man and beast in front of some well-shaded wayside inn. A four-wheeled cab might be seen occasionally, when folks would look at one another, and say, “What can be the matter? Here's a cab going to the Smiths'. Can it be a lawyer going to draw up the old man's will, or has his son, after so many years, come back again from India?” See the neighbourhoods now with their huge warehouses, manufactories or smart suburban streets and rows of shops, omnibuses, motor cars, etc. How few years, comparatively speaking, it has taken to effect these changes, and one wonders whether any country at all will be left in the days of our grandchildren.VILLAGE FORGE AT ACTON.(To be continued.)

COTTAGE AT PINNER.

COTTAGE AT PINNER.

Wewill now describe a few examples of village architecture in the immediate neighbourhood of London, with illustrations from Pinner and Acton. The first, which is in “Post-and-pan” construction, is a simple but pleasing example of Gothic work, dating from the reign of Henry VIII., sketched at Pinner. The second is a porch to a cottage in the same pretty village; it is one of the most picturesque examples we know of, and the lovely rose bush which shades it adds much to its beauty. When we first saw it great clusters of these exquisite flowers clung around the ancient timbers and spread themselves over the ruddy tiles of the roof. It would be difficult to conceive a more charming bower, but, although some mending has been recently carried out, it will probably not last through many more winters; some cruel wind may wreck it, or some tempest ruin it, but when this catastrophe takes place it will have served its purpose for nearly four centuries, and can a wooden porch be expected to do more? As we heard an archæologist say, “it will have earned a right to tumble down.” Alas, we fear that most of the old village architecture in England has earned this right, and will, before very long, take advantage of it.

In addition to this the wholesale “improving” away of picturesque village architecture in the vicinity of the metropolis will leave little for those who come after us to study or admire.

A few years back how beautiful a place was Willesden, with its mediæval cottages, ancient wooden parsonage, inns and country houses surrounded by gardens, farm-yards, barns, wooden granaries, etc. All but one or two have lately disappeared, and they are threatened.

What a pretty country village Acton was, but now how changed! The old forge still remains to speak to us of village life of the past; it is sweet and charming, its walls mantled with creepers and overshadowed with great elms and poplars. A quaint little garden with brick paths separates it from the road. The building itself is of brick partly framed in timber, though not of “Post-and-pan” construction, as the wood is simply introduced by way of bond, a kind of construction which came in towards the end of the seventeenth century. The chimneys are older than the house, and look quite Elizabethan. It is altogether a lovely village bit and strangely out of gear with the smart suburban villas growing up all around it.

COTTAGE PORCH, PINNER.

COTTAGE PORCH, PINNER.

It is strange that in times within the memory of the writer the villages closely surrounding London were so countrified. Hampstead, Highgate, Acton, Fulham, Barnes, Kew, Richmond, Bow, Stratford, Bromley were quite separated from the metropolis and surrounded by pleasant fields, approached by lanes shaded by elms and tall hawthorn hedges, full of good old-fashioned houses shut in with lofty red brick walls, over which fruit trees might be seen, laden in autumn, with ruddy apples, golden pears or purple plums, offering a temptation to the passer-by. Fields of cabbages or fragrant beans, (can anything surpass the scent of a bean-field in full bloom with the sun upon it?) market gardens, orchards, and acres of more delicate vegetables, cucumbers, etc., grown under glass; great waggons laden withthe produce of the land jolting and jingling along the road or stopping for refreshment for man and beast in front of some well-shaded wayside inn. A four-wheeled cab might be seen occasionally, when folks would look at one another, and say, “What can be the matter? Here's a cab going to the Smiths'. Can it be a lawyer going to draw up the old man's will, or has his son, after so many years, come back again from India?” See the neighbourhoods now with their huge warehouses, manufactories or smart suburban streets and rows of shops, omnibuses, motor cars, etc. How few years, comparatively speaking, it has taken to effect these changes, and one wonders whether any country at all will be left in the days of our grandchildren.

VILLAGE FORGE AT ACTON.

VILLAGE FORGE AT ACTON.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.A Fable for Critics.A lamb strayed for the first time into the woods, and excited much discussion among the other animals. In a mixed company, one day, when he became the subject of a friendly gossip, the goat praised him.“Pooh!” said the lion, “this is too absurd. The beast is a pretty beast enough, but did you hear him roar? I heard him roar, and, by the manes of my fathers, when he roars he does nothing but cry ba—a—a!” And the lion bleated his best in mockery, but bleated far from well.“Nay,” said the deer, “I do not think so badly of his voice. I liked him well enough until I saw him leap. He kicks with the hind legs in running, and with all his skipping gets over very little ground.”“It is a bad beast altogether,” said the tiger. “He cannot roar, he cannot run, he can do nothing—and what wonder? I killed a man yesterday, and, in politeness to the new-comer, offered him a bit, upon which he had the impudence to look disgusted and say, ‘No, sir, I eat nothing but grass.’”So the beasts criticised the lamb, each in his own way; and yet it was a very good lamb nevertheless.Taking down the Clothes-Line.“We had at one time in our service,” says a modern housekeeper, “a very simple young woman, who came to us through one of the registry offices in our town.“She showed the quality of her intelligence on the very day she came. She was told to go out into the yard and take down the clothes-line, which was stretched upon half-a-dozen posts set up for that purpose.“Bridget was at the task so long that we began to wonder what on earth had become of her. We went out to see what she was doing, and found her working away vigorously with a spade. She had dug up three of the posts and had almost completed the work upon a fourth. She did not stay with us long.”Truth is always Easiest.—It is hard to personate and act a part long; for, where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return and will peep out and betray herself one time or other.The Gifts of Fortune.—“I generally divide my favours,” says Fortune, “by giving a gift to one and the power to appreciate it to another.”Natural Barometers.From the earliest times observations have been made on the signs exhibited by members of the animal world indicative of changes in the weather.Rain and storms have been predicted by asses frequently shaking and agitating their ears; by dogs rolling on the ground and scratching up the earth with their forefeet; by oxen lying on their right side; by animals crowding together; by moles throwing up more earth than usual; by bats sending forth their cries and flying into houses; by sea-fowl and other aquatic birds retiring to the shore; by ducks and geese flying backwards and forwards and frequently plunging into the water; by swallows flying low, etc.Fine weather, on the other hand, has been foretold by the croaking of crows in the morning; by bats remaining longer than usual abroad and flying about in considerable numbers; by the screech of the owl; and by cranes flying very high in silence and ranged in order.Courage.—There is nothing like courage even in ordinary things. Let us be willing to try at anything we wish to accomplish. It often happens that those who try at it do it.

A Fable for Critics.

A lamb strayed for the first time into the woods, and excited much discussion among the other animals. In a mixed company, one day, when he became the subject of a friendly gossip, the goat praised him.

“Pooh!” said the lion, “this is too absurd. The beast is a pretty beast enough, but did you hear him roar? I heard him roar, and, by the manes of my fathers, when he roars he does nothing but cry ba—a—a!” And the lion bleated his best in mockery, but bleated far from well.

“Nay,” said the deer, “I do not think so badly of his voice. I liked him well enough until I saw him leap. He kicks with the hind legs in running, and with all his skipping gets over very little ground.”

“It is a bad beast altogether,” said the tiger. “He cannot roar, he cannot run, he can do nothing—and what wonder? I killed a man yesterday, and, in politeness to the new-comer, offered him a bit, upon which he had the impudence to look disgusted and say, ‘No, sir, I eat nothing but grass.’”

So the beasts criticised the lamb, each in his own way; and yet it was a very good lamb nevertheless.

Taking down the Clothes-Line.

“We had at one time in our service,” says a modern housekeeper, “a very simple young woman, who came to us through one of the registry offices in our town.

“She showed the quality of her intelligence on the very day she came. She was told to go out into the yard and take down the clothes-line, which was stretched upon half-a-dozen posts set up for that purpose.

“Bridget was at the task so long that we began to wonder what on earth had become of her. We went out to see what she was doing, and found her working away vigorously with a spade. She had dug up three of the posts and had almost completed the work upon a fourth. She did not stay with us long.”

Truth is always Easiest.—It is hard to personate and act a part long; for, where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return and will peep out and betray herself one time or other.

The Gifts of Fortune.—“I generally divide my favours,” says Fortune, “by giving a gift to one and the power to appreciate it to another.”

Natural Barometers.

From the earliest times observations have been made on the signs exhibited by members of the animal world indicative of changes in the weather.

Rain and storms have been predicted by asses frequently shaking and agitating their ears; by dogs rolling on the ground and scratching up the earth with their forefeet; by oxen lying on their right side; by animals crowding together; by moles throwing up more earth than usual; by bats sending forth their cries and flying into houses; by sea-fowl and other aquatic birds retiring to the shore; by ducks and geese flying backwards and forwards and frequently plunging into the water; by swallows flying low, etc.

Fine weather, on the other hand, has been foretold by the croaking of crows in the morning; by bats remaining longer than usual abroad and flying about in considerable numbers; by the screech of the owl; and by cranes flying very high in silence and ranged in order.

Courage.—There is nothing like courage even in ordinary things. Let us be willing to try at anything we wish to accomplish. It often happens that those who try at it do it.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.CHAPTER XV.Forthe next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked weary little mortal to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again instead of getting up to face the long, long day.Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then, each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant “Peggy, what would you like?” “What does Peggy say?” her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.“Peggy is so grumpy!” Mellicent complained to her mother. “She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in! She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!”Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about—Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”“Are you writing to India—to your mother?”“N—no, not just now.”“Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit at all with those white cheeks.”Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, “Oh, do let me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret, but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be pleased.” If she had done so she knew perfectly well how hearty and pleasant would have been Mrs. Asplin's consent; but there are some states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs. Asplin sigh, as if with anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her shoulders in wilful indifference.“She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than ever, as I mayn't work during the day, Mellicent said I was never with them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not! They don't want me; nobody wants me now that Rosalind has come! I hate Rosalind—nasty, smirking, conceited thing!” and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her over-charged feelings.She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint with a crest and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin, another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.“Invitations!” cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. “Invitations! How scrumptious!” Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the letters, “R.D.,” suggested the sender of the letters, but the natural girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, “Quis, Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!”“Ego, Ego!” came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and torn open in breathless haste.“From Rosalind! Oh, how very funny! ‘Requests the pleasure—company—to a pink luncheon.’ What in the world is a ‘pink luncheon?’—‘on Tuesday next, the 20th inst....’”“A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r” since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene, a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”“That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob!” asked Peggy curiously, and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.“Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one colour—flowers, drapery, and food, china—everything that is on the table. It's a fag and an awful handicap, for you can't have half the things you want. But let us be modern or die, that's the motto nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions.”“‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith's company to a magenta supper.’—‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr. Jones's company to a purple tea.’ It's a splendid idea! I like it immensely,” said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative fashion. “Pink—pink—what can we eat that is pink? P-prawns, p-pickles, p-p-pomegranates, P-aysandu tongues (you would call those pink, wouldn't you—pinky red?). Humph! I don't think it sounds very nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of attention if I wore a pink frock?”“Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend on it,” said Robert confidently, whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are concerned. Mrs. Asplin said, “Yes, darling, of course I will!” and set to work with such good will that all three girls sported pink dresses beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious luncheon a few days later.Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an armchair, while Lady Darcy's maid helped the visitors to take off their wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls' ears. The maid smirked and pursed up her lips, and then meeting Peggy's steady gaze, dropped her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire—that was as perfect in its way as Rosalind's own—but with reference to the home-made dresses of the Vicar's daughters, which seemed to have suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends' behalf, and when Peggy's dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle. In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a little disconcerting.“I am sorry,” she said, “but we really don't know French well enough to follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?”“Oh-h, it doesn't matter! It was nothing at all important!” Rosalind flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof. The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The respect, and awe, and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to receive from other girls of her own age, seemed altogether wanting in Peggy's case, and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in Rosalind's eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection with Mrs. Asplin's daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss Mariquita Saville.From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady Darcy sat waiting, but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall aglow with expectation.The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky, but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of looking-glass on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float to and fro, while troughs filled with soft, pink blossoms formed a bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were attached to the silver candelabra in which pink candles burned with clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments were all of the same dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress or coat of the owner.“It's—it's beautiful!” cried Mellicent ecstatically, while Peggy's beauty-loving eye turned from one detail to another with delighted approbation. “Really,” she said to herself in astonishment, “I couldn't have done it better myself! It's quite admirable!” and as Rosalind's face peered inquiringly at her beneath the canopy of flowers she nodded her head, and smiled in generous approval.“Beautiful! Charming! I congratulate you! Did you design it, and arrange everything yourself!”“Mother and I made it up between us. We didn't do the actual work, but we told the servants what to do, and saw that it was all right. The flowers and bon-bons are easy enough to manage; it's the things to eat that are the greatest trouble.”“It seems to be too horribly prosaic to eat anything at such a table, except crumpled rose-leaves like the princess in the fairy tale,” said Peggy gushingly, but at this Mellicent gave an exclamation of dismay, and the three big lads turned their eyes simultaneously towards the soup tureen as if anxious to assure themselves that they were not to be put off with such ethereal rations.The soup was pink. “Tomato!” murmured Peggy to herself, as she raised the first creamy spoonful to her lips. The fish was covered with thick pink sauce; tiny little cutlets lurked behind ruffles of pink paper; pink baskets held chicken souffles; moulds of pink cream and whipped-up syllabus were handed round in turns, and looked so tempting that Mellicent helped herself at once, and nearly shed tears of mortification on finding that they were followed by distracting pink ices, which were carried away again before she could possibly finish what was on her plate. Then came dessert-plates and finger-glasses, in which crystallised rose-leaves floated in the scented water, as if in fulfilment of Peggy's suggestion of an hour before, and the young people sat in great contentment, eating rosy apples, bananas pared and dipped in pink sugar, or helping themselves to the delicious bon-bons which were strewed about the table.While they were thus occupied the door opened and Lord Darcy came into the room. He had not appeared before, and he shook hands with the visitors in turn, and then stood at the head of the table looking about him with a slow, kindly smile. Peggy watched him from her seat, and thought what a nice face he had, and wondered at the indifferent manner in which he was received by his wife and daughter. Lady Darcy leant back in her chair and played with her fruit, the sleeves of her pink silk tea-gown falling back from her white arms. Rosalind whispered to Max, and neither of them troubled to cast so much as a glance of welcome at the new-comer. Peggy thought of her own father, the gallant soldier out in India, of the joy and pridewith which his comings and goings were watched; of Mr. Asplin in the vicarage with his wife running to meet him, and Mellicent resting her curly head on his shoulder, and the figure of the old lord standing unnoticed at the head of his own table assumed a pathetic interest. It seemed, however, as if Lord Darcy were accustomed to be overlooked, for he showed no signs of annoyance; On the contrary, his face brightened, and he looked at the pretty scene with sparkling eyes. The room was full of a soft rosy glow, the shimmer of silver and crystal was reflected in the sheet of mirror, and beneath the garlands of flowers the young faces of the guests glowed with pleasure and excitement. He looked from one to the other—handsome Max, dandy Oswald, Robert with his look of strength and decision; then to the girls—Esther, gravely smiling, wide-eyed Mellicent; Peggy, with her eloquent, sparkling eyes; Rosalind, a queen of beauty among them all; finally to the head of the table where sat his wife.“I must congratulate you, dear,” he said heartily. “It is the prettiest sight I have seen for a long time. You have arranged admirably, but that's no new thing; you always do. I don't know where you get your ideas. These wreaths—eh? I've never seen anything like them before. What made you think of fastening them up there?”“I have had them like that several times before, but you never notice a thing until its novelty is over, and I am tired to death of seeing it,” said his wife with a frown, and an impatient curve of the lip as if she had received a rebuke instead of a compliment.Peggy stared at her plate, felt Robert shuffle on his chair by her side, and realised that he was as embarrassed and unhappy as herself. The beautiful room with its luxurious appointments seemed to have suddenly become oppressive and cheerless, for in it was the spirit of discontent and discord between those who should have been most in harmony. Esther was shocked, Mellicent frightened, the boys looked awkward and uncomfortable. No one ventured to break the silence, and there was quite a long pause before Lady Darcy spoke again in quick, irritable tones.“Have you arranged to get away with me on Thursday, as I asked you?”“My dear, I cannot. I explained before. I am extremely sorry, but I have made appointments which I cannot break. I could take you next week if you would wait.”“I can't wait. I told you I had to go to the dentist's. Do you wish me to linger on in agony for another week? And I have written to Mrs. Bouverie that I will be at her ‘At Home’ on Saturday. My appointments are, at least, as binding as yours. It isn't often that I ask you to take me anywhere, but when it is a matter of health, I do think you might show a little consideration.”Lord Darcy drew his brows together and bit his moustache. Peggy recalled Robert's description of the “governor looking wretched” when he found himself compelled to refuse a favour, and did not wonder that the lad was ready to deny himself a pleasure rather than see that expression on his father's face. The twinkling light had died out of his eyes and he looked old, and sad, and haggard, far more in need of physical remedies than his wife, whose “agony” had been so well concealed during the last two hours as to give her the appearance of a person in very comfortable health. Rosalind alone looked absolutely unruffled, and lay back in her chair nibbling at her bon-bon as though such scenes were of too frequent occurrence between her parents to be deserving of attention.“If you have made up your mind to go to-morrow, and cannot go alone, you must take Robert with you, Beatrice, for I cannot leave. It is only for four days, and Mr. Asplin will no doubt excuse him if you write and explain the circumstances.”Lord Darcy left the room and Robert and Peggy exchanged agonised glances. Go away for nearly a week, when before two days were over the calendar must be sent to London, and there still remained real hard work before it was finished! Peggy sat dazed and miserable, seeing the painful effort of the last month brought to naught, Robert's ambition defeated, and her own help of no avail. That one glance had shown the lad's face flushed with emotion, but when his mother spoke to him in fretful tones, bidding him be ready next morning when she should call in the carriage on her way to the station, he answered at once with polite acquiescence.“Very well, mater, I won't keep you waiting. I shall be ready by half-past ten if you want me.”(To be continued.)

ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

Forthe next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.

At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked weary little mortal to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again instead of getting up to face the long, long day.

Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.

In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then, each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.

When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant “Peggy, what would you like?” “What does Peggy say?” her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.

It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.

“Peggy is so grumpy!” Mellicent complained to her mother. “She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in! She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!”

Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.

“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”

“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.

“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”

Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about—Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.

“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”

“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”

“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”

“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”

“Are you writing to India—to your mother?”

“N—no, not just now.”

“Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit at all with those white cheeks.”

Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, “Oh, do let me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret, but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be pleased.” If she had done so she knew perfectly well how hearty and pleasant would have been Mrs. Asplin's consent; but there are some states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs. Asplin sigh, as if with anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her shoulders in wilful indifference.

“She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than ever, as I mayn't work during the day, Mellicent said I was never with them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not! They don't want me; nobody wants me now that Rosalind has come! I hate Rosalind—nasty, smirking, conceited thing!” and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her over-charged feelings.

She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint with a crest and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin, another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.

“Invitations!” cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. “Invitations! How scrumptious!” Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the letters, “R.D.,” suggested the sender of the letters, but the natural girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, “Quis, Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!”

“Ego, Ego!” came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and torn open in breathless haste.

“From Rosalind! Oh, how very funny! ‘Requests the pleasure—company—to a pink luncheon.’ What in the world is a ‘pink luncheon?’—‘on Tuesday next, the 20th inst....’”

“A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r” since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene, a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”

“That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob!” asked Peggy curiously, and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.

“Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one colour—flowers, drapery, and food, china—everything that is on the table. It's a fag and an awful handicap, for you can't have half the things you want. But let us be modern or die, that's the motto nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions.”

“‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith's company to a magenta supper.’—‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr. Jones's company to a purple tea.’ It's a splendid idea! I like it immensely,” said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative fashion. “Pink—pink—what can we eat that is pink? P-prawns, p-pickles, p-p-pomegranates, P-aysandu tongues (you would call those pink, wouldn't you—pinky red?). Humph! I don't think it sounds very nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of attention if I wore a pink frock?”

“Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend on it,” said Robert confidently, whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are concerned. Mrs. Asplin said, “Yes, darling, of course I will!” and set to work with such good will that all three girls sported pink dresses beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious luncheon a few days later.

Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an armchair, while Lady Darcy's maid helped the visitors to take off their wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls' ears. The maid smirked and pursed up her lips, and then meeting Peggy's steady gaze, dropped her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire—that was as perfect in its way as Rosalind's own—but with reference to the home-made dresses of the Vicar's daughters, which seemed to have suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends' behalf, and when Peggy's dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle. In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a little disconcerting.

“I am sorry,” she said, “but we really don't know French well enough to follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?”

“Oh-h, it doesn't matter! It was nothing at all important!” Rosalind flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof. The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The respect, and awe, and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to receive from other girls of her own age, seemed altogether wanting in Peggy's case, and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in Rosalind's eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection with Mrs. Asplin's daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss Mariquita Saville.

From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady Darcy sat waiting, but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall aglow with expectation.

The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky, but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of looking-glass on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float to and fro, while troughs filled with soft, pink blossoms formed a bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were attached to the silver candelabra in which pink candles burned with clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments were all of the same dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress or coat of the owner.

“It's—it's beautiful!” cried Mellicent ecstatically, while Peggy's beauty-loving eye turned from one detail to another with delighted approbation. “Really,” she said to herself in astonishment, “I couldn't have done it better myself! It's quite admirable!” and as Rosalind's face peered inquiringly at her beneath the canopy of flowers she nodded her head, and smiled in generous approval.

“Beautiful! Charming! I congratulate you! Did you design it, and arrange everything yourself!”

“Mother and I made it up between us. We didn't do the actual work, but we told the servants what to do, and saw that it was all right. The flowers and bon-bons are easy enough to manage; it's the things to eat that are the greatest trouble.”

“It seems to be too horribly prosaic to eat anything at such a table, except crumpled rose-leaves like the princess in the fairy tale,” said Peggy gushingly, but at this Mellicent gave an exclamation of dismay, and the three big lads turned their eyes simultaneously towards the soup tureen as if anxious to assure themselves that they were not to be put off with such ethereal rations.

The soup was pink. “Tomato!” murmured Peggy to herself, as she raised the first creamy spoonful to her lips. The fish was covered with thick pink sauce; tiny little cutlets lurked behind ruffles of pink paper; pink baskets held chicken souffles; moulds of pink cream and whipped-up syllabus were handed round in turns, and looked so tempting that Mellicent helped herself at once, and nearly shed tears of mortification on finding that they were followed by distracting pink ices, which were carried away again before she could possibly finish what was on her plate. Then came dessert-plates and finger-glasses, in which crystallised rose-leaves floated in the scented water, as if in fulfilment of Peggy's suggestion of an hour before, and the young people sat in great contentment, eating rosy apples, bananas pared and dipped in pink sugar, or helping themselves to the delicious bon-bons which were strewed about the table.

While they were thus occupied the door opened and Lord Darcy came into the room. He had not appeared before, and he shook hands with the visitors in turn, and then stood at the head of the table looking about him with a slow, kindly smile. Peggy watched him from her seat, and thought what a nice face he had, and wondered at the indifferent manner in which he was received by his wife and daughter. Lady Darcy leant back in her chair and played with her fruit, the sleeves of her pink silk tea-gown falling back from her white arms. Rosalind whispered to Max, and neither of them troubled to cast so much as a glance of welcome at the new-comer. Peggy thought of her own father, the gallant soldier out in India, of the joy and pridewith which his comings and goings were watched; of Mr. Asplin in the vicarage with his wife running to meet him, and Mellicent resting her curly head on his shoulder, and the figure of the old lord standing unnoticed at the head of his own table assumed a pathetic interest. It seemed, however, as if Lord Darcy were accustomed to be overlooked, for he showed no signs of annoyance; On the contrary, his face brightened, and he looked at the pretty scene with sparkling eyes. The room was full of a soft rosy glow, the shimmer of silver and crystal was reflected in the sheet of mirror, and beneath the garlands of flowers the young faces of the guests glowed with pleasure and excitement. He looked from one to the other—handsome Max, dandy Oswald, Robert with his look of strength and decision; then to the girls—Esther, gravely smiling, wide-eyed Mellicent; Peggy, with her eloquent, sparkling eyes; Rosalind, a queen of beauty among them all; finally to the head of the table where sat his wife.

“I must congratulate you, dear,” he said heartily. “It is the prettiest sight I have seen for a long time. You have arranged admirably, but that's no new thing; you always do. I don't know where you get your ideas. These wreaths—eh? I've never seen anything like them before. What made you think of fastening them up there?”

“I have had them like that several times before, but you never notice a thing until its novelty is over, and I am tired to death of seeing it,” said his wife with a frown, and an impatient curve of the lip as if she had received a rebuke instead of a compliment.

Peggy stared at her plate, felt Robert shuffle on his chair by her side, and realised that he was as embarrassed and unhappy as herself. The beautiful room with its luxurious appointments seemed to have suddenly become oppressive and cheerless, for in it was the spirit of discontent and discord between those who should have been most in harmony. Esther was shocked, Mellicent frightened, the boys looked awkward and uncomfortable. No one ventured to break the silence, and there was quite a long pause before Lady Darcy spoke again in quick, irritable tones.

“Have you arranged to get away with me on Thursday, as I asked you?”

“My dear, I cannot. I explained before. I am extremely sorry, but I have made appointments which I cannot break. I could take you next week if you would wait.”

“I can't wait. I told you I had to go to the dentist's. Do you wish me to linger on in agony for another week? And I have written to Mrs. Bouverie that I will be at her ‘At Home’ on Saturday. My appointments are, at least, as binding as yours. It isn't often that I ask you to take me anywhere, but when it is a matter of health, I do think you might show a little consideration.”

Lord Darcy drew his brows together and bit his moustache. Peggy recalled Robert's description of the “governor looking wretched” when he found himself compelled to refuse a favour, and did not wonder that the lad was ready to deny himself a pleasure rather than see that expression on his father's face. The twinkling light had died out of his eyes and he looked old, and sad, and haggard, far more in need of physical remedies than his wife, whose “agony” had been so well concealed during the last two hours as to give her the appearance of a person in very comfortable health. Rosalind alone looked absolutely unruffled, and lay back in her chair nibbling at her bon-bon as though such scenes were of too frequent occurrence between her parents to be deserving of attention.

“If you have made up your mind to go to-morrow, and cannot go alone, you must take Robert with you, Beatrice, for I cannot leave. It is only for four days, and Mr. Asplin will no doubt excuse him if you write and explain the circumstances.”

Lord Darcy left the room and Robert and Peggy exchanged agonised glances. Go away for nearly a week, when before two days were over the calendar must be sent to London, and there still remained real hard work before it was finished! Peggy sat dazed and miserable, seeing the painful effort of the last month brought to naught, Robert's ambition defeated, and her own help of no avail. That one glance had shown the lad's face flushed with emotion, but when his mother spoke to him in fretful tones, bidding him be ready next morning when she should call in the carriage on her way to the station, he answered at once with polite acquiescence.

“Very well, mater, I won't keep you waiting. I shall be ready by half-past ten if you want me.”

(To be continued.)

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.CHAPTER IV.JANE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL.“I metNorah Villiers yesterday, girls,” said Ada Orlingbury to her sister and Marion as they all took their seats at the breakfast-table on a gusty February morning.“I wonder you had the audacity to speak to anyone so grand!” laughed Jane.Norah Villiers was an old school friend who had married a very wealthy man.“Oh, Norah is very sensible! She never had any nonsense about her! Her money has not turned her head, as happens to some people. She looked perfectly charming in a sweet little toque all over violets, and she was so pleased to see me. But I could not help laughing to myself to find how very elderly and staid she had grown. Not in appearance, you know, but in manner.”“I suppose she gave a great deal of motherly advice for the benefit of three young things living together in an unprotected condition!” said Jennie. “What did she advise? Burglar-proof window fasteners, or cork soles, or what?”“Don't talk nonsense, Jane!” said Ada severely.“She has made some excellent discoveries in the course of her housekeeping, and now that she is so wealthy she hails any very economical discovery with glee, as so many do when there is no longer any reason to restrict oneself within narrow limits. We talked for ten minutes on the subject of Australian meat, and she charged me solemnly to deliver the glorious news to you.”“What news?” asked Marion smiling.“Norah declares that hardly anybody knows how to cook Australian meat properly; but that when it is treated in the right way, it is as good as any meat for which one could wish. And as it is much cheaper, that is good news to us if it be true.”“What does she recommend should be done to it?” asked Jane. “It has always been tough whenever I have tasted it.”“She says it should be properly thawed,” went on Ada. “You see one forgets that as it is frozen meat it must be thawed before it can be cooked. The consequence is that as a rule when the meat is supposed to be cooking, it is only thawing. Norah says that the meat should hang in the kitchen for the whole of the day before it is wanted, and then should be put quite near the fire for an hour before ever you attempt to cook it at all.”“Well, we will certainly try it,” said Marion. “I think Mrs. Villiers might be able to afford herself English-fed beef, but I have few prejudices, and I am glad to hear of anything economical.”“Well, let us then,” said Ada; “for Norah was so urgent in the matter that I should not like to have to face her again unless I could assure her with a clear conscience that I have taken her advice.”“Well, on Thursday, then,” Marion agreed. “I will get in the mutton on Wednesday morning, and it shall hang in our spacious kitchen all the day before. All meat is better for hanging, and I often regret our delicious country joints.”“You certainly always had splendid meat at Hawthornburrow,” said Ada. “I remember hearing one of the curates from Fosley admiring it to my father. But I thought it was because of those black-faced little sheep that your father always buys.”“Partly that,” answered Marion, “but principally on account of the long hanging of all the meat. We often have joints hanging for a fortnight if the weather is cold—hanging with the thick end upwards, I mean, so that the juices shall not run out. Consequently the flavour of the meat is infinitely improved.”“Marion talks like an elderly farmer!” cried Jane. “So much solid wisdom is overpowering to my giddy brain. Never mind, dear,” she went on, patting Marion's head, “we all appreciate it very much. I can't imagine what we should do if we had to go and live in a boarding-house now that we have become accustomed to your nice cosy little ways. Oh,” she cried suddenly as she helped herself to some marmalade, “to-day is Shrove Tuesday, and we must have some pancakes! I will fry them all if you will make the batter for them. No, I shall be home early and I will perform the whole operation.Gare aux crêpes!”Making pancakes was Jane's favourite occupation as far as cooking was concerned. So the others laughingly acquiesced.“How did they teach beginners to toss pancakes at the cookery school?” asked Marion.“Oh, the teacher did the first one, and then we tried! There is no need to toss them really, you know; they are equally nice if you just slide a hot knife underneath when they are cooked on one side and turn it gently over. But, of course, no one was satisfied until she could toss them. I have seen an enthusiast work away with one long-suffering pancake until she could toss it and catch it again with ease, and each time it missed the pan, the blacker grew the pancake and the redder her face. How we laughed when it spun across the floor into a bowl of water! There is a great deal in not jerking the pan to the right or left, but just lifting your arm straight up when you toss it.”“Very well, you shall give us a practical demonstration to-night and work off your superfluous energy,” said Marion as she helped Jane on with her jacket. “Ada and I will sit in state at the table and wait for relays.”So a little before dinner-time Jennie went into the kitchen, first donning her professional apron and sleeves.As she wanted the pancakes to be extra good, she allowed herself two eggs. She put four ounces of flour in a basin and stirred in the two eggs one by one with the back of a wooden spoon (first removing the tread and keeping the mixture very smooth). Then she stirred in half a pint of milk by degrees and beat all well with the front of the spoon. She then melted about two ounces of butter in a small saucepan and took off the scum and poured it off into a measure. This was to prevent the pancakes from sticking to the pan, as they would have done if she had left the scum (which is the salt) on. Before each pancake was made, a little of this was poured into the frying-pan to grease it well, and then poured off again.For each pancake she poured about a tablespoonful and a half of the batter into the pan, doing this off the fire as, if it is done on the stove, the batter sets quickly and cannot be run over the bottom of the pan quickly enough to make nice thin pancakes.She ran the batter round the edge of the pan, and then tilted it quickly so that the bottom was quite covered. Then putting the pan over the stove she shook it briskly, loosening it at the edges with a knife; and as soon as it was a light golden brown she lifted it off the stove and tossed it deftly in the air, so that it fell in the pan with the cooked side uppermost. A few seconds more over the fire and it was done. Now to turn it on to a warm plate, squeeze lemon-juice and sift castor sugar over, and roll up is short work. She had two hot plates; one to turn the pancakes out on to, and the other to put them on when folded over. When the last pancake had been made there was a goodly pile of twelve upon the dish which Jane carried triumphantly to the sitting-room, first sifting them with castor sugar. It was as well that Abigail did not care much for pancakes, for alas! there were none left.True to her promise, Marion provided some Australian mutton in the course of the week, and treated it according to Mrs. Villiers's directions. She bought the thick half of a leg of mutton on Wednesday morning, and all that day it hung in the kitchen on a hook. The hook went into one of the joists, and so was perfectly firm. She cut a fillet of about a third of an inch thick to keep for Friday's dinner, and cut it as for veal cutlet in round pieces about the size of the top of a tea-cup. These she egged, and fried a golden-brown, and served round a pile of mashed potatoes. On Thursday they had the rest of the joint boiled to a turn, surrounded by turnips cooked with the meat. Marion was too practical a cook to fall into the usual error of letting a so-called “boiled” joint actually boil for more than a minute or two, and so become hard. The joint, which weighed four pounds when the fillet was removed, was put in the fish-kettle, with enough cold water to cover it, and was brought very slowly to the boil. It was allowed to boil for two minutes, and then was well skimmed; then the turnips were put in, the lid put on again, the heat was lowered, and the joint kept barely at simmering-point for an hour. All this was done in the morning. An hour before dinner the joint was put on the stove again to finish cooking and re-heat; it was then put quickly on a hot dish, and parsley sauce poured over. The joint was beautifully tender, and the water in which it was cooked was used for making a delicious carrot soup on the following day, and which preceded the fillets, fried as we have described. Marion always arranged her dinners at the beginning of the week, and she found it would be more convenient to have the boiled joint on the day before the fillet, as the soup made from the stock would come in so nicely before a little meat dish like the fried fillets.The small amount of mutton that remained was minced finely and made into some meat patties for Sunday's supper.This is the dinner list for the week. They had fried bacon for breakfast on the mornings on which they did not take porridge.Monday.Milk Soup.Toad in the Hole.Artichokes.Baked Potatoes.Apple Dumplings.Tuesday.Lentil Soup.Fried Lemon Sole.New Carrots à la Flamande.Pancakes.Wednesday.(High Tea.) Curried Scallops and Rice.Dough Nuts.Thursday.Boiled Mutton and Turnips.Parsley Sauce.Welsh Rare Bit.Friday.Carrot Soup.Fried Mutton Cutlets.Mashed Potatoes.Rice Pudding.Saturday.Fried Steak and Onions.Boiled Potatoes.Steamed Marmalade Pudding.Sunday.Roast Fowl.Baked Potatoes.Oranges in Snow.The last-named dish is such a pretty one, and so exceedingly nice, that as Marion does not mind we will give the recipe in full.Oranges in Snow.—Make a syrup of half a pint of water and half a pound of loaf sugar. Pare six oranges very carefully and put them in the syrup; let them simmer very gently until they are perfectly tender but quite whole. Lift them carefully out with a fish-slice, and put in two ounces of tapioca. Let the tapioca cook until clear and soft in the syrup, by which time most of the syrup will be absorbed. Pour this into a glass dish and let it get cold, stand the oranges upon it, sweeten some whipped cream and pile it upon them, and decorate with a few hundreds and thousands sprinkled over.Now follows the food account for the week.£s.d.1¼ lb. rump steak0135 lb. mutton at 7d. (Australian)0211¼ lb. suet001½1 lb. fat for rendering0021 lb. apples003½ pint lentils001½Flavouring vegetables002Turnips003Carrots for soup003New carrots004Onions001½Lemon sole001015 eggs0132 lbs. bacon014Fowl0261 lb. cheese0079 scallops0091 lb. marmalade0061 lb. tea018Tin of cocoa0061 lb. Demerara001¾1 lb. loaf0028 loaves022Milk019Cream0068 lbs. potatoes006½1 lb. artichokes001½1 quartern household flour005½£118¾(To be continued.)

ByFLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

JANE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL.

“I metNorah Villiers yesterday, girls,” said Ada Orlingbury to her sister and Marion as they all took their seats at the breakfast-table on a gusty February morning.

“I wonder you had the audacity to speak to anyone so grand!” laughed Jane.

Norah Villiers was an old school friend who had married a very wealthy man.

“Oh, Norah is very sensible! She never had any nonsense about her! Her money has not turned her head, as happens to some people. She looked perfectly charming in a sweet little toque all over violets, and she was so pleased to see me. But I could not help laughing to myself to find how very elderly and staid she had grown. Not in appearance, you know, but in manner.”

“I suppose she gave a great deal of motherly advice for the benefit of three young things living together in an unprotected condition!” said Jennie. “What did she advise? Burglar-proof window fasteners, or cork soles, or what?”

“Don't talk nonsense, Jane!” said Ada severely.“She has made some excellent discoveries in the course of her housekeeping, and now that she is so wealthy she hails any very economical discovery with glee, as so many do when there is no longer any reason to restrict oneself within narrow limits. We talked for ten minutes on the subject of Australian meat, and she charged me solemnly to deliver the glorious news to you.”

“What news?” asked Marion smiling.

“Norah declares that hardly anybody knows how to cook Australian meat properly; but that when it is treated in the right way, it is as good as any meat for which one could wish. And as it is much cheaper, that is good news to us if it be true.”

“What does she recommend should be done to it?” asked Jane. “It has always been tough whenever I have tasted it.”

“She says it should be properly thawed,” went on Ada. “You see one forgets that as it is frozen meat it must be thawed before it can be cooked. The consequence is that as a rule when the meat is supposed to be cooking, it is only thawing. Norah says that the meat should hang in the kitchen for the whole of the day before it is wanted, and then should be put quite near the fire for an hour before ever you attempt to cook it at all.”

“Well, we will certainly try it,” said Marion. “I think Mrs. Villiers might be able to afford herself English-fed beef, but I have few prejudices, and I am glad to hear of anything economical.”

“Well, let us then,” said Ada; “for Norah was so urgent in the matter that I should not like to have to face her again unless I could assure her with a clear conscience that I have taken her advice.”

“Well, on Thursday, then,” Marion agreed. “I will get in the mutton on Wednesday morning, and it shall hang in our spacious kitchen all the day before. All meat is better for hanging, and I often regret our delicious country joints.”

“You certainly always had splendid meat at Hawthornburrow,” said Ada. “I remember hearing one of the curates from Fosley admiring it to my father. But I thought it was because of those black-faced little sheep that your father always buys.”

“Partly that,” answered Marion, “but principally on account of the long hanging of all the meat. We often have joints hanging for a fortnight if the weather is cold—hanging with the thick end upwards, I mean, so that the juices shall not run out. Consequently the flavour of the meat is infinitely improved.”

“Marion talks like an elderly farmer!” cried Jane. “So much solid wisdom is overpowering to my giddy brain. Never mind, dear,” she went on, patting Marion's head, “we all appreciate it very much. I can't imagine what we should do if we had to go and live in a boarding-house now that we have become accustomed to your nice cosy little ways. Oh,” she cried suddenly as she helped herself to some marmalade, “to-day is Shrove Tuesday, and we must have some pancakes! I will fry them all if you will make the batter for them. No, I shall be home early and I will perform the whole operation.Gare aux crêpes!”

Making pancakes was Jane's favourite occupation as far as cooking was concerned. So the others laughingly acquiesced.

“How did they teach beginners to toss pancakes at the cookery school?” asked Marion.

“Oh, the teacher did the first one, and then we tried! There is no need to toss them really, you know; they are equally nice if you just slide a hot knife underneath when they are cooked on one side and turn it gently over. But, of course, no one was satisfied until she could toss them. I have seen an enthusiast work away with one long-suffering pancake until she could toss it and catch it again with ease, and each time it missed the pan, the blacker grew the pancake and the redder her face. How we laughed when it spun across the floor into a bowl of water! There is a great deal in not jerking the pan to the right or left, but just lifting your arm straight up when you toss it.”

“Very well, you shall give us a practical demonstration to-night and work off your superfluous energy,” said Marion as she helped Jane on with her jacket. “Ada and I will sit in state at the table and wait for relays.”

So a little before dinner-time Jennie went into the kitchen, first donning her professional apron and sleeves.

As she wanted the pancakes to be extra good, she allowed herself two eggs. She put four ounces of flour in a basin and stirred in the two eggs one by one with the back of a wooden spoon (first removing the tread and keeping the mixture very smooth). Then she stirred in half a pint of milk by degrees and beat all well with the front of the spoon. She then melted about two ounces of butter in a small saucepan and took off the scum and poured it off into a measure. This was to prevent the pancakes from sticking to the pan, as they would have done if she had left the scum (which is the salt) on. Before each pancake was made, a little of this was poured into the frying-pan to grease it well, and then poured off again.

For each pancake she poured about a tablespoonful and a half of the batter into the pan, doing this off the fire as, if it is done on the stove, the batter sets quickly and cannot be run over the bottom of the pan quickly enough to make nice thin pancakes.

She ran the batter round the edge of the pan, and then tilted it quickly so that the bottom was quite covered. Then putting the pan over the stove she shook it briskly, loosening it at the edges with a knife; and as soon as it was a light golden brown she lifted it off the stove and tossed it deftly in the air, so that it fell in the pan with the cooked side uppermost. A few seconds more over the fire and it was done. Now to turn it on to a warm plate, squeeze lemon-juice and sift castor sugar over, and roll up is short work. She had two hot plates; one to turn the pancakes out on to, and the other to put them on when folded over. When the last pancake had been made there was a goodly pile of twelve upon the dish which Jane carried triumphantly to the sitting-room, first sifting them with castor sugar. It was as well that Abigail did not care much for pancakes, for alas! there were none left.

True to her promise, Marion provided some Australian mutton in the course of the week, and treated it according to Mrs. Villiers's directions. She bought the thick half of a leg of mutton on Wednesday morning, and all that day it hung in the kitchen on a hook. The hook went into one of the joists, and so was perfectly firm. She cut a fillet of about a third of an inch thick to keep for Friday's dinner, and cut it as for veal cutlet in round pieces about the size of the top of a tea-cup. These she egged, and fried a golden-brown, and served round a pile of mashed potatoes. On Thursday they had the rest of the joint boiled to a turn, surrounded by turnips cooked with the meat. Marion was too practical a cook to fall into the usual error of letting a so-called “boiled” joint actually boil for more than a minute or two, and so become hard. The joint, which weighed four pounds when the fillet was removed, was put in the fish-kettle, with enough cold water to cover it, and was brought very slowly to the boil. It was allowed to boil for two minutes, and then was well skimmed; then the turnips were put in, the lid put on again, the heat was lowered, and the joint kept barely at simmering-point for an hour. All this was done in the morning. An hour before dinner the joint was put on the stove again to finish cooking and re-heat; it was then put quickly on a hot dish, and parsley sauce poured over. The joint was beautifully tender, and the water in which it was cooked was used for making a delicious carrot soup on the following day, and which preceded the fillets, fried as we have described. Marion always arranged her dinners at the beginning of the week, and she found it would be more convenient to have the boiled joint on the day before the fillet, as the soup made from the stock would come in so nicely before a little meat dish like the fried fillets.

The small amount of mutton that remained was minced finely and made into some meat patties for Sunday's supper.

This is the dinner list for the week. They had fried bacon for breakfast on the mornings on which they did not take porridge.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

The last-named dish is such a pretty one, and so exceedingly nice, that as Marion does not mind we will give the recipe in full.

Oranges in Snow.—Make a syrup of half a pint of water and half a pound of loaf sugar. Pare six oranges very carefully and put them in the syrup; let them simmer very gently until they are perfectly tender but quite whole. Lift them carefully out with a fish-slice, and put in two ounces of tapioca. Let the tapioca cook until clear and soft in the syrup, by which time most of the syrup will be absorbed. Pour this into a glass dish and let it get cold, stand the oranges upon it, sweeten some whipped cream and pile it upon them, and decorate with a few hundreds and thousands sprinkled over.

Now follows the food account for the week.

£s.d.1¼ lb. rump steak0135 lb. mutton at 7d. (Australian)0211¼ lb. suet001½1 lb. fat for rendering0021 lb. apples003½ pint lentils001½Flavouring vegetables002Turnips003Carrots for soup003New carrots004Onions001½Lemon sole001015 eggs0132 lbs. bacon014Fowl0261 lb. cheese0079 scallops0091 lb. marmalade0061 lb. tea018Tin of cocoa0061 lb. Demerara001¾1 lb. loaf0028 loaves022Milk019Cream0068 lbs. potatoes006½1 lb. artichokes001½1 quartern household flour005½£118¾

(To be continued.)

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