Margaret Trent, and How She Kept House

Introduction

Dora Hope. "Margaret Trent, and How She Kept House." The Girl's Own Paper. 3.99 (1882):

Dora Hope’s serialized fiction ran in The Girl’s Own Paper for many issues, often as the leading story with cover illustrations. Its cheerful tone and plethora of household hints are typical of many of the articles and stories in the enormously popular weekly periodical, which outstripped its companion version for boys in sales. The main character, Margaret Trent, is a newlywed Victorian of the middle class, running her first household. She comes across as a sort of 19th century Martha Stewart; she has a servant, Anne, but she enjoys domestic concerns as an art form mixed with obsession: as the story itself claims, “Margaret was particular” (370). The subtitle, “And How She Kept House,” is quite literal. Hope’s writing reads more like a script for a home and garden show than a short story, and Margaret’s conversations with her friends, husband, maid, and family members sound like conversations between an enthusiastic expert show host and her guests, who sprinkle tidbits of personal stories in between recipes, interior decoration ideas, charity suggestions, cleaning tips, time savers, and even product reviews (“there’s nothing like some of them cold-water soaps” [242]). The hints and practical wisdom Hope passed on to the young women who read this type of story was probably very useful in its day.

Although the plot of the story is disjointed and almost nonexistent, the value of Margaret Trent lies not in its narrative, but in its details of Victorian domestic life. Much female history has been preserved by Dora Hope, and gives us a clear view of what life was like for a typical middle-class young wife. Readers get a detailed menu of what they ate (a lot of meat), and gain an understanding of social life (family visits and dinner parties with friends). Several employer-servant relationships are portrayed, which illustrate their complex nature and how they were often frustrating to both sides. Even the Trent’s amiable, companionable marriage demonstrates at least one example of gender conflict, and they clearly knew each other well before the wedding and married for love. Hope’s writing is a treasure trove for anthropological purposes, providing detailed clues as to how daily life was lived. Victorian values such as industry, economy, ingenuity, and propriety come through in the detailed household tips.

Transcription

Margaret Trent, and How She Kept House

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Margaret’s new maid, Anne, was, indeed, a highly superior person, as has been said before. She always wore in the morning the neatest of dark print dresses, changing at noon for plain black, which impressed one at once with the eminent respectability of the wearer. She was never untidy, never behindhand with her work, never in a flurry. In a word, she was a treasure, and a perfect contrast from the late domestic, Betsy.

This last-named damsel was now married to the faithful baker, and the young couple, as Mr. and Mrs. Newman, had recently opened a small baker’s shop in the neighbourhood on their own account, which it is unnecessary to say, was patronized by the Trents.

But to return to Anne. She soon fell into Margaret’s ways, or rather Margaret soon accepted most of her maid’s ways and suppressed her own ideas, for her admiration of Anne’s good qualities was certainly, at this stage, somewhat tempered with awe. On one or two points, however, they were not quite agreed.

Margaret, as we said before, was resolved not to keep her little drawing-room simply for use on state occasions. She had the idea that it had been furnished and made pretty for their own enjoyment, as well as for that of their friends, and having only the two rooms, she elected to sit there always in the afternoons and evenings. With this idea there had been a gas fire placed there, which could be turned out whilst the family were at dinner or had vacated the room for any length of time. There had been a good deal of discussion as to the advisability of this arrangement as gas fires are certainly more expensive than coal, but the consideration which decided them was that with only one servant the very great saving of labour quite compensated for the slight additional expense, and Margaret found it a great comfort, before she began fires regularly, to be able to light it just for half an hour, if she felt chilly, without trouble to anyone.

In spite of its convenience, however, Anne seriously disapproved of this arrangement. She appeared to have conscientious scruples against the “best room” being used by the family when without visitors. She put on a solemn and reproachful look when Margaret told her, after lunch one day, to light the drawing-room fire, as she would be going in there to sit directly, and replied—

“You’ll excuse my naming it, ma’am, but in the ‘ighest families where I’ve lived they’ve kep’ the drawing-room special like for company, with the chairs and everything smothered in ‘olland covers, even to the chandeliers, and it do seem a pity, begging your pardon, ma’am, to think of all them new things getting spoilt like before two months time.”

This was rather rude of Anne, but as it showed the motherly sort of interest she took in her young mistress, Margaret answered good-naturedly—

“Oh, you need not fear the furniture being spoilt, I shall try to keep the room nice and pretty always, and I shall never take any untidy work in there. I think those must have been very rough, untidy people you lived with, if they could not sit in a prettily-furnished room without spoiling it.”

Anne seemed crushed for the moment, and said no more till she had nearly finished clearing the table, and Margaret had half-forgotten the subject, when she revived it by saying—

“Only last night, ‘m, begging your pardon, master was sitting in one of them light wooden chairs, which there ain’t much wear in them I should say, and had got his feet on that sweet, pretty velvet hassock, and I did feel sorry to see it used so reckless like.”

“But that hassock is made of Utrecht velvet, which is very strong and durable. Mr. Trent and I do not like having anything about only for show, and not for use if necessary. So now go and light the fire, please.”

And Anne obeyed; but she marched out of the room with such an air of superior wisdom and injured dignity, that Margaret felt relieved when she was gone.

Nevertheless, she so far adopted Anne’s ideas as to make some very pretty flowered muslin covers, ornamented with lace frills, to cover some of the more delicately-coloured cushions and chairs during the smoky, winter months, but she was careful that they should be so pretty as to rather improve the appearance of the room than otherwise.

Again Anne disapproved of Margaret’s little arrangement of her simple luncheon table. Though she was quite alone, she liked to have the table made to look nice with flowers and glass, and indeed lunch may be made a very pretty meal indeed, and in many ways an economical one too, as all sorts of odds and ends can be used up at that informal meal, which could hardly be allowed to appear at a dinner. Not confining herself strictly to butcher’s meat, Margaret varied her bill of fare by little dishes of fish, and entrées wonderfully concocted from the remnants of the previous day’s dinner. The remains of the last night’s pudding, when not “warmed up,” were cut into slices and served in a pretty, clear, glass dish. The middle of the table was occupied by a round, china “dumb waiter,” on which were placed butter, marmalade, pepper, mustard, and salt, any of which she could bring within her reach by giving the “waiter” a turn. The centre of this was always occupied by a little nosegay. When her supply of flowers was low, Margaret was content with a few green leaves and grass; but she fancied she could not enjoy a meal unless there was something of the sort on the table.

She had four small square Japanese flower-pots, with a fern growing in each, for the corners of the table, and altogether it presented a very charming appearance, which Anne did not altogether appreciate. She, in a series of hints and politely-turned innuendoes, gave her mistress to understand that on state occasions a large and massive arrangement in the middle of the table was allowable, but every day, and quite alone, and at the four corners as well as in the middle, this was certainly unnecessary, not to say improper, and she could not submit to it without a faint remonstrance, though, as Margaret attended to the flowers herself, it gave her very little extra work.

Margaret and Wilfred had found it the most convenient plan to conform to the usual London custom of dining late, the maid, of course, dining at Margaret’s luncheon time. At breakfast Margaret always provided fresh or stewed fruit, or when that was very scarce, stewed dried apple rings, or Normandy pippins, as she considered it not only an agreeable but a wholesome adjunct to the breakfast table. Margaret always contrived to be down a few minutes before breakfast time to take the coffee (which was always done at the table, for where is there a servant who can make coffee?) and to see that all was neat and right, though the paragon, Anne, considered this very unnecessary. An egg cosy, and a coffee cosy to match, worked in crewels, made the table very bright and pretty. At this, as indeed at all meals, the dumb waiter in the middle of the table was invaluable, for those at table could thus hand things to one another without moving from their seats, and were able to dispense with Anne’s presence in the room without inconvenience to themselves.

One morning after Margaret had returned from her usual walk with her husband, she received an early visit from her cousin Elsie.

“Why Margaret, what a huge apron! And gloves too! Well, you are careful of your hands. Do you wear gloves all the time Wilfred is away, so as to have them white and soft on his return?” asked this rude little cousin, after the first greetings were over.

“If you had politely waited to be properly announced, I should have had time to take them off, but now you have caught me,” replied Margaret. “I always dust these rooms myself, and before beginning I open the window and put on this large apron and old gloves, which I always wear for any dirty work, for I certainly think it a pity to make one’s hands rough and ugly when it can so easily be avoided.”

“Well Madge, I am in great straits; you know mother is away, and now here is a letter from Uncle Andrew, who, you know, is a sort of guardian to us children, to say he is coming to dinner on Tuesday night. So, first of all, I do hope you and Wilfred will come too for he is so alarming that we really cannot entertain him alone in mother’s absence. Then I want you to tell me what to have for dinner, for he is so peculiar, he looks most annoyed if there is not a very nice dinner, and yet he is always thinking we are extravagant.”

“So you want to hit the happy medium? I think, perhaps, I can help you, for I have been studying the subject of little dinners myself, with a view to Wilfred’s birthday. What do you say to beginning with a real turtle?”

“Now, Margaret, you are making fun. Why Uncle Andrew would never get over it. He would harangue us on the extravagant habits of the rising generation all the evening.”

‘But he could hardly think it extravagant if you could tell him that the whole tureen full cost only about three shillings. If he looks very much horrified you can lead up the conversation to the great advantage of using dried turtle, and so, after he has tasted it and pronounced it very good, not before, you can inform him that it is made of strips of sun-dried turtle, which you bought at the grocer’s for six shillings a pound. Only if you decide to have it you must go and buy the materials at once, as it takes several days to make properly.”

“Oh, I am sure I could never manage anything so elaborate as that! Fancy having soup that takes ever so many days to make!”

“But it only takes time, because the strips, as you buy them, are so hard and dry, and must be soaked a long time. It is really most simple, and if you do exactly as I tell you you cannot possibly make a mistake. You must buy a quarter of a pound of dried turtle, chop it into pieces; put it in a basin of cold water (rather under a pint), cover it and leave it to soak for twenty-four hours in a slow oven. Then take it out, cut it in square pieces, and put it back into the same water till the stock is ready, which should be if possible, a couple of days longer; but you cannot allow it quite so long this time, and less time will do, though it will not be so good.”

“Then for the stock you will require one and a half pound of shin of beef, the same quantity of knuckle of veal, a ham bone, if you happen to have one, or if not you must buy a good thick slice of lean uncooked ham, a little lemon peel, marjoram, winter savory, two bay leaves, and if you can get it, which is doubtful, a little pennyroyal. You must put all these into three quarts of cold water, and simmer it slowly all day, and then strain it; this must be done the day before you want to use it. Then, next morning, add the turtle, with the liquor in which it was soaked, and boil it all together for six hours, and it is ready for table, only just before serving it up you should add a squeeze of lemon. This sounds rather troublesome but really it is not at all—it only requires to be begun in good time.

“Then for fish, I should advise you to have hallibut, cut in steaks and fried. It is rather cheap, and rather nice, and not very generally used, so it may be new to your uncle. You ought to have one entrée, too, but I cannot think of anything very suitable.”

“Would mutton scallops do?” suggested Elsie. “People generally like them, and if you would kindly ask me about them, it would give me the opportunity of letting uncle know that they are made of remnants of cold mutton.”

“I will certainly, for I should like to know how to make them myself.”

“Oh, you make some mince of any sort of cold mutton, nicely flavoured, you know, with thyme, and nutmeg, and parsley, and pepper, and the yolk of one egg, and just a speck of onion, and all sorts of things, but the mean must not be minced too small. Then you put it in scallop shells, and cover it with egg and bread-crumbs, and just brown them in the oven.”

“That sounds delicious. I quite long to come and taste them. Have you decided on a joint? If not, I think I should have a well-hung saddle of mutton if I were you, because you can do it up again so nicely next day, by filling the gap made in it at dinner with mashed potatoes. Then have it warmed up, and it looks like a fresh joint.”

“Madge, you certainly are a genius. Now I must rush off and buy that turtle, or the soup will never be done in time. I can manage to invent some sweets myself, I think. Do not forget to be punctual at the banquet on Tuesday. Uncle Andrew is nothing if not punctual. And do not forget to work round the conversation to cold mutton and dried turtle. You might persuade Wilfred to make a few remarks on the various industries of the West Indies, and then it would come in quite naturally, only I am afraid I shall laugh, and spoil it. Now, good-bye; I can see you are longing for me to be gone, so that you can go on dusting those lovely plates on the book-case.”

So saying, she departed, leaving Margaret to finish her interrupted work. As “lovely plates” are not always to be found on a book-case, perhaps their presence there ought to be explained.

It will be remembered that the drawing and dining-rooms were separated by folding-doors, to the appearance of which Margaret had a great objection, so they were hidden, and the space occupied by them turned to an account by Wilfred’s fertile brain. It was in this way. One day before their marriage, Margaret and he were talking over the best place to put the book-case, which was rather a difficult problem, for the space was limited in the little dining-room.

“Look here, Madge,” cried Wilfred, suddenly, “you said you did not like folding-doors, so why not have them done away with, or permanently fastened, and the book-case placed in front of them?”

“Yes, perhaps that would do,” said Margaret, ponderingly, “and yet I think, perhaps, a communication between the two rooms might be very useful sometimes, though I did condemn folding-doors.”

“Well, then—I have it, Margery!” cried the young fellow, starting up, and energetically commencing a rough sketch of his idea on the back of an envelope. “Look here, dear; you have the book-case built the same size as the doors—not absolutely square, but with a few elegant irregularities at the top: so. Have it fitted with shelves of different depths for books, and here and there, perhaps, a shelf for odds and ends of china, or a rack for newspapers and magazines, or a cupboard with handsomely-carved doors, or—in fact, there is no end to the variations you might introduce if once you began—“

“But, please,” broke in Margaret, “I do not quite see how we are to transport ourselves through the book-case; or did you mean us to step on the shelves, and so climb over?”

“I was about to observe,” remarked Wilfred, “when I was so rudely interrupted, that a doorway should be cut through the middle of the book-case, from which should hand a curtain of some rich, heavy-looking material: red plush, I believe, is considered the correct thing.”

“Oh, charming!” cried Margaret; “but I fear plush will be rather beyond our means.” “And the whole affair mounted on castors, so that if necessary, it may be moved away bodily, and leave the whole space clear; but as it will weigh probably about two tons, I fancy those occasions will be rare,” continued Wilfred.

Margaret’s admiration of the genius displayed in this invention was unbounded, particularly after the idea had been most successfully carried out.

The drawing-room side of it was managed thus: the back of the book-case and sides of the recess were papered like the drawing-room. A small, low book-case was made at each side of the curtained doorway, and on them china and other ornaments were displayed, leaving jus room above for corner brackets, holding vases of flowers and a couple of pictures. This gave it the appearance of an ordinary recess, and had the advantage of making the room that much larger.

These book-cases and their ornaments Margaret always dusted and arranged herself, whereby she gained the very desirable end of having no ornaments broken, and also having the books always put back into their own particular places, so that she could find any favourite author in the dark.

“How nice and soft and thick your stair carpets are, Margaret,” said Dorothy Snow to her friend as they went upstairs together. It was a week or two before Christmas, and Dorothy had came to spend a long day, to take advantage of Margaret’s proximity to the London shops. “It gives me a most luxurious feeling, suggesting velvet pile and that sort of thing, which one does not expect on a staircase” she went on.

“I expect yours are the same, only that my pads being new are perhaps more noticeable.”

“Pads!” Whatever have they to do with it?” asked Dorothy.

“Oh, don’t you know that it is such an advantage to have a pad on each stair under the carpet? We used to have an old stair carpet instead, at home, which does almost as well; but in our new house of course we had no old ones, so the upholsterer put down these pads. They make the carpet feel and look much thicker, and save the wear a good deal too; I have a great objection to threadbare star carpets, but they require a great deal of care to prevent them becoming shabby; I have them moved about an inch either up or down every week. Perhaps you are not aware that stair carpets are always bought rather longer than is absolutely necessary to allow of moving them about, and the surplus piece is either hidden under another carper, or turned under, according to circumstances.”

“Oh, yes, I did know that. At any rate, I am constantly falling headlong downstairs, and then being scolded for my carelessness in not noticing that the rods were out, and the carpets being moved.”

“Well, there is nothing like an experience of that kind for fixing a fact in one’s mind,” rejoined Margaret, laughing. “Now I think I shall have time to try an experiment on these wax candles before we go out. I am rather anxious about them, for Aunt Annie gave them to me; she was going to use them up in the kitchen as being too dirty and discoloured for anything else, so I begged them, as I thought I could whiten them by rubbing with flannel dipped in spirits of wine.”

“Did you invent that, Margaret?”

“Oh, no. Somebody or other told me about it, but I have had no opportunity to try it before.”

Margaret’s aunt, being country born and bred, had hitherto a strong prejudice against gas, and had used nothing but lamps and candles in her house. At last, the superior cheapness and convenience of gas had overcome her scruples, and she had submitted to it; at least, so far as the halls, kitchens and bedrooms were concerned. She refused, however, to have the large ugly gaseliers hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and instead had branch lights from the walls, in various convenient spots, by which arrangement it was possible to read or work comfortably in any part of the room.

The dinner-table was illuminated by two, or sometimes three, lamps placed down the centre, which, covered with shades, shed a soft, clear light on the table without causing a glare upon the faces of those seated round it. These lamps gave Mrs. Colville some little extra trouble as she insisted that they should always be cleaned and filled by herself or one of her daughters (which ensured them being thoroughly cleaned, without which there is always an unpleasant smell of oil), and the servants were never allowed to touch the oil-can, which was kept in the cellar for safety.

Margaret had gladly accepted the rejected wax candles, for in her little dining-room, besides the gas branches from the walls, she had one or two quaint old branching candlesticks on the table at dinner time, as she objected to lamps, because they obstructed her view. Each candle had its own tiny coloured shade on the usual wire frame, and the effect was very pretty.

“Now, Dorothy, will you not make out a list of the purchases you have to make? You are sure to forget something if you do not,” suggested Margaret, rubbing away at her candles. “You will find a scrap of paper on that little writing-table, in a gilt clip which I keep for half-sheets.”

“Oh yes! here it is. My dearest Margaret, what a model writing-table! Here is a dictionary, directory, letter-weigher, railway guide, almanac—everything it is possible to want. And underneath a waste-paper basket, I declare!” exclaimed Dorothy.

“And I think you will find a sensible pad of blotting paper and a reasonably large ink-pot, which is kept clean, and several good pens,” added Margaret, smiling. “I do rather pride myself on that table. I made up my mind that when I had a house of my own the writing table arrangements should have my first attention, because it is so often neglected, and I know how difficult it is in some houses to write a letter. The stamp-box, note-paper, and envelopes, and a box of new pens are in the table drawer. Now, Dorothy, do see how nice these candles begin to look; not quite equal to new, of course, but they are really very much improved.”

That night the little household at Roseheath Villa had a great alarm, and narrowly escaped something much more serious. It happened that the outer wall of the house was slightly damp in some places, and Wilfred, judging rightly that this state of things was extremely bad for the pictures, determined to protect them from it. For this purpose he took several of them down in the evening, and fixed half a cork at each corner of the frames at the back. This causing the pictures to project slightly from the wall, allowed a current of air to pass behind them, and so prevented the damp from affecting them. This proceeding took a considerable time, so that it was late before Margaret, as usual last thing before going to bed, threw two or three large clean dust-sheets over some of the pretty drawing-room furniture to protect it from the night’s dust, and shutting the piano, went upstairs. These dust-sheets were always left on till the sweeping and dusting were finished next morning.

In the dead of night the whole household were aroused by a loud ringing at the bell, which was repeated till Wilfred went to see what was the matter. Opening a window, he looked out, and saw a policeman, who at once turned his bull’s-eye full upon him.

“I don’t know whether you know, sir, that your back-room window is wide open, and there’s been somebody in there, though he’s took himself off now. Shall I come in and have a look round, sir?”

Wilfred thought, on the whole, it might be as well to make sure that the intruder had really “took himself off,” and accordingly admitted the policeman, and the two together searched all the rooms. It was evident that some burglar had been in, for several drawers were left open and the contents scattered upon the floor; but he had apparently been disturbed before he had time to find anything of great value, and nothing was missed but a couple of silver serviette rings which had been left in a drawer in the sideboard.

The policeman glanced around with a rather supercilious air, and finally fell to examining the window.

“Look here, sir, this window hasn’t been forced; it must have been left open. This house is a pretty tough job for a burglar I should say, so long as the windows and doors are properly fastened; but to go and leave one of them open! why , you might every bit ask them to walk in,” he said, with a touch of scorn at the carelessness of householders. “Why, bless you, sir! it’s enough to make a man turn burglar, just to walk about at nights and see how people puts every convenience in their way. If they wanted ‘em to come in they couldn’t do more to entice ‘em. Now I daresay you had your dinner to-night with the blinds turned open, so as everybody could see in and watch exactly where the servants put the silver, and how you was all joking and laughing and never noticing as the window was a little chink open at top, and not latched. Ah! I thought so,” as he saw a smile pass over Wilfred’s face at having his faults pointed out to him in this way. “And look here sir,” he added, being mollified by a silver coin which Wilfred had slipped into his hand, “look here, sir; if you’ve got servants as you can’t trust to look after this work better than that, you take my advice, and look at all the windows and doors yourself every night, and that’s good advice from a fellow as has seen a good many jobs of this sort, and not all let off so easy as you’ve been,” and touching his hat, he went out and continued his round.

Wilfred found the rest of the household collected on the landing in a state of abject terror and expecting every moment to be assailed by fierce housebreakers armed with revolvers, but encouraging one another to defend themselves to the last gasp with the pokers and other weapons with which they had armed themselves.

It took some time to assure them that their lives were not really in danger, and they might go back to bed without fear of being murdered in their sleep.

On Christmas Day, as it was no longer practicable to keep up the old family custom of all meeting together, Wilfred and Margaret agreed to spend the day with the latter’s aunt, Mrs. Colville, their own maid Anne being allowed to invite her mother and brothers and sisters to dinner with he, and to keep her company for the evening.

Aunt Annie’s family was a large one at these holiday seasons, for besides the addition of several boys and girls home from school and college, she liked to have with her any waifs and strays who would otherwise have to pass a solitary Christmas, and if no relatives in this condition presented themselves, she made up a houseful by inviting some inmates from the schools for missionaries’ children, many of whom would otherwise have to spend their holidays at school.

At the cold lunch which was always provided on Christmas Day, the pièce de resistance on this occasion consisted of a large piece or corned beef, whose bulk indeed excited considerable mirth. The flavour was particularly good, however, and as Margaret, even on such festive occasions, was anxious to get any hints she could, she asked her aunt afterwards how she managed with such a large piece.

“You see, my dear, in such a large family as ours a small joint is gone directly; I am obliged to have something which one cat cut at freely. So about three weeks before Christmas I buy a large piece of the round of beef, about twelve pounds, and either let the butcher put it in pickle or do it myself, for about forty-eight hours. Then I take it out, wipe it dry, and rub it with coarse Demerara sugar and allspice, adding a little cinnamon. Then I lay it in a cool place, and turn it every morning, and whenever it looks in the least dry I add some more sugar and spice, but if it does not I simply rub it with the pickle which has drained from it. This has to be continued for a fortnight, or as much longer as happens to be convenient. Then I do not wash it, but put it just as it is into a jar or tin, into which it fits pretty tightly, with a very little cold water. This is placed in a large saucepan of water, which is made to boil fast, and left on that fire for five or six hours, but it need not boil all the time. I leave it in the jar till it is cold, and then take it out and scrape it, as the spice makes the meat look black, and it is ready for use. It is very simple, you see, and everyone likes it.”

“But, aunt, why should you take the trouble of having two pans? It would be much easier to put the meat straight into the one saucepan.”

“It is very little extra trouble, and the advantage is very great, because it cooks the meat without hardening the albumen, for though the water in the outer saucepan boils, that in the inner one never gets above 180 degrees. It would hardly be a suitable dish for your small establishment, but if you ever have a picnic, or a good many people coming in hungry, you would find it very useful.”

So far from making use of this recipe at once, however, Margaret’s principal aim for some few days was to find means of cooking in fresh ways the large supply of meat already in the house, and she wrote to Joanna to describe her experiences.

“Dearest Joanna,—many thanks for your kind thought of us, but you need not have had an anxiety lest we should miss the plentiful fare of our dear old home. On the contrary, we have been rather overwhelmed with presents of good things. You know of old that there is nothing I like more than cold turkey, but I have really had too much of it. You know, we went to Aunt Colville’s for Christmas Day, and when we returned, the first sight that met my eyes was a large hamper in the hall. Uncle John had sent it to us full of delicious country produce, chief amongst which was a monstrous turkey.

“Everyone is engaged just now, or we might have a small dinner party on the strength of it, so we are obliged to cook it at once as it was just ready for Christmas Day. We had it roasted on Boxing Day, and two of the Colville boys came in to assist, but even then we did not nearly finish the breast. The next two days we were out to dinner, and Anne feasted luxuriously on the cold remains.

“I felt obliged to have the creature in some form for breakfast, so one morning we had the gibbets fricasséed. (You may copy my idea if you like, as imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; there are several recipes in the cookery book). The next morning I had a brilliant idea. I cut some nice slices an severed the wings as neatly as I could, then dipped them in egg and bread-crumbs, and had them fried. It made a very successful dish.

“Matters became desperate at last, and I begged Aunt Annie and the girls to come to my aid. They rallied round me at lunch yesterday, and I had the satisfaction of seeing the last bone of the turkey disappear downstairs as the final remains of a salami, or as Anne calls it, ‘an ash,’ which she and I concocted together.”

“There it is again, Anne; don’t you hear it?” ejaculated Margaret, under her breath, with a horror-stricken expression. She had been sitting sewing in the little workroom upstairs one morning, when a curious noise in the box-room end of the apartment had startled her, and she had called Anne from her sweeping in the next room.

“Oh, that’s a mouse, clear enough, ‘m,” replied Anne, boldly parting the curtains, and moving about amongst the boxes, when of course, the noise ceased.

Margaret was relieved to find the noise arose from so slight a cause, for the attempted burglary had increased her natural nervousness.

“The house is regular overrun with them, ‘m, and I do think it is time something were done; even my boots was gnawed dreadful last night, and as for our old cat, he ain’t no more use than a stuffed one, for if you’ll believe me, ‘m, I saw a mouse run right across under his very nose, as you may say, and him sitting there blinking and purring and never so much as trying to catch him. He’s what you may call too affectionate, he is.”

“Oh, why did you not tell me before? I had no idea we had so many,” said Margaret, rather severely, as her courage returned. “As to the cat, it is clear you give it too much to eat; you must give it less, and not pet it, and then I am sure it will at least try to catch the mice. If it does not, we will get rid of it, and try to find one with a little more spirit, for a good cat is the very best preventive of mice. And then you must be particularly careful not to leave any crusts about, or candle-ends, or bones on the shelves or in any uncovered place; it is usually some carelessness of that sort which first entices them.”

Anne did not approve of the personal turn the conversation had taken, so began herself to make suggestions.

“Yes, ‘m, she said, “and it happened that Mrs. Newman—Betsy as was—and me was naming the very same subject last night when she called round to bring you them cauliflowers and things she’d had sent her from the country, and was telling me they’d been served dreadful with mice at their shop, but they’ve cleared them all out now, for her husband he took and filled u every hole he could find with plaster, and then they set traps and kept changing the bait, and the traps too sometimes, or else they cleaned them out well, for mice they are that cunning they can smell if one or two have been caught, and they won’t go in the trap if you tempt them ever so.”

“Well, the best thing we can do is to follow Betsy’s example, and I hope we shall be as successful.”

The work in which Margaret was engaged that morning was the manufacture of a warm skirt, to be given to a poor old flower woman, whose post she and Wilfred passed every morning in their usual walk together towards the City. A few weeks before Margaret had given her old protégée one or two strong undergarments, and these the recipient constantly declared to be, “Oh, so warm and comfortable, just like a piece of board,” which, but for the rapture of the old woman’s face, might have been considered a doubtful compliment.

The way Margaret managed her charities was this. She and Wilfred had agreed before they were married that they would begin from the very first to lay by regularly a tenth of their income for charity, and this, after the amount was deducted which they gave in regular subscriptions, was kept in a special cash-box, so that when any appeal was made to them for help they could go to this box and judge by the state of its contents whether they could spare anything, though it must be confessed that the amount was occasionally supplemented from other sources. Wilfred had very decided ideas about money spent in charity, considering that it should not be given indiscriminately simply because it was asked for, but should be spent as carefully as any other investment, after considering, in a business-like light, whether it would produce the desired results. The carrying out of this principle occupied Margaret’s leisure moments a good deal, as it involved visiting and inquiring amongst charitable societies and the individual poor who came for help, but she was glad to feel she was of some use, and did it willingly.

The January weather during that year was unusually severe, and there were several heavy snowstorms. Margaret was careful to have the steps swept frequently to prevent them becoming slippery with clogged snow, and also to avoid having it trodden into the house, to the damage of the carpets. But any further precaution did not occur to her, and it was a very unpleasant surprise one morning to discover the ceiling in one of the bedrooms covered with moisture, which was running down the walls in some places and dripping from the ceiling in others. The snow had choked up the gutters, and now that a thaw had set in the water could not escape in the proper direction, so had made for itself a passage through a weak point in the roof. There was nothing to be done but to move the furniture and put pails to catch the drops, and send for a man as quickly as possible to clear the pipes and stop the hole in the roof. When he had finished all he could do at the time, he advised Margaret for the future to have the snow swept from the roof always after a very heavy snowstorm, as soon as it had ceased falling, particularly as theirs was a flat roof, for after the thaw had set in little could be done to stop the mischief.

Margaret mentally vowed to follow his advice as she looked sadly round the disfigured room, but her meditations were disturbed by Wilfred’s voice calling to her that it was nearly time to start, and he had forgotten to mention that he had asked two friends in to dinner that evening.

As Elsie and Will Colville were already coming, the usual shall repast would require a little expansion and she had to make her arrangements quickly, to avoid hindering Wilfred.

There was some fish left from the previous day’s dinner, so Margaret decided to have fish soup. Anne had made it before, and Margaret simply read the directions over to her to ensure getting all the necessary ingredients.

“Three ounces of butter, put into a stewpan, with two carrots, an onion, and a shalot cut in thin slices, a clove, and a little thyme and parsley. When they are browned, put in three pints of cold water, and as soon as it boils put in a small haddock, cut up (I think we can do without the haddock this time, Anne, as there is such a large piece of cod left), and the heads and bones of two whiting. Simmer it slowly for an hour and a half or more, and when it is strained cut up the fillets of whiting which were taken off the bones, put them in the stock, and boil it up again for a few minutes, adding a little salt and pepper. As I want it to be rather better than usual to-night, I will get half-a-dozen oysters to put in as well.”

Then Margaret thought one of Betsy’s cauliflowers would come in very well as a simple entrée, prepared au gratin. This Anne usually managed very well by cutting the vegetable into pieces after it was well boiled, and laying about half of it on a buttered dish. Then she sprinkled it with pepper, nutmeg, salt, and a little Parmesan cheese, then laid the rest of the cauliflower on it, sprinkled it in the same way, and covered the top with baked breadcrumbs, with a little warm melted butter poured over all. It was baked in the oven for twenty minutes and was then ready to serve.

Finally, Margaret resolved to add to the sweets an inexpensive blancmange, which she made herself after the following recipe. An ounce of gelatine, or isinglass, is soaked in a pint of cold milk; when it is melted add another pint, with two fresh young laurel-leaves, or a few drops of essence of almond, and five ounces of loaf-sugar in it. Let it boil a minute or two, then take it off and pour a cup of cold water into the boiling jelly, and let it stand aside, covered, for a quarter of an hour where it will keep quite hot, but not even simmer; then it is ready to strain into the mould. The adding of cold water makes it nice and clear.

“How did that sample of cheap soap answer, Anne, that I told you to try the other day? she asked, as she was leaving the kitchen.

“Oh, it didn’t go no way at all, ‘m; ‘twas all lather and no substance, as you may say.”

“Well, I think we have proved now that the best soap is the cheapest in the end; indeed, I am told that the laundresses always use the best soap to be had, as being really the most economical.”

“Yes, ‘m, I have always heard so too. My mother, she always buys the best, and has it in the house for weeks before using it, for keeping offices, as she do, she knows how to make it go the furthest, and the longer you keep it in a dry place the harder it gets, and goes twice as far as if you use it all soft, like it is most ways when you buy it.”

“Your mother certainly ought to be a good judge with all the scrubbing she has to do.”

“Yes, ‘m, and she says, for the rough work, there’s nothing like some of them cold-water soaps: it takes the dirt out wonderful, and not half the work, and don’t take the paint off like using soda.”

Margaret had long ago given up the cheap or highly-scented soaps for toilet use, having been so repeatedly warned of their injurious effect on the skin, but she thought cheaper soaps would do for household use. She found, now, however, as the result of her experiments, that economy and cheapness were in this case two very different things.

As the party sat chatting after dinner that evening Margaret told her guests about the calamity of the morning in a manner which enlisted all their sympathies.

“I’m awfully sorry for you, Mrs. Trent,” said one of Wilfred’s friends. “I was very nearly having the same thing happen last winter in my rooms. You must know that like the love-sick individual immortalised in song, who lived in Leather-lane, ‘My parlour is next the sky; it lets in the wind and lets in the rain’—at least, it did on one occation; but my man—a very sharp fellow he is too—noticed the first small patch of moisture on the ceiling, so with a gimlet he bored a small hole right in the middle of the wet patch, and in a few minutes the water began to drip through the hole straight into a bucket he had placed ready under it, so the wet was confined to one place instead of spreading all over the ceiling, and perhaps the walls too.”

“That was clever! I shall remember that for future occasions. Oh, Wilfred, wait a minute,” she exclaimed, as she saw her husband rise to put some coal on the rapidly expiring fire; “I was so absorbed in the conversation that I did not notice how low the fire was, but I think you will finally extinguish it if you put coal on now.”

So saying, she went to the bookcase, and opening a small cupboard, took out a paper-bag of dried orange peel. A few pieces of this placed carefully amongst the coals soon burst into a blaze, and a bright little fire was quickly obtained.

“Please excuse my playing the part of stoker for the moment,” she said, as, with heightened colour, she returned to the table. “It is so pleasant to coax back a fire to life, and there is nothing so good for the purpose as orange peel, so I always keep a few pieces at hand on purpose.”

“But where do you get it from, and how do you prepare it?” inquired Elsie.

“I get it from the greengrocer’s, and I do now prepare it at all. There is not the slightest mystery about it, Elsie; you need not look so perplexed. The whole secret of it is that I keep a large paper-bag hung up in a warm corner of the kitchen, and whenever we have oranges the skins are put in the bag and left there to dty till they are wanted. Sometimes, if we have a good many, we put them into the oven for a few minutes, and they are most useful for either lighting or reviving a fire I am told they are useful, too, in cases of sickness, if the fire gets low whilst the patient is asleep, as they will blaze up without making a loud crackling noise like wood does.”

When the tea was brought into the drawing-room, Anne handed with it slices of bread and butter and gingerbread cake, for which latter Margaret made many apologies, confessing that her agitation about the leaking roof had made her entirely forget to provide any suitable cake or biscuits.

“It was a wonder you happened to have any in the house at all,” said Elsie. “If I ever forget anything like that the fates are sure to be against me, and I find, when it is too late, that there is nothing at all that will do.”

“Oh, I always have cake in the house. I am blessed with a very good appetite, and invariably get hungry at the wrong times; besides, it is not wise if children come in not to have anything to offer them, so I have a plain cake made every Saturday, generally plum or seed cakes, varied by occasional soda or gingerbread ones, and I am never at a loss for something either for myself or any children who happen to call.”

The recipe from which this particular cake was made was a very simple one. A quarter of a pound of butter was melted in a pound of treacle, and the two stirred into a pound of flour, and mixed well together with a quarter of a pound of coarse brown sugar, half an ounce of ginger, a little candied peel, and a very little cayenne pepper, and baked in a shallow tin in a very slow oven.

“Have you heard from Tom lately, Madge?” asked Elsie, whilst the gentlemen still tarried in the dining-room.

“Oh, yes, I heard this morning; he wrote to ask for father’s address, who, you know, expects to remain abroad some months longer. Tom writes such bright cheery letters. But had you any reason for asking?” returned Margaret, noticing that Elsie looked rather grave.

“Oh, I hardly like to tell you, Madge dear, and yet mamma thought you ought to know that she has heard from our aunt in Edinburgh, with whom Tom lives, and they are feeling a little anxious about him, because of some rather wild companions of his. There is one young fellow particularly, who is not at all a desirable acquaintance, aunt thinks, and yet Tom and he are inseparable.”

“But Tom, himself, does not cause aunt anxiety?” asked Margaret, eagerly.

“Oh no, he is so good and hard-working, so kind and affectionate to aunt and all of them, that it seems all the more strange for him to care to mix with these doubtful acquaintances.”

“I cannot think that he would ever do anything wrong,” said Margaret, after a few moment’s silence, “and yet it is wrong to have bad companions. Perhaps aunt is mistaken in her opinion of these friends of Tom’s. At any rate, we must hope and pray that he may be kept right. I will write to him more frequently, and get Wilfred to do so too, and I am sure that he will soon be himself again. However, here are the gentlemen, so we must banish the subject. But will you pray for poor Tom, Elsie?”

It was seldom that a day passed without exchange of visits between the Trents and their relatives, the Colvilles. Their houses were not far distant, and Elsie often ran in for a few minutes’ lively chat with Margaret, who in her turn, found that her walks frequently led her in the direction of her Aunt Annie’s.

She generally came out much impressed with a deep sense of that lady’s good management, for the superintendence of a large house and a numerous family is no easy task.

“You have such a large mind, Aunt Annie,” said Margaret, one morning. “You never seem to worry about things, and yet I suppose they do go wrong sometimes, even in this model household.”

“Indeed they do, dear, though I certainly think it is foolish, and wrong too, to let oneself get into a worry, as you call it. When I feel myself becoming anxious or irritable about little things, I leave them altogether for a little while, and go away and read for half an hour; but if I were young, and active like you, I should take a good walk before trying to put matters right, if I felt at all inclined to be worried about them. You would come back with your nerves braced up, and ready to face twice the number of vexations. But has anything been going wrong to-day, my child? If you will tell me about it, perhaps I can help you.”

“It is nothing very much, aunt. You will think I am very foolish to be put out by such trifles, but I thought when I had a house of my own, and all my own arrangements, that everything would go so smoothly, and I should have quite a pattern house, so I am disappointed when there is constantly some little thing arising to ruin my castle in the air. My last grievance is that the dining-room chimney smokes so badly that my ornaments are getting quite dingy-looking already. I have had a man to see it, but it is not much better.”

“Why, Madge, you surely have not scruples like mamma!” broke in Elsie. “She will not have any of those new patent chimney-pots on, lest they should blow off on to someone’s head; but I did not think you would be so particular.”

“Now, Margaret, you must not listen to Elsie’s nonsense,” rejoined Aunt Annie. “The fact is, I have a superior plan of lighting fires which causes so little smoke that it really does away with the necessity for patent chimney-pots, though, no doubt, they are sometimes very useful where there is too much down draught. But my present housemaid forgets to lay the fires in my way, unless I look after her constantly. She ought every morning, after clearing the grate, to put a piece of brown paper in the bottom, and then fill the grate with knobs of coal and a few cinders up to the top bar.”

“No sticks?”

“No, nothing but coal till the grate is full. Then, on the top, one of those wooden wheels for kindling, or two or three sticks, a little paper, and a few knobs of coal are arranged. This is lighted and soon becomes a brisk little fire, which burns gradually downwards till the whole is alight. The only objections to this plan are that the fire does not blaze up much, and ought not to be poked, and poking, you know, has such a wonderful fascination for some people. The only attention it wants is sometimes a little patting down to make it more compact. If it left alone and not touched, it will burn for eight or nine hours without more coals, and be a bright clear fire the whole time.”

“Yes, Madge, I can second all mamma says,” said Elsie. “I am not generally favoured with a fire in my bedroom, but I have had one the last few nights in consideration of my bad cold. I have it lighted a little while before I go to bed, and rather more coal than usual put in the grate, and it is always burning when I get up in the morning.”

“What clever ideas you always have, aunt! I will try it to-morrow morning, though I do not exactly see why it should burn downwards, when everybody knows it is the nature of fires to burn upwards. But if the fire lasts such a long time, surely it must be a great saving of coal?”

“It is a very great saving. You will find that servants very soon get to prefer this arrangement, because they have so much less coals to carry upstairs, and it saves them trouble in other ways, for the fuel is almost entirely consumed, and leaves very few cinders; and even if there are any they are simply put back into the grate next morning amongst the coals. Be sure you try it, dear, and when you have made up your mind to adopt it, I should advise you to follow my example a little farther, and have a thin sheet of iron fitted into the bottom of the grate, when you no longer need the piece of brown paper put in every morning. But stay and take luncheon with us, Margaret, and then you shall see the lighting of the drawing-room fire.”

“Oh, mamma, you know you told me we were going to take a humble luncheon of pork chops, and Margaret is sure not to like that,” cried Elsie.

“Yes, I do, very much; but I do not often have it, because I have an idea that pork is not very wholesome, said Margaret.

“Nor is it, if there be any doubt of the quality and freshness of the meat,” replied Mrs. Colville. “You should never buy it at any but a first-rate shop, and notice that both fat and lean are very white, and the former free from kernels; the skin should look firm and smooth, for if it seems clammy it is probably stale. But if you are careful on these points you need not have any hesitation in buying it, particularly at this time of the year; it is always considered most wholesome from October to March.”

“And do you think it economical, aunt?”

“Yes! But hardly as much so as its low price would lead you to imagine, because there is less nourishment in it than other kinds of meat, and it wastes a good deal in cooking. A leg of fresh pork is generally considered the most economical joint. Then, of course, the dripping from pork takes the place of the very best lard, when clarified, so that there is a saving there, again.”

“The worst of two married people meeting together,” observed Elsie, meditatively, “is such that their conversation entirely hinges upon such extremely domestic topics, to the exclusion of everything of a more elevating nature.”

“Oh, Elsie, I am sorry; I never thought of how wearisome it must be to you. I was going to tell aunt about one other little trouble I have, but I will spare you.”

“No, indeed! ask away, Margaret; it is good for Elsie to gain information, so as to be better able to gain information, so as to be better able to take care of a house of her own some day,” said Mrs. Colville.

“Well, excuse me, Elsie, but I find it so difficult to get on with Anne properly, aunt, and I want your advice. I am sure in many little things she is not strictly honest, and I must tell her of it when I see it, and altogether, I seem to be constantly having to find fault about little things. I know I have a hasty temper, and perhaps I speak more sharply than I ought; but after I have mentioned anything she goes into the kitchen, and if any of her friends are there, as I told you they very frequently are, she talks in a loud voice—of course, for me to hear—about ‘people who pretend to be religious, and yet are always finding fault.’ What am I to do, aunt? I cannot let the work be neglected, and I do not think I ought to allow dishonesty even in trifles, but it is dreadful to think she looks upon me as bringing discredit on Christianity.”

“It is a very difficult question, dear, particularly for you, who are only just beginning to be mistress of your own house,” replied Mrs. Colville. “It requires great tact and management with a servant like Anne. You must be strictly obeyed if you wish to have any comfort and order in the house. Neglect of your duty in seeing that the work is properly done is only looked upon as weakness, for which servants would despise you. They naturally do not care to work hard for a mistress who does not know good work from bad. But, on the other hand, if you are tempted to speak hastily, you will find it better not to mention a fault, particularly those which have annoyed or irritated you, till you feel that your anger has quite cooled down. Then you will be able to point out a fault or carelessness without losing your temper, which would entirely spoil the effect of a remonstrance and might reasonably call forth scornful remarks about Christians being no better than other people. And then, you know, dear, it does not do to forget to give praise as well as blame when it is deserved. We all like to be praised when we do well and it does quite as much good as scolding.”

“Thank you, aunt; I am sure that is good advice. I will keep out of Anne’s way in the future when I feel cross. I thought I had got over my naturally hasty temper but I find it was only lying dormant for want of provocation, and Anne seems to have roused it all up again.”

“Then there is another thing; we who are mistresses, and able to get sympathy and loving care when we have the least trouble or sickness, ought to make allowances for the many private anxieties and troubles our servants have, and which are greatly enhanced by their loneliness. Our little troubles would seem harder to bear if we were living alone among strangers, so you should try to let Anne see that you are really her friend and anxious to promote her happiness, for while she is your servant you are responsible for her welfare. Speak to her, when it is necessary to scold, in a low gentle voice, and let her see that it is entirely between yourselves, and not a matter for the whole house to hear. You know, dear, you have as mistress of the house, to set her an example of Christian womanhood, which includes amongst its duties gentleness and forbearance, as well as ‘looking well to the ways of her house.’ You see, my child, I speak to you plainly, but I do it because I have gone through just the same difficulties myself, and so can judge from my own experience.”

“This is certainly more elevating than pork chops, Madge,” broke in Elsie, “and I can join in, for I take a great interest in the race of domestic servants, they are so much maligned, poor things, though they certainly are sometimes very provoking. I had to go into one of our servant’s bedrooms the other day just after coming out of my own room, which I flatter myself is very prettily arranged, and I was so struck by the bareness of the room and the absence of anything ornamental, that I felt quite ashamed of all my unnecessary ornaments; it is really too bad that servants should not have anything pretty about them. So, as a beginning, I got these large coloured texts, and I am binding them with narrow ribbon, and then I shall sew on a loop of rather broader ribbon to hang them up by, and they will decorate their bare walls a little; then I think I shall make them some toilet-tidies out of my Christmas cards, and then—oh! Then my patience will be exhausted, I expect; but if it is not, I mean their rooms look quite nice. Some people are so dreadfully afraid of making their servants’ rooms look pretty that, even if their windows face the front, they give them shabby old blinds and no curtains, and spoil the look of the whole of the house.”

“You have given up venetian blinds, I see, aunt.”

“Oh, yes, long ago; they are expensive, to begin with, and they get so dirty very soon, and it is such an undertaking to have them either washed or re-painted, so we use those pretty striped linen ones, scalloped along the bottom and edged with fringe, and we have had them lately fitted with patent spring rollers; they are so convenient, and very rarely get out of order. Then for the sitting-rooms, you see, we have these more elaborate linen blinds, looped in the German fashion.”

“Well, aunt, I am ashamed of having asked you such a string of questions, but I am very grateful to you for answering them. I am sorry I cannot accept your invitation to luncheon; the children from next door are coming in to take luncheon with me, and I must run off, or I shall be late.”

Margaret had carried out her intention of writing more frequently than formerly to Tom, in Edinburgh. Not that she really feared any harm for him, but she dreaded lest he might feel neglected and uncared for now that personal intercourse with his family was so limited. Joanna’s thoughts and attention were chiefly taken up by a little daughter who had recently come to gladden their home, and Mr. Colville’s letters from abroad, kind and fatherly always, were necessarily uncertain in their arrival. Thus, Margaret felt that on her Om chiefly depended for intercourse with the rest of the family. He was a young man now, just twenty years old, but his letters were those of a frank honest-hearted boy still, breathing all through them a deep affection for his sister, so that the hint which Elsie had given of bad companions soon faded from Margaret’s mind.

Before long, however, the remembrance of her cousin’s words was rudely awakened, and Margaret’s love and trust in her brother put to a severe test.

One day, before luncheon, Margaret had just completed the rather unpleasant task of washing her ivory-backed hair brushes. Knowing how easily they are spoilt if carelessly washed, she always did them herself, choosing a dry, breezy day, and dabbing them in warm water in which pieces of yellow sop and a very little soda had been dissolved, and being very careful all the time to avoid splashing the backs. After rinsing them in cold water, and shaking them well to get the water all out, she tied a string to each handle and hung them at an open window to dry.

On this particular morning, when she had finished the brushes, she stood at the window a few minutes watching the passers-by, and to her intense astonishment she saw her husband coming up the road, and walking hurriedly towards the house.

Wondering at this quite unprecedented occurrence so early in the day, she ran down to the door, and saw at once, by his face that something was wrong. Fearing, she knew not what, and dreading to ask, she silently followed her husband to the dining-room.

“I don’t know how to tell you, Madge, darling,” he began, drawing her to a seat beside him on the couch.

“Oh, Wilfred! is anybody hurt—killed?” she asked in a whisper with a terrible sinking at her heart.

“No, no, dear! everyone is well. It is, I was going to say, worse than that: it is disgrace and shame that I have to tell you of. It is Tom who has— But perhaps you had better read this;” and he placed in her hands a letter. It was from Tom’s employer, Mr. Macander, stating that he was sorry to inform Mr. Trent that his safe had been robbed to the extent of £100. Suspicion had naturally fallen on young Colville, as he had been sent to the safe at a short time previously, and upon all the employés being searched, three of the missing bank notes had been found in Colville’s desk. Mr. Macander went on to say that, for the sake of example, he felt compelled, though very reluctantly, to prosecute, but lost no time in communicating with the Trents, as he knew Mr. Colville was absent. He added that the young fellow was for the present simply locked up in one of the offices, and obstinately refused to confess his guilt, though he did not attempt to explain the presence of the notes in his desk, so that there was no course open but to place the affair in the hands of the police.

When Margaret had finished reading, and say with pale, anxious face, Wilfred began to tell her how he had arranged for someone to take his place at business for a day or two that he might start at once for Edinburgh, to do what he could in this miserable affair; he thought, possibly, by offering to refund the stolen money himself, he might induce Mr. Macander to give up the idea of a prosecution.

Margaret at once declared she must go too, and in a very short space of time the two were speeding on their journey. As the hours flew by, and they approached the city, Margaret’s spirits rose somewhat.

“I daresay we shall find him at liberty, with his name cleared, when we get there!” she said. “The real thief could never allow him to be punished, could he Wilfred? Besides, with his spotless character—Tom’s, I mean—and so many friends in Edinburgh to testify to his fine noble ways, he couldn’t help coming through all right, even if the thief still held back.”

Wilfred looked less sanguine.

“I believe the lad is as honest as the day,” he said, “but you must not hope for too much, my Madge, for the evidence against him seems pretty strong, and previous good character does not always tell very much.”

They did not arrive at Edinburgh till too late to take any steps that night, and Margaret had to curb her impatience till the morning, when at an early hour they presented themselves at Mr. Macander’s office and were admitted into his private room.

“I am indeed sorry that Mr. and Mrs. Trent should have taken so long a journey for nothing,” began that gentleman, urbanely.

“Oh, Wilfred, I knew all would be right,” ejaculated Margaret, with rapture in her face.

“For,” continued Mr. Macander, not noticing the interruption, “the young gentleman has, so to speak, taken the law into his own hands, and in a word—escaped!”

It was, indeed, true that Margaret and her husband’s journey to Edinburgh had been for nothing. For Tom, taking advantage of a delay in the arrival of the police, and profiting by an unsecured window and various ledges and pipes at the back of the house, had managed to make his way down into a yard and thence to the street, leaving no trace behind. How he had been unable to escape, unseen, and unheard was a mystery. The worst of the case was that, by decamping, he had thus voluntarily fixed the guilt upon himself, and the last chance of clearing him was, by his own act, removed.

Mr. Macander treated the matter with characteristic coolness. He reasoned that if he pressed the case on and had the young fellow traced and brought to justice, the expenses would be so considerable as to overbalance the satisfaction of it. Whilst, on the other hand, if he allowed the matter to drop the thief would probably suffer more by privation and constant anxiety, and fear of being caught, than if he were sentenced to a term of imprisonment. So he decided to hush the matter up, which without much difficulty he was able to do.

There was no object to be gained in staying longer in Edinburgh, for Tom would certainly not be remaining there, so Margaret and Wilfred returned sadly home, thinking that Tom would be as likely to make his way to London as anywhere else.

Margaret was cut to the heart to see that Wilfred’s mind towards Tom was somewhat changed, and that he was, to say the least, less confident of his innocence.

“You do not know him as I do, Wilfred, or you would see that his very nature would revolt against such a thing as he is suspected of,” she said, vehemently, when they were left alone in the railway carriage by the exit of some passengers. “He is hasty-tempered, and very thoughtless, and perhaps a little bit selfish, but beyond that—oh, Wilfred, he is the very soul of honour!”

Wilfred sighed and hesitated before answering. “We can none of us tell the strength of our own virtue till we have been tested by sharp temptation,” he said. “I think we should be very slow to judge harshly anyone who falls, in remembering that we ourselves might have fallen lower still, if equally tempted.”

Margaret could say no more in defence of her brother. She knew quite well that everything pointed to his guilt, and she had nothing to justify her in her faith in him, save the loving instincts of her own heart. So she fell to talking of how they could tempt back the lost one, guilty or not, and what they should do for him if he came. They composed an appealing advertisement, to be inserted in the “Agony Column,” of all the papers, an they made schemes for inquiring in all directions, covertly, so as not to excite suspicion. And, never doubting that they should soon hear of him, they began hopefully planning for his future.

It was irksome to Margaret to have to settle down again to household cares, whilst her mind was constantly at work with the lost brother, as the time went on. The day after their return home was Tuesday, synonymous in her mind with “washing day,” for, in common with her neighbours, Margaret had a washing day, though she had expected to leave that unpleasant institution behind her in the country.

The back kitchen and wash-house boasted a convenient little washing-machine and wringer, which saved a great amount of labour and time. The linen was sorted on Monday, and all except the fine, coloured, and flannel things were put to soak. The coarsest things were put in a separate pan, and all were covered with warm water, in which one or two tablespoonfuls of extract of soap powder had been dissolved. This was found to have great cleansing properties, without in any way injuring the clothes. If for any reason Anne was without this extract she would prepare some soap jelly (as being the best substitute), by shredding yellow soap into a jar, and pouring on it boiling water, in the proportion of a gallon to a pound of soap. This was set aside for the night, and on Tuesday morning was fit for use, as a jelly.

Anne had not been accustomed to laundry work before coming to Margaret, and at first, with the view of saving herself trouble, she would postpone the washing of the different things as long as possible, till they were very much soiled and very hard to cleanse. Then the quickest way appeared to boil them all up in the copper together, by which the stains were fixed, instead of being removed. Experience presently taught her that it is really less trouble and much better for the clothes to wash them before they become extremely soiled, and also that stains such as tea &c, must be loosened by washing in cold or lukewarm water, before attempting to boil them out.

After being washed in the machine, it was only the most dirty of all the things which required boiling. These were put in cold water in the copper, which, gradually coming to the boil, drew out all the impurity that previous washings had failed to remove.

Again Anne was at first very free in her use of the blue bag, hoping thus to hide the traces of careless washing. When this last was improved, she was content with the blue water only tinged with colour, and each article was passed separately and quickly through it, thus preventing the blue from settling in the creases. The coloured things were twice washed, and once rinsed in water containing a teaspoonful or so of salt, to secure the colour.

Starching was a great stumbling-block at first, and Anne herself was obliged to own that there must be something radically wrong in her method, when one day Margaret found her standing dejectedly at her ironing-board, whereon lay various “fine things,” some as stiff as boards, others limp, and others again in patches of alternate limpness and stiffness.

Margaret was thankful that Joanna had expounded to her the mysteries of starching, and proceeded to practically demonstrate the same to Anne.

You must wash the starch out of all these, Anne, and I will soon show you how to manage them properly,” she said. “See, you must mix the starch very smoothly in cold water, in which a little borax has been first dissolved. That gives the things a nice gloss, and prevents them sticking to the iron. Then you dip the laces and muslins in, and afterwards rinse them in a little in a basin of clean, cold water. That is clear starching. When all such light things are done, you pour on to the cold starch a little really boiling water. That makes it into a sort of jelly, which is fit for everything else requiring stiffening.

“These also require a slight rinse in clean water afterwards. Some time I want you to try, instead of using borax, stirring the starch with a wax candle till a little bit of it is dissolved. It is said to be even better than the borax. Now, if you make your starch as I have shown, you will have no more difficulty, I think.”

By rising half an hour earlier than usual on Tuesday morning, Anne was able to do the small household wash herself without extra help, and without the other work of the house getting into arrears. She “sprinkled and folded” on Tuesday evening, mangled on Wednesday, and ironed on Thursday, so that there was not a very great amount of extra work on either day. Margaret was particular that all clothes should be brought in from the garden early in the afternoon, before the arrival of possible callers; if they were not dry, the process was completed in the back kitchen, where hooks were placed for the lines. Though all this caused some extra trouble and discomfort, still the saving of expense and superior whiteness and preservation of the things were so considerable as to render it quite worth while.

Apropos of the laundry, Margaret was particular not to keep any soiled linen in the bedroom baskets. Every morning their contents were removed to a large one kept in the box room, for the custom of having a full basket constantly in one’s bedroom is neither wholesome nor clean.

Margaret had her own ideas, too, about ventilation, perhaps planted in her mind by the lectures on hygiene she had attended some years before at the old Monkstown home. She could perceive no reason why one’s first impulse on entering a bedroom in the morning should be to throw open the window, with a sniff of disgust at the close and stuffy air. Unless the night be damp or foggy, the windows should remain always open, provided the doors are shut. But there is a popular prejudice against this best and harmless form of ventilation (for the idea of its giving one cold is a fallacy, as long as there is no draught.); so the bedrooms of Roseheath Villa were all furnished with ventilators, whilst the fireplace registers were always open. On a fair night, however, Margaret raised her window a few inches, in addition, with the result of always having a sweet fresh air in the room.

Dorothy Snow, Margaret’s old school friend, now lived with her parents in one of the suburbs or London; she frequently found her way over to the little house in Bayswater. She arrived shortly before luncheon one day some weeks after the expedition to Edinburgh.

“I cannot bear people who drop in unexpectedly, at luncheon time, can you?” she said, as she greeted her friend. “But as I’ve brought you two presents, perhaps you will excuse it this once. One of them is something to eat, or rather to drink, and I propose that we have some as an adjunct to our luncheon.”

“Oh, what can it be? Nothing spirituous, I hope, for I am a teetotaler, you know,” remarked Margaret.

“No, it is only some real Spanish chocolate which Uncle Will brought me, and if I might have a little earthenware pot at this fire, I could prepare it in the correct fashion, which I am sure you would highly approve of. It has a delicious faint, cinnamon flavour that one does not often get in England, I think.”

Margaret was accustomed to her friend’s impulses, and departed to get the necessary cooking appliances. Dorothy threw aside her hat and mantle, and began breaking up 2 oz. of the chocolate in a mortar; this she put in the pipkin, with a pint of cold water, and stirred it over the slow fire till it was the consistency of custard.

“There, that is ready, but it requires sweetening to my taste,” said the impromptu cook, pouring the fragrant compound into two cups. “Now, if we were abroad, we should have little biscuits fastened in rows on paper, and glasses of cold water with the chocolate; but feeling rather famished, I should prefer some of that nice-looking potted meat, please.”

“Ah, I have just invested in a mincing machine and cannot think how I ever managed without it,” said Margaret. “All scraps of meat of all kinds, and bacon and ham and everything of that sort, are minced up together, and seasoned with pepper and salt, then pressed into small glass pots, a very little liquefied butter poured on the top, and it is a capital dish for breakfast or luncheon. Fish is very nice in the same way, and for a hot dish of mince the machine is most useful. But, Do, I do not wish to appear grasping, only did you not say you had two tokens of affection for me?”

“Yes, here is the second; it is for the piano, and I hope you will always use it, for really you do not take half enough care of that instrument. Why, it stands against an outside wall, and I have often seen it open on a damp day, with a draught from the window or door blowing right on to it!”

“Poor dear thing, it never occurs to me how delicate it and the rest of its race are, and I do rather neglect it, I know. But what can this long strip be for?”

"It is made of wash-leather, embroidered, you see, and it is to lay on the keys, before closing the instrument. There is a piece allowed to hang down in front of the keys, as well as to be on the top, and it keeps out damp and dust, and prevents the ivory going yellow. As you have to keep your piano in a room that is inclined to be damp, it would be best to get a set of glasses, one to be placed under each corner or foot, and pull it a little way out from the wall, for damp is the very worst thing for it, and sudden changes of temperature are almost as bad.”

At this moment Anne appeared at the door with a note for Margaret. It was a rather dirty and disreputable-looking missive, on the outside, at any rate, and Dorothy Snow watched with surprise how Margaret first flushed rosy red, and then turned very pale as she read it. They were still sitting at the luncheon-table, though Anne had begun to clear away the things.

“Who brought this note, Anne?” asked Margaret, with a suppressed eagerness in her tones.

“A poor-looking, ragged child, m’m, and I hope she won’t come hanging about the place, m’m, for she answered me quite impudent when I asked her who she come from, and I’m sure her hands were that dirty, I thought twice before I took the note from her. Some of them beggars I expect, m’m, from the looks of her.”

Dorothy was not without a fair share of the curiosity of her sex, but it seemed that Margaret was not inclined to gratify it on this occasion. Wondering at her friend’s unaccustomed reticence, Dorothy soon took her leave.

It was not remarkable that Margaret was discomposed, for the dirty little missive was in Tom’s handwriting, and signed with Tom’s name.

He was in London, he said, and craved to see her; he would be at a certain spot at seven o’clock that evening, and if she had any sisterly feeling left for such a miserable fellow, he asked her to be there to meet him. “But do not tell a single soul that you have heard from me,” the note went on. “If I find that you have even hinted it to Wilfred or any one, I shall make my way abroad, and you will never hear from me again.”

This was decidedly awkward, and Margaret’s delight at hearing from her brother was almost checked.

“Seven o’clock is our dinner hour, and how strange Wilfred will think my being out!” she mused. “Well, I must leave a note to explain, yet I dare not tell him the truth till I have Tom’s permission. It is just like a boy to fix upon the most inconvenient time!”

She wrote a few lines to Wilfred, saying vaguely that a poor person had suddenly sent for her, and she did not like to refuse so urgent a call; she would explain fully on her return, which would be before long. Thinking how her husband would rejoice with her when he knew the truth, she set out, and seven o’clock found her at the trysting-place. But there was no Tom. She paced up and down for some minutes, and began to grow hot and uncomfortable, for perhaps that poor wretched tramp who had been there crouching against the wall all the time might be seized with a design upon her purse; she wished he would go away; at any rate, she could not wait much longer, for he was looking at her—nay, approaching her—and saying in faltering tones, “Don’t you know me, Madge?”

Could this pale, gaunt creature, with shabby clothes and hollow eyes, be indeed her bright handsome brother? Yes, there was still the old frank, straightforward look, though the face was pinched and thin.

It’s no wonder you don’t know me,” he said, quietly. “I’ve been ill, and six weeks roughing it does alter one; but Madge, say you trust me; I can’t bear it if you are against me.”

She threw her arms round his neck and kissed his poor pale cheeks again and again. “My darling boy, I shall always trust you, as I always have done. But why did you leave us? We could soon have cleared you if you had only stayed.”

“No chance of that,” he answered, with decision. “I know the fellow who took the notes, and he put those three in my desk; but I could not prove it. Besides, Madge, I would not have done so if I could; he shall never be found out if I can prevent it. I can’t tell you why, but I’d endure anything first. It was foolish to run away, and cowardly, I daresay, but you don’t know what it was, Madge—I couldn’t bear it,” and his eyes filled with tears.

There was so much to hear on both sides. He told how he had been living as best he could, selling one by one his few valuables, and earning a few pence as porter and errand boy. The little girl who had brought his note, the child of parents as poor as himself, was a staunch friend, he said. She had tended him during his illness, and was always eager to share with him her scanty meals.

Tom, on his side, learned Mr. Macander’s view of the matter, and that his father remained abroad with the idea that he, Tom, might be making his way out to him.

The clock in a neighboring church rang out eight.

“Oh, I must go home now,” said Margaret, startled to find the time had flown so, "but you must let me tell Wilfred, and then you shall come home to us till we decide what can be done.”

Tom drew his arm from hers, and a hard look came over his face as he asked, “Does he believe me innocent; or does Joanna, or any one of them but you? No, Madge, you can’t say that they do,” he went on passionately, “and it’s not likely I shall come begging and praying them to help me, whom they think a thief!”

Arguments were of no avail; nothing would induce him to alter his mind, and Margaret, bewildered as to right course to take, and afraid of losing him, reluctantly promised to keep his secret. She pressed upon him all the little money she had with her, the tears running down her cheeks as she parted from him. “Good-bye, dearest darling brother. How can I leave you like this!” Taking a wrap from her shoulders, she folded it about his neck, for he was shivering with cold, and with one last embrace she ran of home. No girl in London was so miserable as she, she thought, for her brother was almost starving, and she was going to deceive her husband.

The position in which Margaret now found herself was a truly perplexing and unhappy one. The task of misleading Wilfred as to where she had been on the night of meeting Tom was only too easy; indeed, she half wished he had shown a little suspicion, and so have discovered the truth, without her having to directly break her promise to her brother. But no, the explanation that a poor person who had been very ill wished to see her was sufficient for Wilfred, knowing as he did how many friends and protégés his wife had in the poor districts at hand. So he only laughingly begged her to persuade her distressed parishioners to choose a more timely hour for their summonses in future, and then thought no more of the matter.

How she longed to tell him the truth! To be joining with him in grieving over the boy’s silence, and making plans for tempting him home, whilst, on the other hand, she knew he was living miserably not many miles away—such a dual kind of existence was unbearable, and the deceit of it so utterly repugnant to her nature that she felt she could not go on with it. But then came the remembrance of Tom’s resolute face and decided tone as he said, “and you will never hear from me again”; and, recalling his ever firm (a harsher judgment might have called it “obstinate”) will, she dared not put him to the test.

Thus she went painfully on, with a very troubled heart. Mr. Colville, her father, remained abroad, always in the hope of meeting with his son in some of the places with which he had become familiar during past holidays; this idea seemed plausible enough to all the family, save Margaret. That Joanna was almost convinced of Tom’s guilt was evident to her during a two or three days’ visit which she paid to the Helliers at this time. Joanna had left home whilst her brothers were little more than children, and had had few opportunities of knowing their matured characters.

Besides this, it seemed to Margaret that baby Annie (as little Miss Hellier was generally called) monopolised a great deal more than a fair share of her mother’s attention, and poor Tom’s troubles were of much less importance than the premature premonitions of a tooth.

“She seems a little inclined to be fretful, Madge,” said Joanna one day, when Margaret had been trying to talk guardedly about the subject which lay ever near her heart. “Do you know I really shouldn’t be surprised if—oh, yes, Tom we were talking about; well, you know, boys are so easily tempted. I always thought that dear Tom was rather weak, and then his keeping silent does seem so very strange, doesn’t it, baby darling?” and she fell to kissing and crooning to the little one in a way very aggravating to Margaret, who felt Tom’s affair a crushing weight which nothing had power to lighten.

“I cannot understand how you can treat the matter so lightly, be so calm about it,” she exclaimed. “Why, if I thought he had done this thing, I should hardly lift my head for shame! And as it is, to think about him, innocent and suffering, no doubt, somewhere or other—oh, it is heart-breaking!”

“Calm! My dear Madge, I was dreadfully upset about it, I can tell you, and I do feel it very much indeed, and we are doing all we can to find him even now, in concert with Wilfred and you and father, though as to pretending to think he didn’t do it, I’m afraid there’s no room for doubt about that. Do you know I sometimes see such a decided look of you about baby Annie’s eyes, particularly when she smiles—“ But Joanna was talking to space, for Margaret, with a white face, had gone from the room.

“Oh, don’t go, Madge!” Joanna called after her. “I want to ask you a number of things. I will send baby up to nurse now if you like, and then we can have a little quiet time before Arthur comes home. How does the wonderful Anne go on?”

“Oh, we are very comfortable at present,” said Margaret, mollified somewhat, coming back to her seat, and preparing for a chat. “I find I made one mistake when she came in not saying anything about perquisites, of which in consequence Anne takes a good many.”

“And if that is once allowed, there is no end to the waste and pilfering, for pilfering it undoubtedly is, though no cook would admit it,” rejoined Joanna. “The only thing to do is, at the beginning, to say you are willing to add something to the year’s wages, but that no perquisites are allowed. If that is made quite clear, there is no more difficulty. I always tell them frankly that anything I get by selling, what in some houses is considered cook’s perquisites, I give away in charity. That is a better use of the money than adding it to the already good wages of the servant, and they always agree with me if they are worth anything. The people who buy those sorts of things call quite openly and purchase whatever there may be for them, and there is no secret at all about it. But if you do not like that plan, you should, at any rate, have a clear understanding at first as to what Anne is to take and what she is not, for if the subject is avoided, the waste and extravagance that go on are immense.”

“Anne is more wasteful with bread than anything; I cannot get her to be careful. When she has a great accumulation, she moistens a quantity with water , and throws it into the garden ‘for the birds,’ she says, but it really nourishes an army of stray cats, who are the pest of the neighbourhood.”

Joanna laughed at her sister’s woes. “You should look into the bread-pan every morning, and make Anne empty and wipe it out. Then pieces always come in well for puddings, apple charlotte, or the plain baked puddings with currants and candied peel. These, cold, turned out and sprinkled with white sugar, are really nice and look well too. But you ought not to have many pieces in your small family, and you will not have if you insist upon care being taken in cutting it.”

“It seems to be the general custom about us to have a boy in for an hour every morning to clean the boots and knives, and do anything else he can to fill up the time. Very useful he is, too, but two shillings a week seems a good deal; still, as everyone does it, I am obliged to, too.”

“Why do you not offer Anne a shilling a week to clean the boots and knives herself?” suggested Joanna; “it would save you half the expense, and I think she would agree to it readily. If she does, by the way, tell her to mix the blacking with beer instead of water, it is so much better; and another hint is that boots should be kept constantly cleaned even when not in frequent wear.”

“Anne is very clean on the surface; she is perpetually cleaning the silver and her ‘brights,’ and giving a superficial polish to things which show, but she has several corners and cupboards which are what the boys used to call glory holes of dirt and rubbish, and into the contents of which I should be very sorry to pry.”

“Oh, that is very bad, Madge; it is so unpleasant to feel that one’s house is not thoroughly clean in every crack and crevice. You must make some excuse for having these places cleared out, for perhaps you would not like to offend her by telling her outright. As to the silver, it is very hard wear for it to be cleaned frequently; once a week is quite sufficient, so long as it is thoroughly washed every time of using in boiling water perfectly dried with a soft cloth, and finally polished with a leather. By the way, I know of a capital method of improving electro from which most of the silver has departed. You take a pennyworth of powdered chalk, and twice the amount of mercury, and mix them to a paste with a drop of water in a saucer; and if you well rub the tarnished article with this it will soon be quite bright and white.”

“Our electro does not require any doctoring just yet I hope, still it is useful to know of a simple thing like that,” returned Margaret. “But, Joanna, to return to the former subject, I think it is rather an imposition to have to decide on a certain fixed ‘day out’ for servants, with which nothing may interfere, however inconvenient it may be to the mistress, don’t you?”

“But I do not submit to such an arbitrary arrangement. It is, I think, only right that they should go to church once every Sunday, and I see that they do go to church, and not spend the time in walking about. This I always promise them, but beyond this I do not bind myself. I tell them they shall have a holiday as often as ever I can spare them, and if they have a special reason for wishing to go at a certain time, I shall try to make it convenient to let them do so.”

“That must be far more pleasant; but is it not difficult to persuade the maids to think so?”

“If they demur at all, and I think them worth coaxing, I generally explain that they will find they have even more liberty in my service as I wish for them to be happy and contented; and after trying my plan a while if they are not satisfied, I say I shall try to make other arrangements. But they invariably do like my system, when they consent to try it, for it is really more pleasant for both mistress and maid.”

“Yes, so I should think, but I could hardly venture to begin a new order of things with Anne, could I? That reminds me, Joanna, do you keep a hospital drawer?” asked Margaret.

“I don’t know what you mean exactly; I have a little medicine chest, you know, with the ordinary staple medicines, but that is all.”

“Well, I have started a hospital drawer; now and for once I am ahead of you!” rejoined Margaret triumphantly. “Wilfred’s dear old aunt, Mrs. Trent, with whom he used to live, came to see us the other day, and at luncheon she somehow managed to let her knife slip, with the result of a cut finger. Anne flew in one direction and I in another, in search of sticking plaster, for I knew I had some somewhere. We ransacked the house, and I think I never felt more ashamed, for not even a bit of a soft rag could we find, and at last I had to tear up a pocket handkerchief, and by the time I came back to the room I found Mrs. Trent had already used her own as a bandage. I told her of my resolve to set apart a drawer for those sorts of things for the future, and she advised me to keep in it not only soft old linen, stout calico, and sticking plaster, but some cotton wool for burns, pieces of flannel and muslin for poultices, and some mustard leaves, so as to be ready for all emergencies.”

“That is a wise precaution to take, certainly,” said Joanna; “I must have one, too.”

“Then she went on to tell me many uses to put old house linen to. Of course, she said, sheets can be made to last a long time by turning the ends to the middle, cutting away the worn parts, and darning them where thin. Towels can be turned in the same way for servants’ use, and tablecloths, when past darning, will make nice tray cloths and fish napkins, fringed and made pretty by drawing threads a little above the fringe. But when they are quite done, even for this use, they may be cut to size, two or three thicknesses put together, stitched round, and they make lovely soft cloths for polishing place and knives, rubbing the windows or crockery; in fact, all kitchen purposes.”

“Yes, so they would; I have found from experience that old woollen socks and stockings, cut and stitched two or three together, make capital house flannel, and it is a shame to buy dusters when an old print or Holland dress will furnish ever so many first-rate ones; in fact, much better than those expensive fluffy one(s) you buy, which are useful in appearance, but no use at all.”

Margaret quite enjoyed a talk like this; it was so like old times to be figuratively sitting at the feet of her clever sister again, and she thought to herself (and reproached herself for thinking) that Joanna was certainly much nicer when little tyrannical baby Annie was upstairs in the nursery.

For the time, too, she had ceased to be constantly oppressed by the miserable thought of the double part she was playing; but this returned in all its strength when she was again at home. Her only hope was that somehow the state of things could not last long. Some one must surely recognise Tom, she thought, though there was little chance of this, for he had no friends in London at all, save herself, Wilfred, and the Colvilles. Surely Tom could not intend to keep his whereabouts secret for many weeks, or in some way or other his presence must come round to Wilfred’s ears—thus she reasoned with herself. She did not yet know how in the great metropolis everyone goes his own way, and cares nothing for his neighbor’s business.

Meanwhile, she could not let Tom be in actual want. Yet not one penny could she take of Wilfred’s, her husband whom she loved so, and yet whom she was deceiving so shamefully. But by strict self-denial she thought she might fairly help Tom somewhat.

For example, hitherto she had rather enjoyed having little dainty luncheons, with tiny experiments in the way of cookery, which, if successful, would be carried out on a larger scale for Wilfred’s benefit at dinner. But now, when Anne had spread the table and retired (for Margaret waited on herself at this meal), she would survey the viands spread, and say to herself, perhaps, “I should like that little piece of chicken, and then some of this cold tart, but I will have instead a piece of bread-and-cheese (I wish I liked cheese, but it is very satisfying), then the chicken will do nicely for Wilfred’s breakfast, and the tart will serve instead of a fresh pudding at dinner, and I shall thus save at least sixpence to go to help that poor dear. Oh, what a wicked, wicked thing I am—,” and watering her bread-and-cheese with tears, she would struggle through the repast, and presently sally out to see the hardly less unhappy Tom. In taking the money from her he would always display considerable reluctance.

“I hate to take it, Madge, but I know it’s really your own; I know you wouldn’t bring Wilfred’s, and I know you’ll believe me when I vow to return it some time. I shall make a good start some day, and get really rich, and then won’t I pay you back for all your goodness to me!”

“I’ve always been accustomed, where I’ve lived previous, to have the charwoman in for ten days at the least, and turn the house out o’ windows, as the saying is, which there’s some satisfaction in the spring cleaning then, which I’ve always understood ladies from the country was even more particular than town.”

This was Anne’s opinion, given quietly and respectfully enough, but still in a way which showed she thought she knew best, in this matter, at any rate. It was a very unwonted state of affairs, for here was the mistress anxious to curtail the amount of work, to the distress of the maid, who longed to plunge heart and soul into a “thorough good clean from top to bottom.”

The house was not dirty, it is true, for each part of it was regularly and well cleaned; but the “spring clean” is an old and favourite institution, very difficult to oppose, and so Margaret found it this first May after her marriage.

In the end, she decided to have a helper in for three or four days, for there are certain things which do require looking to at this season, and which involve extra work, unless the ordinary affairs of the house be let go to rack and ruin.

Beginning at the top of the house and working downwards, taking two rooms at a time, the bedroom hangings were removed and sent to the cleaner’s (for the eight months’ wear had made them look rather dingy for bright summer weather). Those in Margaret’s room were replaced by a set of cretonne ones which she and Anne had made themselves, finding it a very easy task and a great saving of expense.

The squares of carpet in the centres of the rooms were taken up (not having been fastened down in any way) and given an extra beating in the garden, all the windows being carefully closed at the time. In one of the carpets were unfortunately found traces of moth, so it was spread out upon the grass and well sprinkled in every part with finely-powdered camphor, which after a few hours was swept off with a stiff carpet brush. On another one an old ink-stain was brought to light, which, being of long standing, was difficult to eradicate; but perseveringly-repeated applications of milk, wiped off and renewed as soon as coloured with ink, were at length successful. It was necessary to be careful that the milk did not extend and leave a greasy mark beyond the stain. A few grease-spots found here and there upon the floors were removed by covering them with a hot paste of fuller’s earth and scraps of soap boiled up; this was cleaned off, when dry, with sand and soft soap.

In no case did the paint particularly need freshening, but Anne was not to be dissuaded from wiping it down with a flannel dipped in a basin of warm water containing a teaspoonful of ammonia, and drying it immediately, which she averred, was much less injurious to the paint than the use of soda. The papered walls were dusted down with a duster tied over a broom-head, and the coloured or varnished ones washed, where they required it, with a small cloth, and warm water and soap.

The pleasant part of the work was putting to rights again, for after winter curtains, quilts, blankets, and so on, had been cleaned, repaired, and folded away at the top of the linen press, there were the light summer ones to be brought out. The bedroom windows were all furnished with dainty Madras muslin short curtains, tied with a gold-coloured ribbon, neither of which soled quickly, or at any rate, both are slow to look soiled. The summer quilts were rather a matter of pride to Margaret, being, as someone is reported to have said, “made out of her own head.” They were tasteful combinations of Turkey-twill, dark blue, pink, or red, and the coarse furniture lace and insertion to be had so cheaply now. They were made in strips or squares of alternate twill and insertion, and one best one was of white cricketing-flannel, with a broad handsome border of foliage appliqué on. These all washed well, were inexpensive to make, and always looked bright, pretty, and uncommon.

Margaret’s faith in the honesty of trades-people was somewhat shaken by her residence in London. Perhaps being “fresh from the country,” she was rather easily imposed upon, till experience put her on her guard.

One day a delightful young countryman came to the door; he had a fine colour in his cheeks, and wore a charming clean smock, and a big straw hat and hob-nailed boots—in fact, a model of a countryman. On his arm was a basket of country produce; he wheeled a truck piled with the same. Margaret was delighted with so refreshing a sight amongst the pale townspeople, and bought largely of him, without stopping to investigate his goods very closely, or to demur at the high price he asked.

Alas! the eggs proved to be very “French,” the pots of nice old-fashioned plants were rootless, and the new potatoes, turned out to be, when cooked, like balls of very hard wax!

“You know they were not new, but really very old indeed,” remarked Aunt Annie, to whom Margaret told her tale and showed a sample of the delusive potatoes. “They are probably those which were last year planted for seed, but did not sprout. They are found in the ground when planting the fresh ones this year, and are dug up and sold for new, which they do resemble, but the difference is soon seen if you try to scrape the skin off with your nail, which you know may be readily done with a really new one.”

“One does not know what to do just now for potatoes, for the old ones are not good, and the new ones are so expensive,” said Margaret.

“I find a dish of rice a good substitute sometimes, but it must be boiled to perfection. It ought to be soaked six or seven hours in salt cold water, and then put into a pan of boiling water and boiled for ten minutes. It should then be set by the fire in a colander for a few minutes, that each grain may be light and separate from the others, and with gravy this makes a very acceptable vegetable.”

“But I do not always have gravy, and it cannot be nice alone,” interrogated Margaret.

“With a little management you need never be without gravy, for there may always be a little stock in the house from the stock-pot. I have found that one of the nicest thickenings and flavorings is obtained by stewing an ounce of desiccated cocoa-nut with a pint of gravy for half an hour or more. If you have any rather dry cold meat, a little gravy, hot or cold, is such an improvement.”

“Would it not be possible to use the larding-needle for meat as well as poultry? I have never done so, but often thought it might be a good thing.”

“Yes, certainly it is; in fact, I think it generally unnecessary for poultry and game which are usually rich enough without. But with a joint which seems likely to be dry, it is a good plan to run a few strips of fat bacon in with the larding-needle.”

“By the way, aunt, to turn to a very different subject, are you not often annoyed by visitations from stray cats through the drawing-room French windows? We have been very much so, and one night last week, on returning to the drawing-room after dinner (it was a warm evening and we had left the window open), there were actually two great big creatures settling a dispute by single combat under the sofa, and a third was looking on from my little arm-chair! Wilfred was in desperation, for, as he said, it will not be very pleasant to have to keep the windows closed all through the summer. So he has devised a sort of door of very open wire- work in a wooden frame. This is made to slide to, outside the window, so that when we quit the room, instead of shutting the window, we draw the wire door to, and the air can still come in, though more unpleasant intruders cannot. I think we shall take a malicious pleasure in watching the disappointed feline faces that will come peering in.”

“Ah, that was a good thought of Wilfred’s. Indeed, he seems never at a loss, but always ready and clever, and you are happy, dear Margaret, or ought to be, to have gained so good and capable a helpmeet.”

Mrs. Colville laid some stress upon the “ought to be,” for she, with more than one other, had remarked her altered manner of late; for indeed the life of deception the poor girl was leading was not without its effect upon her, and the old, bright, happy look had given place to one of anxiety and even misery at times. She thought she could bear it better if Tom would but tell her his reason for this secrecy, but it all seemed so needless. It was really wrong for him to be living thus, if it were merely to save the guilty one from detection—no, there must be something behind, though what, Margaret could not surmise. But having taken up this burden she resolved, wrongly or rightly, to bear it, though sometimes it seemed to be too hard to bear.

She always strove to be cheery and sprightly as ever when Wilfred was at home, but he saw through it all that she was, as he thought, weary of waiting for news of her lost brother, and he began to feel harshly towards the foolish, reckless boy who was causing such trouble to them all and such keen suffering to his wife. Tom’s name was not very often mentioned now between them, for Wilfred could not disguise his feelings and opinion of Tom’s conduct, and the expression of them seemed to hurt Margaret so much that he resolved to avoid the subject.

He was always devising little pleasures and outings for her, in the hope of diverting her thoughts and cheering her, and he rarely came home without some trifle to show how she had been in his thoughts all day.

One evening he returned rather earlier than usual, and asked her to dress for a concert that night for which he had secured tickets.

“Do no put on any earrings, Madge; I have brought you a pair that I should like you to wear to-night,” he said. And when she came down in her pretty evening toilet he placed in her hands a pair of tiny, sparkling diamond stars. Her face lighted up, as what hitherto-diamondless girl’s would not! But the smile soon faded away, her breast heaved, and her eyes were full of fast-coming tears.

“Don’t you like them, darling?” he asked, as she remained silent. “I have had my eye on those for months, do you know; but only to-day, by scraping and screwing, have I felt I could be justified in buying them.”

“Like them!” she cried. “Oh, Wilfred, they are perfect! I love them! But it’s too much; you are too good to me. Oh, if only I deserved it, what I happy girl I should be! but I am a—a wretch, I am, indeed. And to think of your depriving yourself of things for me!” and it was only with a strong effort that she kept back the rising sobs that seemed to choke her.

Poor Wilfred was inclined to wish the jewels were back in their original resting-place, so different was their effect on Madge from what he had intended. He hoped they might act as a sort of wholesome tonic, and here was Margaret sighing over them, and saying she was not worthy of them, which was a piece of modesty hitherto quite unparalleled in his experience of female character. He made her take some restorative, whilst he was inwardly showering anathemas on poor Tom’s head; but by the time they reached the concert room Margaret had regained her composure sufficiently to enjoy the music, and also, it may be surmised, to enjoy the wearing of the diamonds.

“Why, Margaret, you have a new servant!” cried Elsie Colville one morning, closing the door behind her as she entered the room where her cousin was sitting. “I was beginning my usual affable salutation to Anne when I came in, and lo! it was a stranger. I was so amazed, for I thought you were settled for life.”

“Oh, you have been away several weeks, you see, Elsie, or you would have heard that Anne was going,” replied Margaret. “She was a good servant in many ways and I liked her, but she was so fond of her own way and so confident of always being in the right in everything, that it was one constant struggle, and that is not at all a fit state in a house. This girl, Dorcas, is very quiet and respectful, and does not resent being told things; it is quite a relief, for I used really to dread telling Anne to alter anything.”

“Dorcas looks exceedingly nice and modest, and so neat and spotless, she is quite a pleasant sight; I’m sure she will do well. But I am afraid you have been worrying, Margaret dear, you look so pale and worn.”

“Oh, no, I am perfectly well; I can bear a great deal of worry without being the worse for it,” said Margaret, with a faint smile.

“How I wish we could hear something of Tom!” Elsie went on. “That would soon bring your roses back, I know. Do you know I saw someone so like my remembrance of him (for I have not seen Tom for years). It was yesterday at the station, quite a poor young fellow, but very respectable-looking, and he had just that proud, half-defiant bearing we used to notice in Tom. He was hanging about, evidently trying to earn a copper by helping with the luggage. I thought I would give him sixpence because of his likeness to my poor cousin, but what do you think? He would not take it! ‘Thank you, miss, I am not a beggar,’ he said, ‘but if you’ll allow me to carry your bag, I’ll be thankful to earn it.’ So I let him take it to the metropolitan station, and gave him a shilling for his independent spirit.”

“How strange to see such a likeness!” said Margaret, quietly, wondering secretly if it had been the veritable Tom whom Elsie had encountered. “But I—I do not much like talking of him, Elsie, so tell me about your visit. Have you enjoyed it?”

“Very much indeed; they are only a small family but they are well off, so everything is beautiful about the house. There are always plenty of ferns and flowers, and the daughter attends entirely to them, instead of leaving it to the servants. She does not have great bunches of flowers, but generally a single bloom in each glass, and the effect is so much better; If they are scarce, a small lump of charcoal in the water preserves them a wonderfully long time. Lucy (that is the daughter’s name) has the glasses washed almost every day in plain hot water and dried directly, but if they are discoloured, cold strong tea generally cleans them. There is a pot or two of ferns in every bedroom in the house.”

“Very unhealthy,” put in Margaret.

“Not at all,” returned Elsie; “for they are lifted out last thing at night on a table in the passage. Have you forgotten the science lessons we imbibed at school, which told us that only when the action of the sun’s rays is withdrawn that the exhalation of the leaves is injurious?”

“Ah, yes, I only had, like many other people, a sort of general idea that plants ought not to be kept in bedrooms. But pray go on describing this model establishment, Elsie. How often does Miss Lucy water the ferns?”

“Twice a week all the ferns in the house are placed in a huge tub of water to have a good soaking, but the leaves are not wet, as ordinary watering with a can is apt to make them go brown. They are left to drain well before being taken back to their places,” replied Elsie. “Then I must tell you about the table decorations. Even when the family are quite alone they have the dinner-table so prettily arranged. Sometimes there is a strip of red Turkey twill down the centre, with a large fern or a low pan of moss in the middle, and small ferns in tiny china pots here and there about. The twill is edged with leaves of different sorts, laid flat on the cloth; these are thrown pell mell into a basin of water after dinner, and so last for a good many days. Then, fancy, Margaret, they always have a menu of even the plainest dinner; and it really is rather nice to know what is coming next, if it is only a milk pudding.”

“I’m afraid you are becoming quite a gourmande, Elsie!” said Margaret, laughing.

“I do not think so, but, you know, I always thought menus ostentatious, and that only gentlemen, at grand dinners, cared to have them on the table, but I am quite converted, and mean to introduce them at home every day, just two or three china ones which will wash. But how I have been rattling on, and hindering you, I daresay, so I will go. Now do not trouble about Tom, darling Margaret; I feel so sure we shall hear of him soon, and if we do not—well, I shall be inclined to say he is not worth worrying about.”

“You will never say that, I know, Elsie, whatever happens,” said Margaret. “Must you go? I will not ask you to stay, then, for I ought myself to be helping Dorcas; she is not quite settled down to her work yet.”

Margaret had begun very methodically with her new maid, and had been particular to tell her all that she would have to do beforehand, that she might not find more work than she expected. The duties of each day were written down and given her, that there might be no mistakes and no forgetting.

As to dress, it was evident at a glance that the girl was by nature neat and quiet, and that there would be no danger of her spoiling her appearance by anything approaching gaudiness or show. Margaret, however, explained that plain print dresses were to be worn in the morning, and a small white apron put on under the large working one, so that, if the door had to be answered, she might remove the latter, and pulling down her sleeves, present a nice tidy appearance. Margaret gave her two mob-caps, of the size and shape she liked her maids to wear, which might serve as a pattern for others. These, with a dark stuff dress and white apron, were for afternoons, and were always to be put on by lunchtime, at half-past-one.

With regard to wages, Dorcas came first for a month on trial, at the end of which, being found suitable, she entered Margaret’s service altogether, at a sufficient sum a year, with the promise of a present of five pounds at the end of three years, instead of the usual annual rise. This acts as an inducement to young servants, who, as a rule, are fond of changing situations merely for the sake of change.

Dorcas thought she could not do without beer, and Margaret’s teetotal principles strongly objected to having intoxicants in the house. She therefore, for a time, gave money at the rate of £2 10s a year in place of it. Finding that it was really spent on beer, which involved its being brought to the house by potmen, Margaret was anything but satisfied with the state of affairs, and finally arranged to allow Dorcas one glass a day, buying a dozen bottles or a small cask at a time. She was firm in limiting the quantity to one glass a day, thinking rightly that no strong young girl could possibly require more, but promising that if her health had suffered at the end of two months, some other arrangement should be made; meanwhile trying to induce Dorcas to give it up altogether in favour of milk, cocoa, or anything or that sort.

Dorcas was frank enough to own at the first to being inclined to unpunctuality in rising of a morning. Margaret, pleased with her candour, and perhaps with a little fellow-feeling, did her best to help her in this difficulty by supplying an alarum in the maid’s bedroom, and sending her off to bed as early as she could conveniently be spared in the evenings, for Margaret well knew that unpunctuality with breakfast and morning work upsets the whole day, and therefore can never be permitted in a house with any pretension to order or method.

One of the first extra duties for Dorcas was the pickling of a number of quite young walnuts, procured for the purpose before they grew “woody” or hard. She pricked them well with a steel fork and placed them, according to her instructions, in a strong brine, and left them there a week or more, changing the brine once or twice. They were then laid on dishes or trays in the sun till, in a day or two, they had become a good black, when they were put in dry jars and covered with hot vinegar, in which had been boiled whole black pepper, bruised ginger, allspice, salt and shalots, in the proportion of 1 oz. each to a quart. The jars were tied down with bladder and kept in a dry place for use in five or six weeks.

But Margaret had forgotten to mention one important item in the pricking.

“Oh dear, ma’am, what to do with my hands I do not know, they are stained that dreadful, and I saw master looking at them quite disgusted-like when I was waiting at dinner last night, and no wonder, for my thumb’s as black as black,” said poor Dorcas, in great distress, putting her hands behind her, as though the sight of them were unbearable.

“Yes, they are bad indeed,” said Margaret; “I quite forgot to give you a pair of old but sound dog-skin gloves I have been saving on purpose to be worn whilst pricking the walnuts. Here they are, you see, but it is too late now, so we must try and remove the stains. Pumice stone rubbed on the fingers will generally answer, and lemon juice is good also, and if these fail, I will get a small quantity of oil of vitriol, to be mixed with cold water and the hands washed in it without soap, though this must only be used as a last resource.”

The idea of vitriol was so alarming to Dorcas that she resolved to try every other means first, and she rubbed and rubbed the stains so zealously with pumice stone that indeed nothing further was necessary. She learnt a lesson from this little mishap, and would often beg her master’s old gloves when discarded, to slip on before doing any particularly rough or dirty work.

It was Wilfred’s custom to glance through the paper at the close of breakfast before starting to business in the morning; and one day, about this time, his eye fell on an announcement on the first sheet, which caused him to utter an exclamation of surprise not unmixed with pleasure.

“What is it, Wilfred?” asked Margaret, looking up from her knitting.

“Did you not call your brother Tom by some pet name, when you were all children together?” asked Wilfred.

“Yes; Atto he used to be called in the nursery, though I do not know how the name arose.”

“Look there, then, there’s a crumb of comfort for you at last, darling,” and he passed he the paper, pointing to a few lines at the top of the “agony” column, which ran thus—

“From Atto, to any who care to hear.—I am well and comfortable; even happy, having a clear conscience. I cannot yet explain my behaviour, but will as soon as possible. My only regret is to have caused pain to some I truly love, and would have spared.”

Margaret bent her head low over the paper that her husband might not see the conflicting expressions in her face. She had been lately urging Tom to communicate the fact of his well-being to his friends in some such way as this; he had hitherto refused to do so, though she tried to picture to him the misery his father and others must be suffering, not knowing whether he were alive or dead. Now she saw that his better nature had conquered, and he had taken one step in the right direction. Yet never did her own deceitfulness appear to her in blacker hue than at that moment. There sat Wilfred, eager and happy to think that at last she would be glad, looking and waiting for her to show her pleasure in her old enthusiastic way.

It was desperately hard work to get up a smile as she said, quietly enough—

“Yes, that must be from Tom; how glad they will all be!”

“This may affect your father’s movements,” Wilfred said, surprised at her apathy. “You remember he wrote to ask what we thought about his remaining any longer abroad. I see no reason why he should not come home now, do you, Madge?”

“No; I see no reason why he should not come home now,” she repeated, slowly, not knowing what else to say.

Margaret was in truth a poor actress; by nature impulsive, eager, and enthusiastic, when she came to trying to play a part not her own, she was sadly at fault.

“But what should you wish me to say to your father? Would you prefer him to stay abroad still? for after all, Tom does not say he is in England. Surely, Madge, dear,” he went on, with just a shadow of impatience in his tone, as his wife sat silent—“surely, you are glad to get this message?”

“Of course so, Wilfred—we shall all be glad, very glad,” she said, trying her utmost to speak gladly; “but as to father, I would rather you would decide that; indeed I do not know what to think. Please do not ask me.”

So Wilfred, taking her at her word, cut out the announcement and enclosed it in a note to Mr. Colville, advising him to please himself about returning to England, for it was impossible to say where Tom was, and he was as likely or unlikely to be found in one country as another.

“You do not care for the idea of Normandy, then, Madge?” asked Wilfred one evening. It was a warm day, and they were sitting in the little garden, where Wilfred was engaged in the combination of a mysterious compound as a cool drink suited to the summer. He had a tumbler half full of crushed ice, to which he put a tablespoon of milk, and another of fruit syrup, of which Margaret always had a little at hand, and while stirring the mixture, before filling the glass with soda-water, he had renewed the conversation, begun during dinner, about their summer holiday. Wilfred had a great fancy for cool, effervescing drinks, and invented endless varieties. The foundation was almost always crushed ice and soda-water, the flavourings varying according to fancy—cherry, lemon-peel, and powdered sugar was one favourite; a tablespoonful each of lemon-juice and raspberry-vinegar, another; but the varieties were quite too numerous to mention.

Their approaching summer holiday was a subject of so much interest to Wilfred especially, that it was an almost constant topic of conversation.

“Normandy seems such a long way off,” demurred Margaret.

“But that is just one of its advantages. Surely you are not so wedded to the charms of London during the hot weather as to be anxious to remain near it, and we can reach Normandy so very easily.”

“You would not, I suppose, if you like the idea of Normandy, care to go with some friend, and let me stay quietly at home? I would, really, almost as soon, for I do not require a change,” very timidly suggested Margaret.

“What an idea, Madge! Why, you know it would be no pleasure to me without you, and you do need a change of air very much; why, you are not half the girl you were a year ago, and I believe it is all this London air that has done it, so the further away we go the better.”

The fact was that Margaret felt very uneasy at the idea of leaving London and Tom for so long. It was true, she reasoned with herself, that he was behaving very wrongly, but not to see or hear anything of him for five long weeks—why, there was no knowing what desperate thing he might not do.

Wilfred could not but see how different her manner was from the eager delight with which she usually hailed any sort of outing. But was she not very different in so many ways lately? What had come over her he could not imagine—so quiet, so pale, and often such a wistful sad look on her face; her very cheerfulness seemed forced and unnatural. He began to feel considerably pained at the reserve, or distrust, as he sometimes thought, which kept her from telling him what troubled her. Was it possible that she felt she had made a blunder in marrying him, that the affection she thought she had for him had died out? No, the idea was too dreadful to be cherished for a moment, but the thought left its impress, and a faint, indefinable cloud seemed to have arisen between them; for Wilfred, loving her ardently as ever, determined not to tease her with demonstrations of the affection he half suspected she did not fully return, and Margaret, detecting, as she thought, a coolness in her husband’s manner, guessed the cause, and fretted and moaned over it in his absence, but still felt bound by her promise to Tom to go on in the miserable course she had begun.

To return to the conversation in the garden, Margaret suddenly thought of a way by which she could accompany her husband with an easy mind. If only Tom had some regular employment, bringing in regular pay, however small, she would feel comparatively happy about him. She determined to get him some such situation, if possible. It would be difficult, very difficult, having to keep the matter so secret, but she was resolved to succeed, and on the strength of this plan, agreed quite cheerfully to accompany Wilfred to Normandy or anywhere else, and set about making arrangements at once.

She soon decided that the servant was to have boarding wages, and she made out for her, and she made out for her a list of the work she wished done during their absence. Some of the house linen wanted repairing, and there was a good deal of cleaning required, but as she would have so long a time to do it in, Margaret entrusted her with several other pieces of work, too; amongst other things, there were some nasturtium pods in the garden which would probably be ready for pickling before their return; so Margaret told Dorcas to watch them carefully, and gather them when she saw that the seeds were full grown but still soft. She provided her with plenty of the best pickling vinegar, and told her each day, after she had pickled all the pods she thought quite ready, to put them into a jar of this vinegar, cold, and without any spice, and tie them down tightly. This was all that was necessary, except to look at the jars frequently to see if the vinegar was getting absorbed by the pods, and to add more when required. Dorcas looked rather alarmed when the subject of pickling was first mentioned, but when she found that it only meant putting pods into a jar of vinegar and tying it down, she thought she could manage it.

Then Margaret told her she must be on the look-out, when shopping, for good bunches of herbs, for drying. Fennel, marjoram, thyme, mint, parsley, and summer and winter savory are all in their prime, and should be gathered for drying during July and August; and Margaret did not wish to miss the best time for getting them, although she would be away herself. She warned Dorcas not to hang them up to dry in loose bunches, as the frequent custom is, but to spread them out on a sheet paper and dry them in the oven, afterwards stripping off the leaves, and, after rubbing them fine, to put them away in large-mouthed glass bottles, which she gave her with labels to gum on each when full.

Margaret’s next difficulty was to find some clean and honest person to stay in the house with Dorcas, as she thought it both unkind and unsafe to leave a young girl alone for so long. After some little trouble, she heard through one of the city missionaries who would be very glad to keep her company and have a little change of scene and good food for herself; for as soon Margaret heard she was really poor and in ill health, she gave Dorcas double board wages, to provide for her companion as well as herself, and arranged to pay the rent of a small garret for her to store her furniture in, as otherwise she would have to keep on her lodging as usual.

Hope, Dora. "Margaret Trent, and How She Kept House." The Girl's Own Paper. London: Leisure House, 1882. OED</ref>

Notes

Edited by: Caldwell, Stacy: section 1, Winter 2011

From: Volume 0003, Issue 0099 (The Girl's Own Paper)