The Aberystwith Observer

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. TH !•: WAY TO WIN, BY MADAME ALBANESI, Author of "Capricious Caroline," "The Strongest of all Things," Susannah and One Other," Love and Louisa," etc. etc. [COPYRIGHT.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chapter I.—Christine Fielding is visiting old Mrs Byrne, who is lying ill in her cottage. As she is leaving, a stranger asks her for some water. They are interested in each other, and Christine is sure he is no common tramp. On her way home she overtakes the stranger seated at the wayside. He enquires the way, and Chris- tine informs him and passes on. Arrived at home she changes to evening dress. Christine's home, Hunston Manor, is a beautnul old-world place. and she has known no other homo. Her mother has been dead many years, and Mrs Dud worth has occupied the place of mother to the girl. Christine tells the butler that they will have dinner, but he informs her that a gentleman has called on business to see her father. Dr and Mrs Brathmore are to dine with them. Sir George Burnstone joins Chris- tine and complains of neglect. She apologises to him. The Brathmores arrive, but her father is still engaged. Christine, vexed that he should still be worried by business, goes to him. On the threshold she hoars a stranger speaking to him in bitter words. Entering, she beholds her father in an attitude of deep dejection, and overhears him tay something about" Restitu- tion, full and complete restitution He is disturbed by his daughter's entrance. He en- treats her to go, and Christine obeys, but not before she has realised that a crushing blow has been dealt to her father, and that 11 she is > powerless to help. Chapters II. and III.—Sir George Burnstone Ls a guest at Hunston Manor, and a suitor for Christine's hand. He sees that Christine is agitated, and is not sorry for his own sake. When dinner is half-way through, Mr Fielding joins them, and Christine is much relieved. Sir George improves his opportunity and makes love to Christine that night. Henry Fielding con- verses with Mrs Dudworth, who sees that he is out of sorts, and advises a long rest. Casson, the butler, tells him that the motor is ready. Henry Fielding informs Mrs Dudworth that he is going away for a day or so. and gives a mes- sage for Christine. When Sir George and Chris- tine return to the Manor the girl finds a letter in her room from her father, in which he states that he leaves her custodian of all. She hears a noise, and discovers a man in the grounds. Calling to him that she will come down, she de- scends. The butler tries, to make some explan- ation, but she stops him. She hears the tread of feet outside, and commands Casson to open the door. Dr Brathmore is in advance of the rest. He tells her that her father is ill. She there. The physician says something which convinces Christine that her father is dead. She sees the stranger again, and reproaches him. but falls, fainting. He catches her in his arms. Sir George Burnstone takes her from him, and commands Casson to get rid of these people. Chapter IV. and V.-Mrs Dudworth finds that her hands are full now that this grief has over- taken the family. Sir George wants to take the law into his own hands concerning Christine, but Mrs Dudworth is an unexpected obstacle. She realises that Christine must be left alone. She takes her away from Hunston Manor, and they are to travel to see the world. Mrs Dud- worth is convinced that this course is best for Christine. Lady Burnatone divines that there is something wrong with her son George. Her companion. Constance Lamborough, is in love with Sir George, but Christine has replaced her in his affections. He calls at her hotel, and sees the same dark-eyed stranger lingering near who has lifted Christine in his arms on the night of her father's death. He is angry at the sight of him. Chapter VI.—This stranger returns to a. lodg- ing house, where his sister is waiting for him. He tells her that she must go North to-morrow, as he is off on a journey. She asks her brother if he has a clue, and as he tells her so little she remonstrate with him. James Dancroft tells her that he is doing the begt he can for his family, but they must wait a bit. Anne bids him good night. He makes his preparations for a journey for he intends to follow Christine Fielding. A period of time elapses, and the thread of the story is taken up when Christine is returning home to England. Sir George had crossed the Atlantic on purpose to accompany Christine home. His appearance brings sad re- collections to Christine. He shows her over the ship. When they are about to ascend to the upper deck she meets the challenging gaze of the stranger she remembers so well. When she enters her state room her maid gives her a let- ter. As she surmised, it is from James Dan- croft. Christine is stung by this man's tone of authority. She decides to see him, and tells Mrs Dudworth that she must go back to Huns ton. She asks her for two or three days of per- fect liberty, but she dare not look forward to the result of her interview with Dancroft. CHAPTER VII.—EXPECTANCY It was a lovely spring afternoon, the country was bathed in sunshine, when Miss Fielding alighted from the train at the little familiar way- side station and was greeted almost affectionate- ly by the stationmaster and others. Christine had travelled alone from London, her maid was already waiting for her at Huns- ton, the heaviest part of her luggage would fol- low she had expressly ordered that her own little pony cart should be sent to meet her and she drove herself away from the station with a heart which wm at once touched with happiness (which a sight of familiar faces and well-loved landmarks brought to her) and yet was heavy with grief. She had never realised how much she loved her old home till now when «he was approaching it again. It was the time of the year she loved the best. On every hand trees were bursting into leaf, the air was fra- grant with lilae. England is the most beautiful country in the world," she said to the groom who sat be- side her, and oh I am so glad to be home again." Nevertheless B-M she drove up to the old-fash- ioned porch Christine's eyes were wet and her lips quivering. The old house looked so pictur- esque, so tranquil, so homelike, yet she knew the moment she crossed the threshold she would grieve for her father far more keenly than she k had ever done during those months she had boon I awav from Hunston. I Th servants were all assembled to greet her, and as she gave her hand to each of them Chris- tine tried to show that she was brave though the tears were rolling down iier cheeks under lier thick veil. "I will have tea hare in the hall," she said. As the servant* aitiperged and ehe was alone, Christine stood and looked at her father's por. trait, that masterpiece w&icto on exhibition had csjled forth ftncfe eulogies. The girl searched the painted face with an eagerness of which she was barely conscious. She remembered as she tstood there having heard that the peculiar gift of the modern mas- ter who had made this wonderful portrait was, that he did not merely give feature for feature, but that he portrayed the soul, that his brush unconsciously gave for the secrets of the heart. Certainly in this hour it seemed to Christine Fielding that she was reading truths in her father's face which had been hidden to her all the years she had known him. He had always been called a cold man, a hard man; by some a, man of mystery; to-day his daughter realised that what lie had really been was a man of suffering, a man who had feared; a man who had possessed two distinct personali- ties. She was seated with her veil thrown back gazing steadily at the picture when Casson the butler brought in the tea-table and handed her a telegram. "All your letters, miss, were sent to Mrs Dud- worth's house. we didn't know you'd be here so soon." That was quite right," said Christine. Her hand had closed over the telegram and shchad turned very cold. On landing that morning she had with the utmost difficulty managed to despatch a tele- gram io the address Dancroft had given her, and ?sbe knew the message Casson gave her came from him. It was worded "Please expect me this evening." Though she had asked for tea, Christine could not touch it. She threw herself into a chair and sat with closed eyes lost in a very turmoil of thought. Not for a single instant did she attri- bute to this man anv other motive for approach- ing her beyond that of demanding justice. She had by now convinced herself that he had a right to demand this interview. Sitting there memory travelled back to that dark night when her father had died, and as clearly as though she were living once again the actual experience Christine could see the scene upon which she had looked that night. The green shaded reading lamp on the table, the quiet handsome furniture and appoint- ments, and the two men facing one another, her father on one side of the table, that rough- looking man, with his dark hair flecked with white, and his stern, even cruel face, on the other.' With a shiver, she remembered the ex- pression on her father's face, and she could hear once again his voice speaking as she had opened the door. "There shall be restitution—full and com- plete. I swear it; but I must have time—you must give me time!" With a jerk the girl sat forward in her chair, her heart- was beating in her throat, for the instant she felt as though she were suffocating. Restitution The word had an ominous, a horrible sound. What was there that had to be given back? Why should her father have pleaded for time? He a man of power, a man of wealth, a man whose every word was law to hundreds of other men. Why should he sue with such humbleness, such pitiful abasement? On her agitated thoughts there broke sud- L-IIOQIO Tri«falltlv the dreams, the vague terrors fell aw.iy from Christine her fear was so great that for a mo- ment. she quivered as with pain. then as Casson advanced into the hall she said I am expecting a gentleman." But the butler answered her hurriedly. It is the doctor's brougham, miss, with Mrs Brathmore and her daughter." He looked a little anxiously at Miss> Fielding as he spoke. In the servants' quarters the word had gone round that Miss Christine looked very little better for all her travelling. Shall I say you are resting, miss?" he asked. I expect it has got about that you are at home." But Christine answered almost eagerly that she would like to see her friends, and indeed as she found herself folded in the motherly arms of Mrs Brathmore and kissed so tenderly, she felt for a brief spell a heavenly sense of com- fort and pleasure. "We couldn't wait—we just had to come!" said the doctor's wife. Enid was looking for- ward to seeing you in town, but it is much nicer seeing you here." Enid exclaimed Christine, and she em- braced her former school comrade eagerly. How sweet of you to come, and how lovely you look, so different! Are you really the little Enid who used to run races with me on the lawn?" The other young woman lauglied with a sug- gestion of complacency. I am just the same only nearly a year older and then of course being married and living in London makes such a difference." "My dear!" said Mrs Brathmore. sitting down beside Christine. I've such a lot to tell you, and so many questions to ask, and the doctor's just pining to see you. Won't you come back with us and have a quiet evening? Enid's husband is here but only for a few hours, he would be so glad to see you again." Do come," urged Enid Coniston. But Christine shook her head. Don't ask me to-night," she said, I—I felt I had come back here," she said, because I had such a longing to spend a few quiet hours in this dear old house. I wonder how I ever had the strength of mind to leave it." So her old friend did not urge her but fell into her mood and they sat and talked for half on hour. Mrs Coniston let- her mother do most of the talking. She was studying Christine. As children and young girls they had been the closest friends, but that intimacy seemed almost ridiculous to-day. She has lost all her good looks," mused Mrs Coniston. and how badly she is dressed Why her gown is positively shabby. Life is certainly very unfair! If we only had a quarter of Chris, tine's money It was so impossible not to be envious. One had only to look at Mrs Coniston to know that the largest influence of her life was personal luxury. She was dressed exquisitely now and it was almost absurd to suppose that she in real- ity was little more than a pauper, whilst this other pale shabbily dressed girl in black pos- sessed money that ran into millions. Of course I must cultivate her and put up with all her ways. I can't afford to lose her friendship, but I haven't really any sympathy with Christine. 1 Mrs Coniston mused on. Everyone knows that she cared for her father and all that, still it is very silly to go on weep- ing when he has been dead such a long time." On her side Christine felt both the comfort, the warmth of the mother's sympathy and affec- tion and tne chilling influence of the little world- ling who was to her such a travesty of the girl friend she had loved. iBut as they rose to go, Christine spoke tenderly to the younger woman. Just fancy, I have not seen you since your wedding day; it seems a life time, but I have thought of you so often, Enid, and I have been so delighted to hear of your happiness." Oh, ym, we jog along all right," said Enid Coniston. W« shouldn't have anything to grumble »bout if we only had just a little more money; but, as it is, of course we have a fearful struggle. My husband's practice is not big, though it is smart, «nd audi a lot is expected of us*. j really ought to have a motor, but we couldn't run to that just yet." Christine stood on the steps and waved her hand to them. "J: that what life does?" she asked herself half passionately. "I have been longing to see Enid in my heart all this time, and now I alraost wish I might never see her again." The housekeeper was waiting to urge her to „o to her room and rest a little while. ° "You don't know how tired you look, miss," she said, and Christine confessed that she was tired. "I will just change my gown," she .said. "No, don't ask for lights. 1 know every inch of my wav." There came to her suddenly as she paused on the staircase a great yearning to be permitted to live out the rest of her life in this quiet old house. It seemed to her that the future could hold nothing sweeter or better fo rher than an existence spent in memories and made beautiful with deeds of love and charity. "Will this be impossible?" she asked herself, and the question she really put to herself was— Shall I lose this in the restitution which my father would have made, which I must now make; must all this be taken from me?" It may truthfully be said that this was the first time that Christine had actually realised what her confrontation with this mystery might signify to herself. The real meaning of poverty was obscured from her naturally, since she had been surrounded by wealth all the days of her young life, and acutely sympathetic as she was it was impossible for -Christine to grasp what life could be when it is denuded of the comfort and power of money. To lose her fortune therefore even in imagination said very little to her, for she had not yet com- meneed to feel the burden and the joy that such wealth as her", imposes, but at the merest sug- gevstion that she might be called upon to render up possession of 'her loved old home the girl re- coiled as from some great and terrible suffering. In her room whilst her maid helped her to dress for her solitp" dinner Miss Fielding was trembling with sudden anguish. The woman who waited on her was greatly disturbed about her. Won't you let me bring your dinner upstairs, miss," she asked. I expect you are feeling the effects of the voyage. People often feel badly for a day or two, and you're shivering so much. miss. It is to be hoped you haven't caught cold." I would rather go down to dinner," Christine said. I am not really ill, Maeintyre I'm only a little tired, and coming home hurts me. It is so .sweet to be here, and yet it is so sad." It was more than sad, it was desolate to sit alone in the well-remembered dining room and face her father's empty chair; yet could her heart have only been at rest there would have been melancholy happiness to Christine in these quiet hours spent alone with her beloved memo- ries. She had to make a pretence of eating, for Cas- son had told her that the cook had sent up all 'her favourite dishes. "We are. all glad to be doing something, miss," the servant said. It has been a long time with you away." "Everything changed, Casson," Christine said in a low voice, when my father died." She was not crying. The relief of tears was denied her, and with that aching dread of what was coming, gripping her heart, her woman's weakness seemed frozen. It was not courage which environed her and kept her eyes dry it was endurance that. proud iron endurance which she dimly felt was perhaps the most valuable legacy her father had bequeathed her. She was still seated at the dinner table when Casson brought her word that the gentleman whom she expected had arrived. He is, in the hall, miss." Christine paused for an instant, and then she said: Please take him into the library; say I shall be with him directly."

CHAPTER VIII.—CHRISTINE LEARNS HER FATHER'S HISTORY. James Dancroft followed the butler down the oak-lined passage to the room which Mr Fielding had always used as his study. ^It.was the same room in wViipJi — received un ms luriiier visit, lie remembered it distinctly. The spring twilight had faded into dusk, the room felt chilly. Casson turned on the electric light. When lie went back to Christine he said It strikes quite cold in there. Miss Christine. Shall I set a light to the fire?" Christine said "No" at first, and then weak- ening suddenly with a woman's most natural touch of fear she Yes," adding I may have to sit there some time." So the moment of meeting was relieved in a sense by the presence of Casson. They waited whilst the fire flamed up. making a cheery crackling which broke the oppressive stillness; then as the butler went out of the room Christine said in a faint voice: "Won't you sit down?" He did not thank her, but pulling out a chair sat down and put his felt hat on the table. The room was just as it had been that memor- able summer evening. There were books of reference on the table, quantities of writing paper, all the little things which Christine her- self had from time to time put on her father's table, prominent among these a photograph of herself and a faded one of her mother. She stood just an instant stretching her hands to the blaze as though she would have drawn protection from the heat of the fire then she too sat down in her father's writing chair, a large comfortable revolving leathern chair. She looked very delicate, and in her white gown she had a spirituelle air. Her father had always loved to see her in white, and it was to please him that Christine had worn the simplest gar- ments. The coldness. and the dignity which George Burnstone both admired and resented were absent from her to-night. Her expression was unconsoiouslv one of pleading and the way her small white hands trembled was pathetic. She spoke first. I did not intend that you should have writ- ten to me," she said. All through these months I have been burdened with one great wish, and that was to have been able to communicate with you, to know what it is you have to say to me." He looked at her with his brows drawn to- gether for a brief spell, and then he said: What did Fielding tell you?" His voice was intentionally rough. She sat forward in the chair. My father told me nothing. You forget," she added, he died just an hour or so after you came here." He shrugged his shoulders. "Death comes conveniently sometimes," he said. Christine put up her hand. "Please," she said half-brokenly, then with a great effort, "I must beg-that vou will-that vou will—remember my father is" dead. I am here for the sole purpose of protecting his memory, of defending his good name. "Yes," she went on half passionately, gripping the sides of the chair with her two hands, I understand why you are here. In your letter you told me you looked to me for justice. If you have any real grievance against my father I shall endeav. our to set this right, but I shall be very glad if you will try and tell me t.he nature of your com- plaint without indulging in any bitter reproach of a man who is dead." Dancroft laughed. His manner was jerky, there was about him the manner of one who is acutely nervous, strung up to carry through at any cost an obnoxious task. If Christine could have studied him quietly, she might have seen this. but she did not even look at him. It always seems to me such a ridiculous idea," he said, to exact respect for a rogue simply because he happens to be lying in his- grave Besides, in this case, as it happens, you are fully aware that I did not wait to attack a dead man. I came here and met your father face to face. I spoke to him as I mean to speak to you—plainly. I've no doubt he would have refused to listen to me if my ease hadn't been so strong, but as it was I weuB in the position to force him to hear me out." There was an unutterably bitter flavour in his words, a note of contempt which was terribla to Christine to hear. She sat silent a moment, and then said "Will you tell me everything?" men -V I I can put it into a few words." he answered her. Your father was a thief. You don't like that," he added as the girl sitting in the chair started violently. It's not pleasant to hear I grant you, but then truth is seldom good to lis- ten to! I wonder how much you know of your father's old life do you know where he came from? Who his parents were?" Christine made him no answer. Well, it i5, not likely that he would have told you," the man went on but I thought it pos- sible that you might have been enlightened in some way or other." I have never wanted to know anything about my father tha.t. he did not tell me himself," Christine Fielding said, her tone now almost as hard as his. He was to me everything that was good and honourable, tender, loving, and true. He was a man who wa.s worshipped by those who worked under him. When he died it was as though the chief stone in some great building had been withdrawn, and though the building stands, the sense of sureness is not there. My father was a man who could not help doing good." Dancroft laughed at this, and there was a sneer in his laughter. Yes, lie managed his charity very well with just sufficient advertisement and not too much. He was a clever man, a great man, if you will, but he was a bad man you saw only one side of him. What do you know really of such a man? What do you know of his trickery, his unscrupulous greed? He went to his grave honoured according to the papers, regretted not merely as a rich man but as a man of boundless charity, a man overflowing with love and sym- pathy for his fellow creatures. It was all a lie Christine got up, but he rose too quickly. I told you that I was going to speak plainly, and if you'll take my advice you'll hear me out. I've treated you with amazing consideration. I've waited all these months before letting you know the truth. I could have taken it to others, I could have let lawyers handle this for me; but I had pledged my word to Fielding that I would deal with him direct, and as you now stand in his place, I keep my word and look to you to give me justice." I am more than w illing to do all in my power," Christine answered in a low voice," but I will not listen to further abuse of my father." He gave again that loose slirug of his shoul- ders, and his lips curled. Her coldness, her re- pugnance to him was hurtful, it made him cruel. I am a rough man," he said. "and life has stamped out all pretence in me. In my life it has been the fashion to call a -spade a spade." He moved away from her and paced the room. Christine looked at him with aversion and fear. He was indeed a rough man and strong. His personality seemed to dwarf everything about him. She sat down and with her elbow on the table supported her head. I am still waiting." she said after a while, and he paused in his walk on the ofher side of the table. It is necessary to go back a long way. to the beginning of it all. I am Lancashire born my grandfather was a fairly prosperous man, he was a wholesale chemical manufacturer as his father and grandfather had been before him, but my father, who was his only son, seems to have been from the very outset totally unfit for a commercial life. As a lad he spent his days in working out scientific problems, in develop- ing his own theories, in making experiments. He married young, a woman who adored him, and during my grandfather's lifetime things went rancothly enough, but the moment my father was his own master his fortune declined. in a very few years business fell away from him and in a rash moment he sold out of it alto- gether." He began to pace the room again and Chris- tine sat waiting for him to go on. I don't suppose you could understand." said Dancroft, how easy it is to begin to go down hill when once you are well started. The money realised by tho sale of my father's share in the old business seems to have vanished all too quie-jvi^, n ..citu.ai Lm.umjwjin.-r, iUL Willi 1115 unbusinesslike proclivities he combined an abso- lutely open-handed generosity. His small house and workshop were literally the home of all those who wanted charity and food. He had many who actually lived on him, and prominent among those was a youth named Ford, a young man who had been born in a. workhouse and had spent an amazingly ohequered career before he was sixteen. I want you to mark," said Dan- croft standing again by the table, this special phase in your father's career. Round and about in the neighbourhood few people had a good word for young Ford, but that made no differ- ence to my father. He opened his doors and took the charity lad in he fed him, he clothed him. He did more than this. Finding Ford an amazingly intelligent young fellow he gave him a. post in his laboratory; he educated him, he shared his me with him." Dancroft paused a moment, then went on with a furtive glance at the girl sitting there motion- less a yard or two away from him. He said in a low voice Of all those whom my father helped, Ford was the only one who paid his benefactor with j-ank ingratitude and with treachery. Standing here in this very room that night 'that I came to ,him I forced a confession of truth from him." Christine shivered faintly, but Dancroft was strung up now — passion and remembrance brought the words from his lips in a burning flood. "There were times in those old days when money was needed so badly in our home that the question of daily food was a problem that could not be solved yet in my father's scientific researches nothing was stinted. Little by little my mother sold all that we had of any value— the few pictures and furniture and china that had been in her family for generations, and all that we had we shared with Ford-in truth, from what my mother has told me, he had be- come at this time absolutely indispensable to my father. To us children he stood as the living barrier which shut our father from us. We were brought up to regard the workshop as a sacred and a mysterious place. If we had poor clothes and poorer food we were sustained by the certainty that some day there would arrive the most wonderful fortune born of the work done in that strange laboratory. There was in particular one secret in that world of chemistry which it was whispered would work a veritable revolution in modern science. a piece of work which had occupied my father for year-A, and to the perfeetion of which he had devoted'his life itself. We were told nothing more than this- that my father was at work on a discovery which when made public, would result in world-wide fame land untold gold." He caught his breath almost as though he sighed. ° "You have let me see that you had a great love for your father, and by virtue of that you will perhaps understand the amazing love and devotion which we others have lavished on the man who lived in our midst, yet was never one of us. For myself, I worshipped my father as though he had been a god. He was my ideal of all that was noble and great—a creature too finely conceived with his glorious dreams and visions to be jostled in the crowd of life. It was, Miss Fielding, my destiny to see this man I worshipped die literally of neglect, a helpless and imbecile invalid needing the barest necessi- ties of life-betrayed and forgotten His tone was fraught with such penetrating anguish that Christine Fielding trembled and tears sprang to her eyes — tears of pitying womanly sympathy. o (To be Continued). — «

Nothing is so indicative of deepest culture as a tender consideration of the ignorant. Tis certain,'$ays Emerson, "that worship stands in some commanding relation to the health of man, &Dd to his highest powers, so a-s to be, in anner, the source of intellect. Some of your griefs you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived; But torments of ]>aiD you endured From etil9 that never arrived

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FASHION AND THINõJs FEMININE. By MISS IDA MELLER. A DRESS OF ART SERGE. Although fashion offers inducements enough for fortunes to be easily spent on dress, it is quite possible at the same time, for the woman with taste and only a small sum of money at her disposal, wherewith to provide a wardrobe for herself and possibly one or two children, to be dressed in a way that c.dls forth admiring glances from her more generously endowed friends. Simple materials can be made up, (in the hands of the right person, to look quite as well as those double and treble the price. For instance, I have seen remarkable results from the use of cheap art serge, such as is sold at under one shilling the yard and is dedicated to the service of table covers and portieres, when put to the purpose of coat and skirt costumes and also of skirts with kimono bodices. This cheap serge is obtainable in beautiful shades of ruby red and powder blue, in which colours it looks extremely well for costumes. A blue dress I have in mind was made with a plain, gored skirt, and hip-length, fitted coat-at least the sides and back were fitted, but the spade- fronts were double-breasted and fell straight, without darts. They were finished with two rows of cut-steel buttons, while at the neck was a simple revers collar, and the sleeves were long and plain, with a (white) stitched effect in imi- tation of. a cuff, a single line of stitching finish- ing the end of the coat, which was scalloped. and stitching was repeated on the hem of the skirt. The gown, with pleated kimono bodice sketched, is made of garnet-red art serge, with velvet buttons to match, and serge bands on the skirt ana at the armhcles. It is worn with a spotted net blouse. In black face-cloth the de- sign also works out charmingly. THE FASHION IN SHIRTS. There is nothing new in the fashion of wool- len shirts, but pleats, be it observed, are used more than ever, and are of various widths, one of the prettiest effects being the result of a mass of very fipe tucks trimming the front of the shirt. Sometimes the tucks are continued to the waist, sometimes they are carried only mid- way, and terminate in a straight or graduated line on a. level with the bust. or just below. The addition of a smart little jabot of pleated mus- lin is now quite a necessary feature of the de- laine shirt, and also of the coat cut open at the neck. Although sleeves are of all lengths, for the every day shirt it is the long sleeve that triumphs, arranged, mostly, with a full upper piece and rather long cuff, tucked or box-pleat- ed, in accordance with the fashion of the fronts of the shirt. Our model sketched is in cream delaine, with & centre box-pleat and five tucks on either side, and, of course, the addition of the ubiquitous little jabot of frilled muslin. To keep a "thirt well down at the waist, it needs to be provided with a runner of tape—a different method to that applied to blouses, which are stitched, at the waist, to short, thin basques that are tucked inside the skirt bands, and to which the latter may be pinned at the back if the skirts are inclined to drop and reveal a hiatus between themselves and the blouse. A SIMPLE COAT WITH WAISTCOAT. There is quite a craze for waistcoats, which vary from midget affairs, stitched to coat edges to those which are like a man's waistcoat and are put on independently of the coat itself. Quite a smart little waistcoat can be made with two triangular pieces of chine silk, bound with gold galon, stitched inside the fronts of the coat and fastening with a single large button and buttonhole, the Utter made io ono of the points of the triangle. This waistcoat is quite easy to make, a.nd small cuttings of silk will serve its purpose. 1he open fronted coat sketched is allied to a plain waistcoat, fitted to the figure and of contrasting material. The' design is a good one for navy serge, bound with black soutache, the waistcoat either of green,, tan, or grey cloth, finished with stitching. Ll. A CONGENIAL PROFESSION FOR WOMEN To-day, when health gymnastics are taught in all schools of any importance, scores of women are finding congenial means of earning a fairly good living by becoming teachers of physical exercise rnd no more healthy occupation could engross them. When studying to become teach- ers it is a common thing for an agreement to be entered into between themselves and their tea- chers. by which thy bind thmselves to work with. the latter as assistants, when proficient, for a certain number of years at a stated salary; or, unless they do this. it is generally arranged that they shall not start as professionals within a certain radius or a certain district. It is no easy matter to work up a connection, and girls, therefore, generally find it the better plan to work under their teachers for a year or two before starting on their own. The aim with most of them, later on, is to secure the health- drill classes at one or two large schools, as, in this case, an income can be assured, whereas with private teaching only the work is general- ly too fluctuating for a good income to be re- lied on. The employment may be hard at times, where business is brisk, but it is healthy, keeps the body young, and is inclined to prolong life. This, unfortunately, cannot be sa.id of profes- sions where excessive brain work and little physical exercise is the rule. Brain-workers- very often wear themselves out before they are- old. Whether taken up with a view to money-mak. ing or not, health gymnastics are too useful to the system to, be ignored. A NOVEL TEA COSEY. A tea cosey is an article tha.t generally sells- quickly at bazaars, especially when the design is original and striking. A novel cosey that causes a good deal of amusement from its appearo-nce is made up to resemble a tame white bear ( soft woolley one), dressed in a comfortable femi- nine frock. The bulk of the cosey represents the skirt, spread out very wide and made, per- haps, of mignonette-green cloth, with a white apron in front, the bodice, of red flannel spotted, in black, forming the neck of the cosey, and. this is supplemented by a white bear's head. The "arms," or front paws. of the animal are clothed in the bodice material, and the bear, of course, appears to be standing up. The clothes naturally might be of brocade or velvet instead of simple cloth or flannel. I saw one of these coseys recently, and it was quite the centre of attraction at the tea table. TO WHITEN THE HANDS. When the hands are much stained, and or- dinary soap is of little avail in removing soils, an excellent remedy will be found in soft soap and sand, mixed, which will speedily make the- hands white again. Those who dabble in motor cars and whose hands are occasionally begrimed with oil and other grease from the machinery, tell me that they take refuge in a hand-bath of paraffin an4 sawdust, which apparently no stain can resist, and, of course, wash the hands in soap and water afterwards, and are careful not to put them before an open light. If the hands, when lathered with toilet soap, and water, are rubbed with bran, they will be- come beautifully white, the slight friction of the bran doing wonders in keeping the skin white and soft. It is. of course, a well-known water softener. PEAS PUDDING. In winter peas pudding is a favourite dish, though often overlooked in the ordinary house- hold. It is worth while refreshing the mind of the housekeeper with a recipe for this estimable pudding. Pick a quart of split peas—that is,. remove all impurities or discoloured peas or shells. Tie them loosely in a cloth, leaving plenty of room for the peas to swell, and boil them till they are soft-probably from two to three hours. Take the peas from the water and put them, still in the cloth, in a basin or on Lit ? ,oth and bruis« or mash the peas well Mix with them a piece of butter tinA?T e, °X€T them .PfPP«r and salt; «>en tie up the cloth again tightly and return it to h!>urP w? g a P"dding for about half an hour. When ready, turn it o-ut of the cloth- mto a vegetable dish. It properly managed iff will turn out whole. a Ir PEA SOUP. Into three quarts of boiling water put one W^r ^f>PeaS i wu *houid have soaked in till th^r°Ug Pr<mous n'ght); boil them till they are soft-, and mash them well with a t»hree °r four onions, slioed and boil the soup for two hours, season it with pepper and salt, and thicken with oatmeal or rice. Little pieces of boiled pork added to the S7(r,,u-V SOffi< reckoned an improvement and the addition of carrots and turnips, thrownr in with the onions, also improves the flavour. THOUGHTS FOR THE WEEK Beauty withont expression tires.—Emerson To make our word or act Mhitme we must' make it real. Lert, flot the tie be mercenary, though t'ke sat vice is «nea«ured by money. He who has a tfcoosami friesds has aot a friend- to spare, v Ant! be who has em eacs^r a^et Lisa