F THE WHITE FEATHER. By RUY." ( Continued.) On the other Bide of the rise they were swingteg up AOW, the road, within half a miley debouched ont*i a waste, through which ran the deep-rutted track of the heavy carts used in carrying away the gravel from the pits on either side. Once in this cart-track, and it would take little, at the pace they were going, to bring about a catas- trophe. Their only chance, she knew, was to stop the runaways before they quitted the comparatively smooth main road. Already the hedges were gliding by with a rapidity that made her feel sick and giddy—already her strength was exhausted, and Pythias had followed Damon's example, and, with a jerk of his obstinate little head at the fast-slackening reins, had got the bit fairly between his teeth. There was no help for it: she must confess herself beaten, and ask Vere to bdp her. She turned her head towards him, as, ignorant of their common danger, and indolently reckless by Mature, Hebe lay back watching her, and speculat- ing as to when she would have had enough of it, or The ponies would become amenable. Will you try and stop them, please ?" Gertie said at last. I—I think they must be running away, do you know." I've been thinking so for some time," Vere re- sponded, tranquilly, as he took the reins from her; only the road seemed all clear, and you didn't seem to mind, and I was afraid you'd be angry if I told you. Good God! what's the matter?" he cried, bis ice losing suddenly all its wonted langour, as he law her sink back pale and trembling. You're not afraid, I know; besides, they can go another mile at Ibis pace." They had reached the top of the hill by this time. Dhe waste land, scarred here and there, right and left of the rough road that ran through it, with rents and chasms that were visible even now, lay before them. a gentle descent of perhaps half a mile inter- vening. Gertie pointed forward. The gravel-pits, yonder!" she said. "Can you stop them? There is just time, I think." Hebe ".saw it all then—measured the danger, and yose to it, as he had done to greater peril than this, on] then it was his own life, not hers, he had had to look to. He gripped the slender white reins, taking a turn pound each hand, and wondered if they were likely lo bear the strain. Then he gave Gertie one look Blab said a good deal. Sit still, Miss Fairfax," he said, whatever hap- pens. I think it will be all right. They're running guite straight now and I shall try and turn them en to the bank on the off-side. We may go over, but its our best chance." Down the slope they rushed faster than ever-the danger was nearing at every stride. Vere couldn't help looking at his companion again —there was Jjust time for that before he made his effort. She was very pale, and her hands werea clasped lightly together. But there was never a sign or trace of fear upon her face, nor in the eyes she turned: to meet his. I'm not afraid, Vere," she said, calling him by his name at that moment unconsciously; "I can Irusttoyou." "That's right!" he muttered, with something that JOUnded very like darling;" trust to me. Rerhem- ber, I shall turn them on to the off-side. Hold There was little time to lose now. They were very Kr the end of the descent, and Yere had to take the b chance offered—a slight bend in the road, that ■ave him an advantage. With a sudden, vigorous |all on the off-rein, he got the runaways' heads towards the hedge at a point where the bank was lowest; and, unable to stop themselves, the ponies td to charge the quick-set. The jerk of the pole ng one offender on his knees, the phaeton gave a tremendous lurch, and only just did not go over. End then Vere was lifting Gertie from it in km arms; and the Childe," who had behavedsplen- didly throughout, was at the heads of the discomfited Kir, and all danger was over. Whereupon Miss irfax -did what she never remembered doing in all bar life; before, and fainted dead away. Horribly red at the deadly palor on her face, Hebe de- spatched "the Childe" for assistance to the nearest lottage, and then, not knowing what on earth to do, deposited his charge tenderly on the carriage feushions, which he had Sung out upon the bank, and began to adjure her passionately to speak to him, if inly one, word. Some minutes elapsed before poor Gertie recovered Consciousness. But presently the faint colour came back to her face her tfN opened; and »he' »aA Vedra hanging over her with a look of such pitiable) help- teMnessand concern on his usually insouciant visage that almost made her laugh, even then while her Mars caught his devout expression of relief and thank- talness. t She said nothing just at that moment, but the little "nd he was chafing so tenderly between 'his own trasn't drawn away; and Vere seemed quite content ftrith that. By-and-by the Childe came back. But the help be brought with him in the shape of a oomely cotter's lrife was no longer needed. Gertie professed herself guite right again, and quite ready to start. So Hebe put her carefully back into the phaeton, End took the reins himself-this time, without a word f objection from her, and then they started. At a foot pace over the rough road across the com- soon, the yawning gravel-pits making Gertie shiver and close her eyes, and looking uncommonly ugly, even feo Yen's careless glance, as he thought what might have happened to his wilful love by this time if she bad been alone and at a sober trot along the green lanes on the other side, the ponies thoroughly dis- comfited and ashamed, and scarcely needing Vere's arm hand over them. And so to Laureston, Little was said by either on the way. He felt it was no time to speak the words that bad been trembling on his lips an hour before, and Gertie's heart was too full for any idle talk. just npw. Once she had put out her hand to him, and—they Xrere on the terrace then-striven to utter collected Words of thanks. But her voice had filtered strangely, and the warm tears would start unbfdden into her dark eyes, usually so full of laughter and bandinage. So she had left her gratitude unspoken, and had gone off to tell the story of her adventure to my lady," leaving Vere, though, happier than he had been for IDanya long day, with the sound of his own name, as she had breathed It, lingering divinely In his ears. Meanwhile, the birds in the outlying-fields had been put up, and knocked over to the Don's' en- lire satisfaction. Hodges, the Laureston keeeper, Chary of praise as he was, grunted assent to the major's remark, that, on the whole, to-day was about fts good a first as he had known, while he received over the latter's equipment once more; and Dar pre- pared for a sharp walk home across the fields., Wonder why Fee didn't coma to lunch to-day ?" be soliloquised, between little clouds of blue tobacco pmoke, as he trampled through the crackling stubble on his way back, alone. "I suppose the headache IraS a headache; or perhaps Gertie has been putting lome nonsense into her head about Flora, and she, Vas afraid of being de trop: There's nothing more annoying than for outsiders to imagine there s any- thing between oneself and a woman when there isn't, and when, in this case, thefif won't be either. Flom! why she's carried on the game she's been try- ing with me with half-a-dozen fellows already. 1" don't mean-to be my wife's pis-aller, if I know it, by dove!" He stopped a moment to knock the ashes out of bis pipe, and-to replenish it here. On the farther side of the field he was crossing lay the roadtbat ran from the Place to Laureston. Bordered by a close-clipped hedge, side by side upon the footpath, walking very leisurely, two people came in sight while Dar was striking his vesuvian, and getting his fresh pipe fairly under way. The one nearest the hedge, a woman, kept her face lightly turned from it, and towards her companion Is tall, dashing, and umnistakeablo Plunger, in spite Of his round hat and pekin shooting-jacket), who, with his horse's bridle over his arm, lounged along guite contentedly. When his meerschaum was blazing away again "the Don turned to resume his march. As he did • |e, the tall figure on the footpath (which ran parallel pith the line ne was taking) caught his eye. What's Guy Devereux doing here 7" he thought, parelessly. He knew the man at once—a major on tlie tevalry "ff at Maidlow, who had once served in his *wn corps. "Ana who's the woman he's flirting with so heavily ?" I Just than Guy Devereux's incognita turned her face almost fully towards him, and consequently •may from Da*. The sinking sun lit up something in her bat. A long "bite feather, the same the Don had stood watching the evening before at the Bad- lkngly Station, whenJja Fee Blanche drove away with bis sister. u That's it is it?" iJar ejaculated. There's no Mistaking that white feather. We're carrying on a IiItJe e with that fellow \)evereux, are we ? a secret little game, it seems, since w, resort to migraine and Mitary walks. Little fool ytm are, F6e. You don't Icaew Guy as I do, or 2 doubt you'd trust him q«ite po4ar. I'd better drop down oh t hem, I think.' And the Don half torPO4 out of hie course to put his thought into practice. The pair on the footpath, howevwf, were either (ware of him or dreaded interruption from other Quarters, for they onitted the high road for a green lane that ran into it jast there, and were outi ot might at once. Dar checked himself with his hard smile, curving the ends of his moustache the while, and went itraight on his way. What am I about ?" he muttered aloud: what business is it of mine ? I suppose Fee can take care of herself. I don't like the mystery of the thing, though. Pleading a headache to compass a tete-a-tete with a man like Guy Devereux don't exactly look well. Hardly like her, I should have said. But then she never expected to be recognised at this time of day. She oughtn't to have shown that white feather. Bah! She's a woman! Why the devil should I be surprised at'anjthing of this sort ?" I dare say he succeeded in persuading himself that he was not surprised in the least before he reached Laureston. But he debated, chemin faisant, as to whether he ought )0 tell Helen what he had seen, and whether, as a simple matter of duty, he oughtn't to tell her, besides, something of the man in whose compromising company he had seen her. If she cares for him," he argued, "all I can say will be rather worse than useless. If she don't, why is she walking with him in country lanes alone at this hour, when she's supposed to be a victim to migraine indoors ?" On the whole Dar came to the conclusion that it would be better to bide his time and not interfere at present. Devereux, for aught he knew, might have won the right to play cavalier seul. And yet, why on earth should she make a mystery of what might be harm- less and natural enough ? It was the mystery: of course, which he found so unpleasant. He hadn't given Helen—whom, cynic as he was, he couldn't bring himself to think hardly of so soon-he hadn't given Cousin Helen credit for this turn for petty plotting. Gertie might be able, perhaps, to tell him something which would explain all. When, ten minutes later, he had mounted the terrace steps, Gertie, who had been lying in wait for him there, came upon him unawares, and did tell him something which he had been a long way from ever dreaming of. Yere Brkbazon's time had eome at last, it seemed When Gertie had come downstairs after rendering account of what had befallen her to my fcdy," and had tutored her voice to tell him coherently and Steadily that which waa but indeed his due, then Hebe knew that if he were to speak at all it should be npw. So, once again, the old old story that is ever new was whispered into eager-listening ears; and when it was ended the teller felt that it had not been told in vain. This was the news which Gertie had undertaken to break to Dar. The Don received it with his usual tranquillity, though he was rather surprised, and said he supposed children would be children, and made rather light of it, till his pet's eyes began to flash a little under his bandinage; and then he put his arm round her and kissed her, and told her (in that changed voice few but his sister and his mother ever heard, and even they not often) that it pleased him well to know she loved the man who was to himself as a brother already, and to whom he could trust even one so dear to him as she was. Dar! Dar 1 how kind you are to me," murmured Gertie through her happy tears, as her head rested on his broad shoulder. She knew how much these few fond words meant, coming from one like him. Then she took him off to my lady," to put the matter in the best light for the maternal eyes. My lady heard what both had got to say; and then, with a pleased smile that belied her words, told her daughter that was rather absurd, and so forth; that she ought to marry a prise-parti, like Penruthyn or Polwheal! that she and Vere were a pair of foolish children: and that if they insisted on marrying for love they must be prepared for all sorts of terrible consequences. But my lady's only con- dition was that her beau-fils to be should leave the army and settle down with. his wife in the vacant Dower House in the Park, the fact being that my lady**had taken a great fancy to "Hebe" from the first-possibly Ipecause her own Dar had risked his Me to save the boy's and that she had, I fear, mesdames, rather heterodox notions of what Constitutes a good match. It was evidently all right; for Gertie presently ordered Vere off to dress before time, his presence being required in my lady's morning-room so soon as that operation should be completed, from which' apartment. Mr. Brabazon issued forth, half an hour or so later, radiant and happy, leading his hostess down stairs to the drawing-room. That night all whom it might immediately cpncern were aware that Gertie Fairfax and Vere Brabazon, of Ours," were engaged, with the cordial approval of the powers that were. Helen Treherne had the whole story of their loves poured into her ears, as she and her cousin tot to- gether in the lattor'a room, during the pleasant half- hour before Pincot and dressing. "He's to leave the army, of course," Gertie said; I should never be let to go out there with him, you- know. Oh t if Dar would only find me a sister-in- law and sell out too, I should have nothing left to wish for. It's horrible to think he's going out again in December." ,i, ,I "Perhaps he won't go out again, who knows?" Helen said. "He will unless Why, he's talking of it already, and it's barely twenty-four hours since he1 came. It will take some one stronger than the Madrc and me to keep him in England, Nell." Well, isn't there Flora Hoddesdon?" Flora I Gertie shook her little head very wisely It won't be Flora, Nell, you'll see. I watched them to-day at luncheon. Either: it never was she, or it's some one else now.. It's air over between! them."1 VraiV Helen asked. VraiV Helen asked. I'm sure of it. I only wish I were as SUM about the some one else. And so the headache'* better dear?" Oh! yes it's quite well now," Helen affirmed. It was never very bad, I beleive, that migraine with which Cousin Helen had chosen to afflict herself that afternoon. The Don perhaps bad hit on its true cause when he put it down, rather egotistically, to be a desire on Fee's part not to be a de trap at The Place under certain probable circum- stances. Anyhow, Helen went away to her own room, after her conversation with Gertie, perfectly conva- lescent. The lovers spent the evening on the. terrace in the moonlight romantically enough. When Dar came into the Long Drawing-room after dinner he found Helen all alpne at the piano playing Chopin to her- self my lady he had just quitted, established on her sofa in her own chamber again. Wh|y didnVyou drive over with Gertie, Fee ?""the Don asked, as he came np to his cousin. She said you'd a headache. The drive would have done you good." "I think it would now," she answered but I thought I was better at home. It was fortunate I didn t go, wasn't it ? It's awful to think what might have happened to poor Gertie if only I, instead of Mr. Brabazon, had been with her." He paused after this a little while before he asked her: "But you went out somewhere, to-day ?" She never noticed the slight inflection in his voice thiat might have told her this was no such idle ques- tion, from his lips, as it seemed. "Yes. In the park; for about an hour, at sun- down. Major Devereaux called here; and I went out after he was gone." "I see," Dar said, "and only into the park? n« further?" I was alone, you know. Why do you ask?" She lifted her face to his as she spoke, and met his gaze unflinchingly. She does it well I" he thought; t, she must know what I mean, even if she didn't recognise me when she was with him. I am not to interfere, I suppose." Then he-replied aloud, "I fancied I saw you as I came home, that's all! at least I did see your white feather in the distance." When ?" Helen asked, smiling. The smile seemed to'stab him. M On the road betwesa this and The Place—about ten minutes from the lower lodge. Of course I was mistaken." Of OOUne r she answered; I wasn't out of aight of the terrace all the afternoon." And who wears a, hat like yours here ?" he ques- tioned rather suddenly. A" very simple idea had just occurred to him. No one but Gertie, that I know of," Helen said; I believe my toque to be unique down her. Gertie's feather is black, you know." It was a white feather I saw," he said, watching her keenly, and thinking again how well she did it. And it was yours—I oould have sworn." Stranger!' laughed Helen. My mistake, of course I', Dar said. And said no more. But as she sat alone that night in his own room, smoking over his log-fire, it seemed quite clear to him that [she meant to keep her own counsel, and that he had no right to interfere. Bight ? What was she to him or he to her ? There might be a hundred reasons why she should walk with Gay Devereux IMe: à-tëú, of which he knew, and could know, nothing. He hadn't, in- deed, given her credit for so amoli diplomatic rouerie and sang-froid. But what grounds had. he for think- ing she was incapable of either ? He hadn't -seen her since she was a child. The child was a woman now and how much faith in her kind had his experience taught him ? Daryl Fairfax grew quite his wonted cynical self again, over his last pipe tjiat pight. Se had settled, he persuadedthimself, in his own mind that his philosophy was the tree one. The. days came and went. There was little outward change in his manners towards Cousin Hclpn—he didn't call her Fee now-bnt she at least felt some- times that the Cousin Dar of the time had altered more than she had at first imagined. And not for the better. Since that first night on the terr<ve they had spent others there; and Helen Treherne was fain to confess, not without. a strange, sharp pang, that her hero could bo harsh, and, b'tter, and unjust., like an ordinary mortal. Only, that if he had been the ordinary mortal, she wouldn't have cared much for the discovery. But being what he was—her hero sincc she couid remember him—she did care a good deal. "The Don" was growing angry with h'mself and with her. Twice since that first time—twice ere the first days of October—the white feather had gleamed before his eyes as he neared home; and both times in the attendant cavalier he bad recognised Guy Deveruex. Both times, too, something he could hardly define the feeling—had prevented him from setting all doubts at rest, and making certanity doubly sure. He had no right. What was she to him ? /.h more than he had ever dreamed a woman could be—more bhan he would have acknowledged to himself then. Helen and he were left much alone together just now. "My lady" was an invalid, and Gertie and her lover had plenty to occupy them. And one night, when he had argued himself into the belief that he could talk on the subject gently and firmly and wisely, as became one who stood towards her in the relationship he did, Dar, at last, spoke wprds which first astonished, and then wounded and angered Helen sorely. It don't much matter what they were to us; but when he and his cousin parted for the night, the one felt they were words it would be very hard to forget or to forgive; the other, that he had been wrong in uttering them at all—wrong in thinking she would trust him—a fool for holding her what, in spite of all till now, in his heart of hearts, he had held her to be. Another month passed; and the Don" be- gan to think of his preparations for going ont next mail to rejoin. It was the first week in November he could catch the Marseilles steamer of the tenth. So he told them one morning that he was going. It was sooner than he need go. But what was there to stay longer for ? Certainly not to witness denoue- ment of that mysterious affair between Helen and Guy Devereux. Better, he thought, that he should be miles away if that was to end as he believed it would. So he wouldn't see the silent, wistful pleading of my lady's face she was too proud to ask her son to stay in England for her sake; so he made light of poor Gertie's entreaties and misconstrued Helen's sudden pallor, and the look that in her own despite came into the dark violet eyes, so true, though as he ohought so false, when they learned his resolve. And yet had see been all he remembered, all he had once thought of her, it might have been different. It wouldn't have been so hard to give up the excitement of his soldier's life, and the brilliant work Ours was doing far away up in the north-west," if he had found the dream which, hard, and cynical, and sel- fish as he might be, he had dreamed once realised in Cousin Helen. But that was not to be. And he hardened his heart, bitterly. Hardened it against those he loved. and those who loved him. One there was who loved him more than they all—one whose love he was flinging blindly away—who had deemed that words of his had wronged her past forgiveness, but who felt all anger die in her when she knew she was so soon to lose him. For he was her hero—unworthy of her perhaps, For he was her hero—unworthy of her perhaps. as he was, and, to her, greater, better, nobler than all others. If he had misjudged her, she couldn't hate him. If he had wronged her, she could pardon. For through all she loved him. It was a cruel, hard time for La Fee Blanche," those last few days of the Don's stay at Laureston. But it was almost worse for him. Have you ever known how— To be wrath with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain?" He was wroth with her though even when at the Maidlow ball she gave Guy Devereux the valses the had kept for him, and which he wouldn't ask for, and his jealousy had found confirmation of all his suspicions in the Plunger's bearing towards her; even when he called her frankness towards himself something worse than falseness, when he tried tohate, be loved her most. And now they were to part, sundered by a doubt, a suspicion: that seemed flimsy enough, but which to this man was irrefutable. He thought of this that afternoon which was to be his last at Laureston as he walked along a narrow path in the Pleasaunce, his feet rustling among the sere yellow leaves that lay thick upon the ground. It was a favourite lounge for outdoor smoking purposes, that little skilfully-arranged wood which bounded the deer-park on one side, and stretched away for a mile or so in the direction of The Place. Dar strolled moodily along, his hands in the Sockets of his shooting-jacket, and the smoke from is briile-gueule curling in blue clouds in the still, mild air. It might be the last time he should ever wall there; to-inorrow he would be gone. In his bitterness of spirit he wished he had never come to Laureston, never seen her face—never, as little by little he had done, learned to love love her with the last love of his life. Proof-armoured, as they who knew him best would have deemed him, he had gone down before a woman's weapons like another man; had been tricked by a fair face, and a false smile, and lying lips, and treacherous eyes, like even unto those at whom ha had been wont to make mock. Vanquished ? Not not quite!" he muttered between his teetjh, set hard on the amber mouthpiece. She don't know of this cursed folly. It'll be triy own fault if she ever does. It's all over now. She and I will never meet again. Bah! Am I a child, to be as weak as this ?" AndDar laughed bitterly. On a sudden his face changed, and, with a curse, he halted, and drove Lis heel savgely into the turf. Half-a-dozen paces from him, with its bcidle flung over a leafless branch, watching him out of its great, deep, eyes, stood a horse he knew only too well. It < was "Ravenawing." Guy Devereux's charger. The rider could not be far off. What was he doibg here ? The Don guessed easily enough, His right hand clenched, as though be would have liked to dash it in Devereux's face—this man, for whose sake Helen, his Helen, had stooped to false- hood and deceit—in a paroxysm or jealous rage worthy of the love-mania of a boy. That was soon over. Men who have lived bis life, tf^bey cant exercise, at least learn to keep in hand the devil they knew to be within them. And the look that was not good to see only just swept across "the Don's face, and left the bard smile a little, harder under the black moustache. But this time, at all events, he would meet her faee o face. He had not long to wait. Standing a little back from the winding pathway, hidden by the gnarled trunk of the king oak, already he could see the gleam of the white feather, as the wearer of the velvet toque he knew eo well came towards him, in close and confidential converse with Devereux the Plunger. He set his teeth hard, and stood motionless as the. as the trunk he leaned against. Bavenswing pricked his ears, and whinnied, aa his master came round the last turn of the path; and Dar lifted his eyes then and saw—what made him start and pale to the very lips. He saw the velvet toque, and the long white feather, and the long streamers floating behind but instead of Helen Treherne's fair hair, it was Flora Hoddesdon's dark braids that curled beneath it—her face, and not his cousin's, tha1, he looked upon. Laughing lightly at something Guy was saving to her, Flora passed by, and stood patting the horse's arching neck when the rider was in the saddle, and exchanging a tender adieu ere he rode away. Then, after one quick glance about her, Flora moved off in her turn, and Dar was alone with his discovery. The simple truth was plain at last. This was the shsdow his cynicfam and mistrust had let him make a reality; this was the miserable cause of the wrong he had done the woman he had learned to 10TO done, not so much by the words he had spoken, as by the thoughts he had thought of her. This wretched error was driving him from her now—had, perhaps, sundered them for ever. I don't think I need tell you all that passed through his mind as he walked back—all the feeling of self- reproach, regret, repentence, not unmingled with something akin to happiness. There was happiness for him at least in this, that Fée had never merited the ill he had dared think of her by word or deed; that she had been right, and he wrong. This much he would tell her before he left Laureston, and ask of her what it was his wont to ask of none—forgive- ness. He found her presently in the library, and alone. He opened the door so noiselessly that she never raised her head. She was sitting on a low seat before the flickering wood fire, half in the light, half in the shadow, bending a little forward, her chin resting on her hand. At her feet lay Dar's bloodhound, Odin," watch- ing her with loving, wistful eyes. The other end of the long oak-pannelled room, where Dar stood, was all in semi-darkness, and, by the gleam of the burning brands, he could see every detail of the picture before him. He could see the shimmering of Fee's golden hair as the light fell on it;, he could see the pale, sad look upon her fair face; the fitful flash of the opals in a ring, his gift, which she were upon the hand that rested on "Odin's" head. He saw and marked all this as he stopped a moment near the doorway, still and silent, fading by the keenness of his remorse, how great was the wrong he had done her, even in his love. But the bloodhound moved uneasily, conscious of his master's presence there; and Helen, roused from her reverie, turned and looked towards him. Then Dar came out of the darkness into the light, and she saw who it was. She rose hurriedly, as if to ge, while he was bend- ing over his dog, as though he had barely noticed her. Don't go. Fée I" Dar said, when she had moved a step or two from him. Don't run away from me I've something to tell you, if you will listen to me." The old name, the old tone. What did it mean ? She had stopped when be spoke, and waited, without a word, for him to go on. And he went on, and made his atonement—such atonement as he OOQId- and his confession unflinchingly, leaning his arm upon the high, carved mantlepiece, and with his eyes fixed upon her face. trying to read bis sentence there. And so Helen learned at last what had been keeping them so long asunder. Fée, can you forgive me ?" She answered him never a word, but she gave him her hand—the hand that wore the opal ring. Then Dar spoke again, with all the passion that was in him. And Fee learned something more— something that made full amends to her for all the misery of those last days. He was telling her—her hero, whom she thought to part from so miserably on the morrow— that be loved her; asking so eagerly, so passionately, with look and voice so changed she hardly knew him, if the could trust herself, after all, to him and his love for the time to come asking if he should go or stay. Slowly, as his strong right arm closed round and clasped her to him, the golden head sank down upon his shoulder, till her face, sad and pale no longer, was half hidden from him there; and, ar he bent over her, the answer to all his pleading came in these tow-whispered words— Stay, for me, Dar! I have loved you all my life And here, I think, had better end the story of the White Feather. Buy
WILLS AND BEQUESTS. Mr. Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen, of The Croft, Hindhead, and formerly of The Nook, Dorking, who died on October 25, aged 51 years, bequeathed the copyright of all his literary works issued in the name of Grant Allen, also the Consols and other securi- ties standing in the name of Grant Allen and the residue of his property, to his wife, Mrs. EHen Allen. His estate has been valued at £6155 3b. 3d. gross, including JE3500 19s. in net personalty. Mr. Phineas Cowan, of Linden-gardens, Hyde- park, and Mincing-lane, formerly an Alderman and a Sheriff oflhe City of London, who died at Buxton on October 22, aged 67, left property of the value of £43,895 17a. 8d. He appointed his son Lewis Phineas Cowan to succeed to his share in the part- nership business of J. and P. Cowan and L. Cowan and Sons, soapmakers and sugar refiners, of Ham- mersmith and Mincing-lane, and he gave to him so much of his capital therein as would amount to one- sixth of his net residuary estate, but the son must pay to his mother during her life interest at four per cent. on the said sum. and an annuity of jEaO to his son John Campbell Cowan, Mr. Cowan bequeathed to his wife JE500, the money and notes in the house, the cash at his private current account, and his lease- hold house with the furniture and domestic effects therein, and to his brother John £500. The residue of his, property he left on trust for his wife for life, and then to his children Lewis Phineas, David, Harry Douglas, Nina, Lily, and Evelyn, in equal shares, his son Lewis Phineas bringing into account the aforesaid share of capital. Mr. William Mortimer Maynard Farmer, of May- nardviile, Wynberg, Cape Colony, who died at 18, Bina-gardens, on September 30, aged 62 years, left an estate which hns been valued at 4d. gross, including net personalty of the value of £200,5 18s. 4d. By his will, which bears date March 21, 1898, he bequeathed to his grandsons Gerald and Brian Bernard £500 each, to his sons- in-law John Bernard and Sir Leslie each, to his daughters Enid Mortimer Bernard and Dame Elaine Maynard Falkiner £4000 each, to William George Anderson, named as an executor of the his indoor servants, £150, to his outdoor servants £100, and to Mrs. Farmer, the use and enjoyment of his house Maynardville. The tes- tator left his residuary estate in trust for his two daughters, but subject to the payment of one-half of the income to his widow. Mr. Joseph Stammers Garrett, of Blacklands Hall, Cavendish, Suffolk, who died on August 27, be- queathed £1:?OO each to his children, Lucy Eliza, Alice, Mrs. Ellen Charlton, Joseph, Isabella Helena, Blanch Edward, Mrs. Elizabeth Samuel, John, William Henry, and Alfred Ernest; his premises, called the Lecture Hall, the organ in the Cavendish Congregational Chapel, and JE1200 to bis daughter, Henrietta; £õO each to the Rev. — Pattendon and the Rev. Samuel Herben; and a few smalI legacies. His residuary estate is to be divided between his children. The value of the estate has been sworn at £27,506 7e. 7d. Mr. Richard Musgrave Harvey, of Portland-place and Mincing-lane, deputy chairman of the Public Works Loan Board, a Commissioner Income-tax, and a director of several companies, who died on November 10; appointed as executors of his will, dated March 21, 1893, with a codicil of November 22, 1894, his wife and his brother. He gave to his brother, the Rev. Charles Musgrave Harvey, to his sister, Mrs. Caroline Louisa Trotter, £ 1000« to bis nephew,. Ernest Musgrave Harvey, £250; to the Establishment for Invalid Ladies, 90, Harley- street, £.100; to each of his children to his wife the residue of his property. The estate has, been rallied at £42,829 16s. 4d., including net per- sonalty of Mr. Frank Hudson, of Godden-green, near Seven- oaks, a member of the firm of Hudson Brothers (Limited), Ludgate hill, London, who died on October 26, left property of the value of 5ø..lOd.. including net personalty of 15s. 6d. He gave to his brother Anthony Hudson .200, to John James Griffiths £250, and to his, wife, Mrs. Mary Walton Hudson, £1000 and his household furniture and effects, carriages and horses, and during her widowhood the use and enjoyment of bis. freehold property at Godden Green and an annuity of £4000. Should she again marry, £1000 per annum is to be paid to her for the remainder of her life. Subject thereto his property is to be held as to one-sixth on sundry trusts for his son Harold Hudson, and one-sixth each for his children Gilbert Hudson, Sydney Hudson, Leonard Lovell Hudson, Ernest John Hudson, and Mrs. Julia Speyer. The testator made no further pro- vision for his son Frank, who is a shareholder and director of Hudson Brothers (Limited). Ernest George Henry Arthur, sixth Earl of Lis- burne, of Crosswood, Cardiganshire, who died on September 4, left property of the value of £21,800 ,48. 7d., including net personalty of £10.3,17 10.. 8d. By his will dated September 2,1899, be save to his wife, Evelyn Countess of Lwburne, daughter of Mr. Edmund tVobyn, of Huntley Manor, Gloucester- shire, to his nephew Charles Henry Hall Monro, £100 and a pair of pas; to bis estate agent Robert Gardner, £200 to Frederick, Bichard Roberts, £100; and for distribution among his employes, £100 His furniture, pictures, plate, &c., are to devolve as heirlooms, and the residue of his personal estate is to be held on trust for his son Ernest Edmund Henry, now seventh Earl of Lis- borne, until he attains nis majority. The executors are Mr. Wflmot Ingli*<rJonM, of Derry Ormond, Cardigan, and lb. Frederick Bohcprts, solicitor, Aberystwyth. Colonel Lewie de Teiisier Provost, of £ lfords,. Hawkhurst, who died on October 26 last, aged 55 Srs, left estate which has been valued at £ 44,257 9d. gross, including £ 31,824 15*. in net person- alty. The testator bequeathed £500 to the vicar and Churchwardens of St. La whence, Hawkhurst, for the purpose of providing a new organ for the church. He bequeathed to Charles Easott £20, and to each of his servants of ave yeNM* service JE5, and he devised hie freehold estate at ElfOrds and all other his real estate to his wife absolutely, and he left his residuary estate in trust to pay the income thereof to Mrs. Pro- vost during her life and, subject to her life-interest, fOr his two children. Mrs. Sarah Ann Weldon, of Morden Hill, Lewisham, widow of )(1'. Charkft Weldon, of Cheap- side, Warehouseman, who died on July 18, gave to the London City Mission to the Church Mis- sionary Society te the Be8t, Bat- oliffe-hichway, £200; to the Mildmay Mission to the to the assistant clergy fund of Holy Trinity, Greenwich, .SMO; to her eon Edward JE4500 and her freehold premises, Brooklands, Reigate, and I. Selborne-road, Brighton; to her son Walter £4500 and her freehold messuage, Gutter-lane; and legacieS and annuities to herdaush., friends, and servants, Her residuary estate is to be held on trust for her daughters, Mrs. Ellen Waacb, Mn. Mary Toomer, Mrs. Lilian Goold-Adams, Ada EliMbetb and Ether Gay, and the children of her daugher, Mrs. Gather rine Myles. The estate has been valued at £ 105,112 I* 10d..
THE culture of perfume-bearing plants and treao, known as "eeent farming," is a profitable industry in Australia, where the soil is particularlysuitable for the cultivation of such plants. TIIB sandwich-man Will probably, before loag, he ousted by the more attractive "sandwich-woman." A few stray specimens have already made a successful Jppearwoe in various jwrts of London. UNCLE DAN. A grey and wintry afternoon, and although not yet three o'clock, night seemed ominously near. Are you going to Ludbrook's bank now, Uncle Dan ?" No; to-morrow will be time enough, Marion, to attend to that business." "To-morrow ? Surely you wont wait 1 I Bee danger on every side, sbe insisted. Dan Rafferty was standing over the fire in a private sitting-room in one of the big City hotels. He had arrived in London with his niece from the Cape barely an hour before. Danger Why, who's to know what I've got locked up in my bedroom in this hotel-" Hush! Why not step round to the bank before closing time and-" Can't be done. I should miss my friend, Captain Osborn—bless his heart!—as sure as fate. I'm off to Greenwich-by the first train I can catch. He'll have started weighing anchor already, I reckon." And with a glance out of the window at the gather- ing gloom, he took a hurried leave of Marion and went out. » The night closed in—it was getting late, and Marion Desmond, who sat brooding near the fire, grew troubled at the tardiness of Dan Rafferty's re- turn. She had begun to dread that something serious had happened, when footsteps in the corridor caught her ear. There was a tap at the door—a servant entered and handed her a card. Mr. Ludbrook ? Pray show him in." Her large dark eyes beamed with delight. A,tall, good-looking young fellow came in, and when she had greeted him with both hands pressed in his, they sat down side by side. Ludbrook was the first to speak. Anything the matter, Miss Desmond ? You look tired—worried. Where's Mr. Rafferty" Philip Ludbrook had made the acquaintance of Dan Rafferty and his niece at Cape Town; they had returned to England in the same ship, and during the voyage Marion and Ludbrook had become greatly attached. I am worried," said the girl, after a moment's pause. Uncle Dan was in one of his stubborn moods about that box this afternoon." Ludbrook exclaimed: "Is it possible he has neglected to see my father at the bank this after- noon?" Yes, Philip. He went to Greenwich about three o'clock." Philip Ludbrook began to pace the room. Miss Desmond," said he, your uncle's a foolhardy man. There's no denying it." Suddenly he looked round and added, Have you his bedroom key ?" "No. You think Ludbrook nodded significantly. I'll ring," said Marion. There's a master-key, of course. We'll make sure at once." The key to Rafferty's room was quickly procured, and the moment they had entered the apartment Marion Desmond knelt down in front of a large trunk, which she hastened to unlock with a duplicate key given to her by Uncle Dan. There was a moment's pause. Then she looked round and whispered— The tin box is gone Philip Ludbrook's face expressed no surprise. Of course," said he, answering her in a whisper, he's the man to do it—the very man to carry about in his pocket a box the contents of which must be worth ninety thousand pounds Rafferty and Ludbrook had occupied the same cabin on board ship, and one memorable night: during the voyage the colonist had taken a tin box from his sea-chest and exhibited its con- tents—a quantity of valuable diamonds—to his friend. He had then expressed an earnest wish to deposit the box at Ludbrook's bank on reaching London, and Ludbrook had readily agreed to accom- pany him there. But upon landing, as it chanced, the young banker found that a business matter com- pelled him to visit Glasgow, and consequently he-had ended by giving Rafferty a letter of introduction to his father instead.. He has taken the box to Greenwich with him in his small valise," said Marion, sweeping the room with her eyes. It's most reckless." Ludbrook glanced at his watch. I would go to Greenwich and look after him—I would go at. once, but," said he, I've only this moment reached town, and my father's waiting to see me on impor- tant business. But I'll come to you, Marion, as soon as I've seen my father, when I hope—I feel sure—Mr. Rafferty will have got back." "Thank you, Philip. You're a true friend." "Nothing more ?" said be, seizing her hand. Marion turned away, and a minute later the young banker had sprung into a cab and was being driven in the direction of Portland-place. Young Ludbrook was beginning to grow weary of pacing his father's study when the banker came in. He was a slim-built man of sixty, with keen, restless eyes and a quick manner. My boy, I'm glad to see you back," said he cor- dially. "Our agents in Glasgow could do nothing ?" "Nothing, sir?" said Philip with concern, "not even a paltry hundred thousand pounds." "Most vexatious. Why, in less troublous times we could have raised half a million." Well, father," said young Ludbrook, who was a junior partner in the banking house, don't let U8 lose heart. Let us trust no crisis will come." "Yes—my sole hope is what's that The cry of a midnight news-hawker had caught his ear. The sound fell close under the study window which gave out upon Portland-place. Murder!" The hawker's sepulchral tone alone made night seem hideous; but the words he was reiterating made it seem more hideous still. Great diamond robbery in a Greenwich express I" Young Ludbrook leapt from his chair. "Great heaven can it be?" The banker had locked over his shoulder and fixed his penetrating glance upon the closely-curtained window while asking, "What's that?" And he never altered his look or attitude when his son rushed headlong from the room. But an inscrutable smile seemed gathering over his close-shaven face under the yellowish light of the shaded lamp upon the table. What could it forebode ? It's Rafferty!" cried young Ludbrook, entering' breathlessly, a newspaper grasped in his hand;1 and the man who has killed and robbed him hui escaped!" Ah! tell me about it." Philip hurriedly related all that he knew concern- ing the colonist—how they had become intimate during the homeward voyage and how the box of stolen diamonds had been valued at a big price. And then, bidding his father good-night," he drove off in all haste to Marion's hotel; for his one desire was to console and befriend the girl whom he passionately loved. Days went by. Dan Rafferty, it was learned, had been found in a second-class carriage of a Greenwich train stone dead, his valise cut open, and the con- tents—reported to be a small tin-box of valuable diamonds—spirited away. No trace of the culprit had come to light. One morning, before starting for the bank, Philip went to his father's room to ask him for the key to his private safe in the bank-parlour, as certain docu- ments, which Philip knew were kept there, were urgently needed. The banker was ill in bed. He was in a sound sleep but the key Philip required lay upon the dressing-table. It was attached to a bunch of keys never yet entrusted to anyone—his own son excepted. Philip took up the keys and went softly out. More than an hour was devoted to urgent matters of business that morning before young Ludbrook could spare a moment for unlocking the safe. But he found the moment at last, and stepping into the bank-parlour—a room given over long ago to docu- ment-boxes, and old ledgera-ho hastily placed the key in the lock. The key turned; the safe-door swung noiselessly open, when an object inside the safe caught Philip's eye which forced a low cry from his lips. It was Rafferty's tin box I Philip had laid his hand upon it, had opened it and discovered the wealth of diamonds within:—for the padlock had been removed—when be Was greatly startled to see a figure—the figure of the banker— standing with a hand upon the door. "Sir! why, what-" Close my safe!" The banker was intensely pale and irritatad. He staggered forward a pace, clutching at the high back of a chair to keep himself from falling. Close my safe," he reiterated, inatantl, How dare you take away my keys r II But, father, look what's here f It's the box-I oan swear to it—the one of which my poor friend Was robbed in—in the Greenwich train!" The banker pressed his hand to his head, his keen eyes half closed. He stretched out his nervous fingers towards his son. The keys—give them back to me, I say!" Philip had by this time relocked the safe. He now gave the bunch of keys to his father. The banker took them with dreadful eagerness and sank back into the chair. Philip Ludbrook stood speechless. Was it possible that his father had taken part in the crime of the Greenwich exprels "f Impossible! He would never believe it. And yet At this moment there was a tap at the door. See who's there," said the banker, who was now fast recovering his self-possession. Philip opened the door, and the hall-porter handed him a card. After glancing at it he looked hesi- tatingly at his father. Miss Marion Desmond The banker nodded. Let her be shown in." Marion came in, and when Philip had made the two acquainted, she said: I've received some strange news, Philip! I've come direct from the lawyers to tell you about it. Will you glance through this ?" She handed young Ludbrook an oblong letter. He quickly mastered its contents, and at a sign from Marion passed the document over to his father. This document went to show that a sailor, who had lately taken his own life, had fully confessed to the murder of]Rafferty. They had been fellow-passengers from the Cape, and the sailor's one thought had been to possess himself of the treasure. But he em- phatically assorted, in his confession, that upon cutting open the valise he had found it empty. Miss Desmond," said the banker, looking slowly up from the deposition, I think, if you will allow me, that I can account for the fact that the man dis- covered nothing in Mr. Rafferty's valise." You amaze me, sir! How ? But pray speak." I'll be as brief as possible." He leant back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at a paper-knife which he had taken from his desk. Upon the afternoon of the day on which the crime was accom- plished," said he (I think it was shortly after three o'clock), Mr. Rafferty paid a visit to this bank." Marion uttered a cry of surprise. He barely remained," he went on, more than five minutes. But he left his tin box to the care of one whom he had every reason to trust! Yet it so chanced that upon the day in question he could hardly have placed his diamonds in worse hands. The interview—the whole transaction—was unwitnessed. Mr. Rafferty was killed, his diamonds reported to be cut from his valise and Carried off. Could the trusted man resist such a chance? The banking- house to which he was attached was threatened with disaster; thousands of pounds could be raised on these diamonds, and he resolved to act promptly." The banker paused far a moment, twisting the paper-knife round in his hands. He resolved to act promptly; but illness over- took him—the bank crisis fortunately passed over without bringing trouble upon the house—and the wretched, trusted man has now only one hope, one desire left—forgiveness!" Marion rose and stepped impulsively towards Philip Ludbrook's father: "Not another word—I entreat! You are freely forgiven." Philip's father never entered his bank again, and Philip became sole active partner. He and Marion now met every day; and when the following year she became Philip's wife, Dan Rafferty's wealth— amounting to nearly half-a-million—was added to the capital of Ludbrook's house.
SPURGEON'S TABERNACLE. By a notable coincident just 50 years have elapsed since Sir Morton Peto laid the foundation stone of the Metropolitan Tabernacle, and the 18th of December was the jubilee since the Rev. C. H. Spurgeon began a long campaign of preaching at Exeter Hall, during which over £30,000 was col- lected, to open debt-free the spacious building which is so honourably associated with the history of lattet-day non-conformity in London. There is suf- ficent reason (remarks the Daily Telegraph) for re- calling these facts in connection with the rapid pro- gress that, is now being made in rebuilding the vast edifice since the damage wrought to it by the dis- astrous fire of 1898. Few, indeed, of the thousands who daily pass the handsome fagade—almost the only portion of the stonework that was not injured and weakened-have any idea of the magnitude of the operations proceeding within, or that by May or June next there will be reopened for divine worship a building line for line as large as the former one, only better planned, more handsomely adorned, and more adequately equipped in every way. For several months past trn congregation have met in the lower hall. where there is seating accom- modation for 2000. Here all the fittings are in dark pitch pine, there is a complete installation of electric lighting, and in loftiness, ventilation, and other details this is a great improvement on its original. The upper part, or main hall, is at present a con- fused maze of scaffolding and iron girders, for nothing save metal and concrete i. being employed, but the workmen have already begun the roofing, and their only hindrance arises from delay in the de- livery of the iron work on account of pressure of contracts throughout this industry. It may safely be said that Mr. Sporgeon's person- ality has stamped an nnique character upon the tabernacle and the place it fills in the religious world. The young preacher, with his unconventional methods, his homely wit, and power arresting attention, had been able to fill the Surrey Music Hall, and had preached to one of the vastest congre- gations ever brought together when he addressed over 23,000 people at the Crystal Palace on the day of National Humiliation and Prayer for the Indian Mutiny. One of the first things, however, that he recognised was that if the work of evangelising which he had so dearly at heart was to be carried on, men must be trained to it, and thus the Pastors' College was one of the earliest offshoots of his preaching, and is, indeed, older than the tabernacle itself. Through this over 1000 men have passed, and a list of their spheres of labour is interesting reading, for they are to be found in all our Colonies, in the United States, up the Congo, in the West Indies, in India, China, Japan, the Falkland Islands, and South America. 1hen, too, there is the Stockwell Orphanage, pro- viding for. something like 500 little ones, of a clafs socially somewhat higher than is gener- ally to be found ia such institutions, and in which many of the old-fashioned ideas of barrack life and discipline and hideous uniform are broken down. But perhaps one of its great sources of influence has been due to its complete aloofness from controversial politics, though at the time of the American War of North and South pone upheld more stoutly the cause of justioe for the slave. But there has always been an atmosphere of robust, British common sense about the tabernacle, which was never more forcibly illustrated than in Mr. Spurgeon's vigorous reply to certain of the "unco guid" who saw perdition in tobacco and wished him to forego it for himself and thoae under his training. Gloomy persons were not wanting to predict that with Mr. Spurgeon's death the one great link of unity would be withdrawn, that dissensions would arise in the congregation, and that the great influence of the tabernacle would diminish. Those prophecies are unfulfilled. To-day the tabernacle has an adult mem- bership of over 4000, and in connection there are 21 missions and 25 Sunday-schools, with nearly 9000 scholars and 676 voluntary teachers. Towards the heavy cost of building, which was just £45,000, by far the greater sum is already secured, and only about JE5000 remains to be raised. For that, Mr. H. Ford, as chairman of the building committee, is ask- ing for assistance, inasmuch as Mr. Spurgeon's ser- mons are read i all parts, while his name is a house- hold word to thousands, and the congregation itself, has done so much. It is not, as the Rev. T. Surgeon and Mr. Ford both admit, a very opportune moment to make an appeal, but they feel that many are greatly interested in what may fairly be called the chief memorial of a great and world-know* man, and will be glad to be informed as to the financial progress that the movement is making. Mrs. Spurgeon, who has done so much in developing the charitable work of which the tabernacle is the centre, has herself said that the rebuilding should hold pre- eminence in the affections of those who valued and respected her husband, and that to many will be its ultimate word of commendation.
THII new edition, for 1900, of that marvellous com- pilation The Post Office London Directory "—Kelly's mammoth Red-book—has now been published. It carries on with admirable precision down to the latest moment the perfected plan of expansion which has made the work the characterisation of reality, covering 3317 pages of cleverly tabulated reference, matter, besides a large addendum of commercial announcements. The special extensious for the cec tenary edition of last year, which were much appre- ciated by those concerned in London suburban dis- tricts, are permanently continued; and interesting notes, on the changes in London topography which ¡ .appeared in the 1899 issue are also again given, and j should prove useful to those wishful to furbish them- j selves up concerning the changed landmarks of the metropolis. The great directory avea out of its ken no one dwelling or engaged within the thickly- I peopled London area extending trwm Kensington on the west to Cubitt Town on the east, and from Kil- burn in the north to New Cross in the south and it may safely be claimed that it has not. nor ever had, any parallel in the publications of the world. The classification is as simple as it is well thought out, and, indeed, leaves nothing at all to be desired. We note that in February an initial iasue will be pub- lished by Kelly's of a Suburban Directory," embrac- ing the constantly increasing and important Met beyond the boundaries covered by the big Red-book. Uhbkii the .title, The Problem of South Africa Unity," Mr. George Allen will publish in the course of the next few days the last of Mr. Worsfold's lectures on England in South Africa, delivered at the Imperial Institute. In addition to the text of the lecture, the volume will contain notes on questions of native administrations, on the political reconstruc- tion after the war, and on the question of fed- union as it affects the interests of the several Colonies and States. It will also contain statistics of popu- lationrevenue, and other matters.
THE "rOMANS WORLD. Flan!tsus (says the Evening News) require care Ï8 their washing to prevent shrinking and keep them soft. Make a strong suds of some pure white soap and water as hot as the hand can bear it, put in the fiannels, and let them lie twenty minutes. A flannel should not be rubbed, but drawn through the hands until it seems perfectiy clean. PREPARE another tub of water, not using quite at much soap, and when the flannels are taken from the first water drop them into the second water, press through that, and put them into warm water, slightly blued. Carefully wring the flannels out of the last water, shake them well, and dry as quickly upoaaible. taking care not to hang them where they will freest when drying. Wiiek sufficiently dry, iron the flannels and hang them unfolded until well aired. Flannels should not be rolled up when dry and laid on one side to tn ironed later. Old, thin under-flannels, too far gone for other use, may be cut into tiny pieees with which to stuff cushions and soft pillows. Pearl and other powders are much more generally patronised in everyday life (says the London Journal) than is suspected. Very often they are so skilfully applied as to be almost undetectable. but they can always be discovered by looking at the face in a aidt light, when there will be seen a certain dull uniformity of tint, the effect resembling that of frosted silver, as compared with polished silver, instead of a satiny appearance that comes from a natural moistuxv of the skin, varied by the soft down upon it. Powders are made of a variety of substances, the vegetable ones being the most harmless, thpeB containing mineral ones being highly injurious. Amongst the first named are rice, wheat, and potato starch, and the latter include such in- gredients as mercury, arsenic, lead, oxide of bismuth, &c. There is much variety of opinion with regard to the latter substance, popular prejudice being decidedly against, its nse whilst some skin specialists affirm that it is entirely free from anything that can harm the complexion. A French writer on the subject says that all powders containing ohalk, talc, bismuth, alabaster, oxide of zinc, &c., are mineral powders, and are indeed mineral paints disguised under attractive names. They differ from the lattei only in that they are generally harmless, being very seldom mixed with poisonous substances, such as, for instance, white lead, &c." Violet powder is one of the most simple of powders, and is composed of six parts of wheat starch and one of powdered orris root. These Jare mixed together and scented with lemon, bergfmot, and clove. Frequently wheat starch is used alone, and pDudre de rif is rice starch scented to taste). Pearl powder is a mixture of bismuth and chalk, or zinc and chalk, and the drawback to this is that the zinc and bismuth gradually turn black when exposed to emanations from the skin, or in the atmosphere of a crowded room. In the daytime it has a bluish appearance, which gives a somewhat un- natural colour to the complexion. Mineral powders adhere much better to the skin than do vegetable ones,; hence, perhaps their employment in so many advertised kinds. Rice powder has very little adherence, but corn starch forms the base of nearly all face powders. This, and indeed all, is highly ab- sorbent, and takes up not only any superfluous moisture, but also the natnral oil of the skin, and this is why its daily and persistent use dries up the skin and diminishes its softness and pliancy. If this were onlv done occasionally, the skin would re- sume its natural condition as soon as its application was abandoned. A really pure powder is sometimes beneficial. TJlEtt!i- is no doubt that many of the colds which, people cateh commence at the feet. 80 to keep theM extremities warm, therefore, is to effect an insurance against the endless list of disorders which spring out of a slight cold. The first and golden rule ia, never be tightly shod—boots or shoes when they fit closely prevent the free circulation of the blood by pressure; when on the contrary, they do not embrace the foot to firmly, they get fair play, and the space left between the boot and stocking gets a good supply of warm air. The second rule is one much neglected, I fear, and is—never sit in damp shoes. It is often supposed that unless .shoes are positively wet it is unnecessary to chango them while the feet are at. rest. This ie a great fallacy, for when the least dampness is absorbed into- the sole, in its evaporation it absorbs the heat frons the foot, and thus perspiration is dangerously checked. Any person may prove this by trying the experiment of neglecting the rule, and the feet will feol cold and damp after a few minutes, although, 0& taking off the shoe and examining^it, it will appear to be quite dry. Pearl-barley WATER is an excellent sick-roonr drink, and one that we ought to have a recipe for. Many doctors strongly advocate the use of it in ill. ness, and frequently I find people totally ignorant ao to how it should be made. Here is my recipe Simmer half a teacupful of pearl-barley in a quart of water for two hours or more; stir it jftst enough to prevent it from sticking to the china-lined saucepati; strain, and pour into a jug for use. Warm the quantity as you require, and flavour with lemon, and sweeten. As an infant's food barley-water is greatly esteemed, and should be given in the proportion of One part of milk to two parts of barley-water. This is especially valuable for children of costive habits. Jerseys knitted by your own nimble fingers -(obeerves the Sun) are considered rather more knowing than even those that are knitted at your express order. Those of white and clear scarlet are preferred to other colours. They are knitted with large needles in a heavy cable stitch, and have the high rolled-over collars or a round neck, with which linen collars and stocks are worn. The moat suit- able hats to go with these are the Tam Obanten. which have now returned to the field, and are con- sidered extremely good form. An attractive dancing cape is intended to completely envelop the figure. It is circular in shape, of almost dolman tightness. Attached to it is a picturesque hood in which the com- fort of A lofty collar and warm head covering is com- bined..L A BERLIN medical paper points out the influent* of the veil, so commonly worn by women in winter, in producing redness of the nose. This effect is said to be due partly to the mechanical action of the rough texture upon the delicate skin, and partly to the influence of the watery vapour which collects and condenses within its texture. It is suggested that the treatment consists in discarding the veil as a first measure; but in deference, we suppose, to the exigencies of fashion in regard to fluffy hair, it ia recommended that when the use of a veil is necessary it should not extend lower than the orifices of the nose, so that the watery vapour from tht breath should not be confined by it. We do not think (the Sun says) that ladies will give up wearing veils even with bonnets, but perhaps the fear of red noses may encourage them in their preference fo* hats. Certainly a veil decending from the brim of a hat and tucked under the chin is a more reasonable arrangement than that of having one drawn tightly across the face and compressing the nose, as is so often done the wearers of the things which are, we believe, still called bonnets. In fact, we are not altogether sure that a good deal might not be said in favour of a properly- arranged veil, leaving plenty of air-space around the face, even from a sanitary point of view. In the country it is, of course, another matter but consider- ing the filth which must enter the mouth in the course of a walk in town upon a dusty day, the slight re-breathing of the air which the preeenoe of the veil involves might be more than compensated for by the increased freedom from the grosser kinds of dirfc which it should ensure. THAT Lady Sarah Wilson had been made prisoner by the Boers created quite a sensation in high quarters. She is well-known (a lady writer in the Globe says) as a member of the smart set, and she was invariably one of the beat dressed women wherever she went. The youngest daughter of the seventh Duke of Marl- borough, she is aunt to the present Data. Her sisteN are the Duchess of Roxburghe. Ledy Wimborne, Lady Tweedmouth, and Lady Georgiana Curson. Lady Sarah ie a fine horsewoman, and a well-known follower of the Quorn. Her exquisitely neat turn- put was always matter for adsMnng comment in the neighbourhood of Melton. When going out to South Africa she evidently piwnded herself with a maid who was a horsewoman, too, for their exploit in cover- ing so many mi)e8 of the veldt on horse- back points to their being accomplished equestriennes. Lady Sarah went out to South Africa before war appeared imminent, ostensibly on a trip, but her husband, Captain Gordon Wilson, who is in the Boyal Horse Guards, like a great many other English officer*, found himself mighty adjacent" to the fighting when it did begin, either by accident or jjoiign. He is the only son of the late Sir Samuel VFHson, an Irishman who made a huge fortune and rose to a high position in Australia. The Captain began his career as an Eton boy by knocking up with the handle of his umbrella the pistol hand of a would-be assassin of the Queen, thereby probably saving her Majesty's most precious life. He is a very popular man in his regiment and out of It, end is a th<*fougifc iportsmao.