Penelope's English Experiences.........................................................................................................................1

Kate Douglas Wiggin ...............................................................................................................................1

Part FirstIn Town. ................................................................................................................................1

Chapter I. The weekly bill.......................................................................................................................2

Chapter II. The powdered footman smiles. ..............................................................................................4

Chapter III. Eggs a la coque. ....................................................................................................................5

Chapter IV. The English sense of humour. ..............................................................................................6

Chapter V. A Hyde Park Sunday.............................................................................................................8

Chapter VI. The English Park Lover.......................................................................................................9

Chapter VII. A ducal teaparty. ...............................................................................................................9

Chapter VIII. Tuppenny travels in London. ...........................................................................................11

Chapter IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity. .......................................................................................14

Chapter X. Apropos of advertisements. .................................................................................................16

Chapter XI. The ball on the opposite side. .............................................................................................18

Chapter XII. Patricia makes her debut. ..................................................................................................23

Chapter XIII. A Penelope secret............................................................................................................26

Chapter XIV. Love and lavender. ..........................................................................................................29

Part SecondIn the country.................................................................................................................31

Chapter XV. Penelope dreams. ..............................................................................................................31

Chapter XVI. The decay of Romance. ...................................................................................................33

Chapter XVII. Short stops and long bills. ..............................................................................................34

Chapter XVIII. I meet Mrs. Bobby. .......................................................................................................35

Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist......................................................................................................36

Chapter XX. A canticle to Jane. .............................................................................................................37

Chapter XXI. I remember, I remember. .................................................................................................38

Chapter XXII. Comfort Cottage............................................................................................................39

Chapter XXIII. Tea served here. ............................................................................................................42

Chapter XXIV. An unlicensed victualler. ..............................................................................................43

Chapter XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit. ..................................................................................................45

Here we are in London again,Francesca, Salemina, and I. Salemina is a philanthropist of the Boston

philanthropists limited. I am an artist. Francesca is It is very difficult to label Francesca. She is, at her

present stage of development, just a nice girl; that is about all: the sense of humanity hasn't dawned upon her

yet; she is even unaware that personal responsibility for the universe has come into vogue, and so she is

Francesca is short of twenty years old, Salemina short of forty, I short of thirty. Francesca is in love,

Salemina never has been in love, I never shall be in love. Francesca is rich, Salemina is welltodo, I am

We are not only in London again, but we are again in Smith's private hotel; one of those deliciously

comfortable and ensnaring hostelries in Mayfair which one enters as a solvent human being, and which one

leaves as a bankrupt, no matter what may be the number of ciphers on one's letter of credit; since the greater

one's apparent supply of wealth, the greater the demand made upon it. I never stop long in London without

determining to give up my art for a private hotel. There must be millions in it, but I fear I lack some of the

essential qualifications for success. I never could have the heart, for example, to charge a struggling young

genius eight shillings a week for two candles, and then eight shillings the next week for the same two candles,

which the struggling young genius, by dint of vigorous economy, had managed to preserve to a decent height.

No, I could never do it, not even if I were certain that she would squander the sixteen shillings in Bond Street

It is Salemina who always unsnarls the weekly bill. Francesca spends an evening or two with it, first of all,

because, since she is so young, we think it good mentaltraining for her, and not that she ever accomplishes

any results worth mentioning. She begins by making three columns headed respectively F., S., and P. These

initials stand for Francesca, Salemina, and Penelope, but they resemble the signs for pounds, shillings, and

She then places in each column the items in which we are all equal, such as rooms, attendance, fires, and

lights. Then come the extras, which are different for each person: more ale for one, more hot baths for

another; more carriages for one, more lemon squashes for another. Francesca's column is principally filled

with carriages and lemon squashes. You would fancy her whole time was spent in driving and drinking, if

When she has reached the point of dividing the whole bill into three parts, so that each person may know

what is her share, she adds the three together, expecting, not unnaturally, to get the total amount of the bill.

Not at all. She never comes within thirty shillings of the desired amount, and she is often three or four

guineas to the good or to the bad. One of her difficulties lies in her inability to remember that in English

money it makes a difference where you place a figure, whether, in the pound, shilling, or pence column.

Having been educated on the theory that a six is a six the world over, she charged me with sixty shillings'

worth of Apollinaris in one week. I pounced on the error, and found that she had jotted down each pint in the

After Francesca had broken ground on the bill in this way, Salemina, on the next leisure evening, draws a

large armchair under the lamp and puts on her eyeglasses. We perch on either arm, and, after identifying our

own extras, we summon the butler to identify his. There are a good many that belong to him or to the

landlady; of that fact we are always convinced before he proves to the contrary. We can never see (until he

makes us see) why the breakfasts on the 8th should be four shillings each because we had strawberries, if on

the 8th we find strawberries charged in the luncheon column and also in the column of desserts and ices. And

then there are the peripatetic lemon squashes. Dawson calls them 'still' lemon squashes because they are made

with water, not with soda or seltzer or vichy, but they are particularly badly named. 'Still' forsooth! when one

of them will leap from place to place, appearing now in the column of mineral waters and now in the spirits,

now in the suppers, and again in the sundries. We might as well drink Chablis or Pommery by the time one of

these still squashes has ceased wandering, and charging itself at each station. The force of Dawson's intellect

is such that he makes all this moral turbidity as clear as crystal while he remains in evidence. His bodily

presence has a kind of illuminating power, and all the errors that we fancy we have found he traces to their

original source, which is always in our suspicious and inexperienced minds. As he leaves the room he points

out some proof of unexampled magnanimity on the part of the hotel; as, for instance, the fact that the

management has not charged a penny for sending up Miss Monroe's breakfast trays. Francesca impulsively

presses two shillings into his honest hand and remembers afterwards that only one breakfast was served in

The Paid Out column is another source of great anxiety. Francesca is a person who is always buying things

unexpectedly and sending them home C.O.D.; always taking a cab and having it paid at the house; always

I should think, were England on the brink of a war, that the Prime Minister might expect in his office

something of the same hubbub, uproar, and excitement that Francesca manages to evolve in this private hotel.

Naturally she cannot remember her expenditures, or extravagances, or complications of movement for a

period of seven days; and when she attacks the Paid Out column she exclaims in a frenzy, 'Just look at this!

On the 11th they say they paid out three shillings in telegrams, and I was at Maidenhead!' Then because we

love her and cannot bear to see her charming forehead wrinkled, we approach from our respective corners,

Penelope. "Wasn't that the day you wired Mr. Drayton that you couldn't go to the Zoo?"

Francesca. "Oh yes, so I did: and to Mr. Godolphin that I could. I remember now; but that's only two."

Francesca. "Yes, she's the third, that's all right then; but what in the world is this twelve shillings?"

Penelope. "The foolish amber beads you were persuaded into buying in the Burlington Arcade?"

Salemina. "Those soaps and sachets you bought on the way home the day that you left your purse in the cab?"

Francesca. "No; they were only five shillings. Oh, perhaps they lumped the two things; if seven and five are

twelve, then that is just what they did. (Here she takes a pencil.) Yes, they are twelve, so that's right; what a

comfort! Now here's two and six on the 13th. That was yesterday, and I can always remember yesterdays;

they are my strong point. I didn't spend a penny yesterday; oh yes! I did pay half a crown for a potted plant,

but it was not two and six, and it was a halfcrown because it was the first time I had seen one and I took

particular notice. I'll speak to Dawson about it, but it will make no difference. Nobody but an expert English

By this time we have agreed that the weekly bill as a whole is substantially correct, and all that Salemina has

to do is to estimate our several shares in it; so Francesca and I say good night and leave her toiling like Cicero

in his retirement at Tusculum. By midnight she has generally brought the account to a point where a

halfhour's fresh attention in the early morning will finish it. Not that she makes it come out right to a penny.

She has been treasurer of the Boston Band of Benevolence, of the Saturday Morning Sloyd Circle, of the

Club for the Reception of Russian Refugees, and of the Society for the Brooding of Buddhism; but none of

these organisations carries on its existence by means of pounds, shillings, and pence, or Salemina's

resignation would have been requested long ago. However, we are not disposed to be captious; we are too

glad to get rid of the bill. If our united thirds make four or five shillings in excess, we divide them equally; if

it comes the other way about, we make it up in the same manner; always meeting the sneers of masculine

critics with Dr. Holmes's remark that a faculty for numbers is a sort of detachedlever arrangement that can

Salemina is so English! I can't think how she manages. She had not been an hour on British soil before she

asked a servant to fetch in some coals and mend the fire; she followed this Anglicism by a request for a

grilled chop, 'a grilled, chump chop, waiter, please,' and so on from triumph to triumph. She now discourses

of methylated spirits as if she had never in her life heard of alcohol, and all the English equivalents for

Americanisms are ready for use on the tip of her tongue. She says 'conserv't'ry' and 'observ't'ry'; she calls the

chambermaid 'Mairy,' which is infinitely softer, to be sure, than the American 'Mary,' with its overlong a;

she ejaculates 'Quite so!' in all the pauses of conversation, and talks of smoke rooms, and camisoles, and

luggagevans, and slipbodies, and trams, and mangling, and goffering. She also eats jam for breakfast as if

she had been reared on it, when every one knows that the average American has to contract the jam habit by

This instantaneous assimilation of English customs does not seem to be affectation on Salemina's part; nor

will I wrong her by fancying that she went through a course of training before she left Boston. From the

moment she landed you could see that her foot was on her native heath. She inhaled the fog with a sense of

intoxication that the east winds of New England had never given her, and a great throb of patriotism swelled

As for me, I get on charmingly with the English nobility and sufficiently well with the gentry, but the upper

servants strike terror to my soul. There is something aweinspiring to me about an English butler. If they

would only put him in livery, or make him wear a silver badge; anything, in short, to temper his pride and

prevent one from mistaking him for the master of the house or the bishop within his gates. When I call upon

Lady DeWolfe, I say to myself impressively, as I go up the steps: 'You are as good as a butler, as well born

and well bred as a butler, even more intelligent than a butler. Now, simply because he has an unapproachable

haughtiness of demeanour, which you can respectfully admire, but can never hope to imitate, do not cower

beneath the polar light of his eye; assert yourself; be a woman; be an American citizen!' All in vain. The

moment the door opens I ask for Lady DeWolfe in so timid a tone that I know Parker thinks me the parlour

maid's sister who has rung the visitors' bell by mistake. If my lady is within, I follow Parker to the

drawingroom, my knees shaking under me at the prospect of committing some solecism in his sight. Lady

DeWolfe's husband has been noble only four months, and Parker of course knows it, and perhaps affects even

greater hauteur to divert the attention of the vulgar commoner from the newness of the title.

Dawson, our butler at Smith's private hotel, wields the same blighting influence on our spirits, accustomed to

the soft solicitations of the negro waiter or the comfortable indifference of the freeborn American. We never

indulge in ordinary democratic or frivolous conversation when Dawson is serving us at dinner. We 'talk up' to

him so far as we are able, and before we utter any remark we inquire mentally whether he is likely to think it

good form. Accordingly, I maintain throughout dinner a lofty height of aristocratic elegance that impresses

even the impassive Dawson, towards whom it is solely directed. To the amazement and amusement of

Salemina (who always takes my cheerful inanities at their face value), I give an hypothetical account of my

afternoon engagements, interlarding it so thickly with countesses and marchionesses and lords and

honourables that though Dawson has passed soup to duchesses, and scarcely ever handed a plate to anything

less than a baroness, he dilutes the customary scorn of his glance, and makes it two parts condescending

approval as it rests on me, Penelope Hamilton, of the great American working class (unlimited).

Apropos of the servants, it seems to me that the British footman has relaxed a trifle since we were last here;

or is it possible that he reaches the height of his immobility at the height of the London season, and as it

declines does he decline and become flesh? At all events, I have twice seen a footman change his weight

from one leg to the other, as he stood at a shop entrance with his lady's mantle over his arm; twice have I seen

one stroke his chin, and several times have I observed others, during the month of July, conduct themselves in

many respects like animate objects with vital organs. Lest this incendiary statement be challenged, levelled as

it is at an institution whose stability and order are but feebly represented by the eternal march of the stars in

their courses, I hasten to explain that in none of these cases cited was it a powdered footman who (to use a

Delsartean expression) withdrew will from his body and devitalised it before the public eye. I have observed

that the powdered personage has much greater control over his muscles than the ordinary footman with

human hair, and is infinitely his superior in rigidity. Dawson tells me confidentially that if a footman smiles

there is little chance of his rising in the world. He says a sense of humour is absolutely fatal in that calling,

and that he has discharged many a good footman because of an intelligent and expressive face.

I tremble to think of what the powdered footman may become when he unbends in the bosom of the family.

When, in the privacy of his own apartments, the powder is washed off, the canaryseed pads removed from

his aristocratic calves, and his scarlet and buff magnificence exchanged for a simple neglige, I should think

he might be guilty of almost any indiscretion or violence. I for one would never consent to be the wife and

Is it to my credit, or to my eternal dishonour that I once made a powdered footman smile, and that, too, when

It was while we were paying a visit at Marjorimallow Hall, Sir Owen and Lady Marjorimallow's place in

Surrey. This was to be our first appearance in an English country house, and we made elaborate preparations.

Only our freshest toilettes were packed, and these were arranged in our trunks with the sole view of

impressing the lady'smaid who should unpack them. We each purchased dressing cases and new fittings,

Francesca's being of sterling silver, Salemina's of triple plate, and mine of celluloid, as befitted our several

fortunes. Salemina read up on English politics; Francesca practised a new way of dressing her hair; and I

made up a portfolio of sketches. We counted, therefore, on representing American letters, beauty, and art to

that portion of the great English public staying at Marjorimallow Hall. (I must interject a parenthesis here to

the effect that matters did not move precisely as we expected; for at table, where most of our time was

passed, Francesca had for a neighbour a scientist, who asked her plump whether the religion of the American

Indian was or was not a pure theism; Salemina's partner objected to the word 'politics' in the mouth of a

woman; while my attendant squire adored a good brightcoloured chromo. But this is anticipating.)

Three days before our departure, I remarked at the breakfasttable, Dawson being absent: "My dear girls, you

are aware that we have ordered fried eggs, scrambled eggs, buttered eggs, and poached eggs ever since we

came to Dovermarle Street, simply because we do not know how to eat boiled eggs prettily from the shell,

English fashion, and cannot break them into a cup or a glass, American fashion, on account of the effect upon

Dawson. Now there will certainly be boiled eggs at Marjorimallow Hall, and we cannot refuse them morning

after morning; it will be cowardly (which is unpleasant), and it will be remarked (which is worse). Eating

them minced in an eggcup, in a baronial hall, with the remains of a drawbridge in the grounds, is equally

impossible; if we do that, Lady Marjorimallow will be having our luggage examined, to see if we carry

wigwams and warwhoops about with us. No, it is clearly necessary that we master the gentle art of eating

eggs tidily and daintily from the shell. I have seen English womenvery dull ones, toodo it without

apparent effort; I have even seen an English infant do it, and that without soiling her apron, or, as Salemina

would say, 'messing her pinafore.' I propose, therefore, that we order softboiled eggs daily; that we send

Dawson from the room directly breakfast is served; and that then and there we have a class for opening eggs,

lowest grade, object method. Any person who cuts the shell badly, or permits the egg to leak over the rim, or

allows yellow dabs on the plate, or upsets the cup, or stains her fingers, shall be fined 'tuppence' and locked

The first morning we were all in the bedroom together, and, there being no blameless person to collect fines,

On the second day Salemina and I improved slightly, but Francesca had passed a sleepless night, and her

hand trembled (the loveletter mail had come in from America). We were obliged to tell her, as we collected

'tuppence' twice on the same egg, that she must either remain at home, or take an oilcloth pinafore to

But 'ease is the lovely result of forgotten toil,' and it is only a question of time and desire with Americans, we

are so clever. Other nations have to be trained from birth; but as we need only an ounce of training where

they need a pound, we can afford to procrastinate. Sometimes we procrastinate too long, but that is a trifle.

On the third morning success crowned our efforts. Salemina smiled, and I told an anecdote, during the

operation, although my egg was cracked in the boiling, and I question if the Queen's favourite maidof

honour could have managed it prettily. Accordingly, when eggs were brought to the breakfasttable at

Marjorimallow Hall, we were only slightly nervous. Francesca was at the far end of the long table, and I do

not know how she fared, but from various Anglicisms that Salemina dropped, as she chatted with the Queen's

Counsel on her left, I could see that her nerve was steady and circulation free. We exchanged glances (there

was the mistake!), and with an embarrassed laugh she struck her egg a hasty blow.

Her eggcup slipped and lurched; a top fraction of the egg flew in the direction of the Q.C., and the

remaining portion oozed, in yellow confusion, rapidly into her plate. Alas for that past mistress of elegant

dignity, Salemina! If I had been at Her Majesty's table, I should have smiled, even if I had gone to the Tower

the next moment; but as it was, I became hysterical. My neighbour, a portly member of Parliament, looked

amazed, Salemina grew scarlet, the situation was charged with danger; and, rapidly viewing the various exits,

I chose the humorous one, and told as picturesquely as possible the whole story of our school of egg

opening in Dovermarle Street, the highly arduous and encouraging rehearsals conducted there, and the

stupendous failure incident to our first public appearance. Sir Owen led the goodnatured laughter and

applause; lords and ladies, Q.C.'s and M.P.'s joined in with a will; poor Salemina raised her drooping head,

opened and ate a second egg with the repose of a Vere de Vereand the footman smiled!

I do not see why we hear that the Englishman is deficient in a sense of humour. His jokes may not be a matter

of daily food to him, as they are to the American; he may not love whimsicality with the same passion, nor

inhale the aroma of a witticism with as keen a relish; but he likes fun whenever he sees it, and he sees it as

often as most people. It may be that we find the Englishman more receptive to our bits of feminine nonsense

just now, simply because this is the day of the American woman in London, and, having been assured that

she is an entertaining personage, young John Bull is willing to take it for granted so long as she does not try

to marry him, and even this pleasure he will allow her on occasion,if well paid for it.

The longer I live, the more I feel it an absurdity to label nations with national traits, and then endeavour to

make individuals conform to the required standard. It is possible, I suppose, to draw certain broad

distinctions, though even these are subject to change; but the habit of generalising from one particular, that

mainstay of the cheap and obvious essayist, has rooted many fictions in the public mind. Nothing, for

instance, can blot from my memory the profound, searching, and exhaustive analysis of a great nation which I

learned in my small geography when I was a child, namely, 'The French are a gay and polite people, fond of

One young Englishman whom I have met lately errs on the side of overappreciation. He laughs before,

during, and after every remark I make, unless it be a simple request for food or drink. This is an acquaintance

of Willie Beresford, the Honourable Arthur Ponsonby, who was the 'whip' on our coach drive to

Salemina insisted on my taking the box seat, in the hope that the Honourable Arthur would amuse me. She

little knew him! He sapped me of all my ideas, and gave me none in exchange. Anything so unspeakably

heavy I never encountered. It is very difficult for a woman who doesn't know a nigh horse from an off one,

nor the wheelers from the headers (or is it the fronters?), to find subjects of conversation with a gentleman

who spends threefourths of his existence on a coach. It was the more difficult for me because I could not

decide whether Willie Beresford was cross because I was devoting myself to the whip, or because Francesca

had remained at home with a headache. This state of affairs continued for about fifteen miles, when it

suddenly dawned upon the Honourable Arthur that, however mistaken my speech and manner, I was trying to

be agreeable. This conception acted on the honest and amiable soul like magic. I gradually became

comprehensible, and finally he gave himself up to the theory that, though eccentric, I was harmless and

amusing, so we got on famously,so famously that Willie Beresford grew ridiculously gloomy, and I

The names of these English streets are a neverfailing source of delight to me. In that one morning we drove

past Pie, Pudding, and Petticoat Lanes, and later on we found ourselves in a 'Prudent Passage,' which opened,

very inappropriately, into 'Huggin Lane.' Willie Beresford said it was the first time he had ever heard of

anything so disagreeable as prudence terminating in anything so agreeable as huggin'. When he had been

severely reprimanded by his mother for this shocking speech, I said to the Honourable Arthur:

"I don't understand your business signs in England,this 'Company, Limited,' and that 'Company, Limited.'

That one, of course, is quite plain" (pointing to the front of a building on the village street), "'Goat's Milk

Company, Limited'; I suppose they have but one or two goats, and necessarily the milk must be Limited."

Salemina says that this was not in the least funny, that it was absolutely flat; but it had quite the opposite

effect upon the Honourable Arthur. He had no command over himself or his horses for some minutes; and at

intervals during the afternoon the full felicity of the idea would steal upon him, and the smile of reminiscence

The next day, at the Eton and Harrow games at Lord's cricketground, he presented three flowers of British

aristocracy to our party, and asked me each time to tell the goatstory, which he had previously told himself,

and probably murdered in the telling. Not content with this arrant flattery, he begged to be allowed to recount

some of my international episodes to a literary friend who writes for Punch. I demurred decidedly, but

Salemina said that perhaps I ought to be willing to lower myself a trifle for the sake of elevating Punch! This

homethrust so delighted the Honourable Arthur that it remained his favourite joke for days, and the

overworked goat was permitted to enjoy that oblivion from which Salemina insists it should never have

The Honourable Arthur, Salemina, and I took a stroll in Hyde Park one Sunday afternoon, not for the purpose

of joining the fashionable throng of 'pretty people' at Stanhope Gate, but to mingle with the common herd in

its special precincts,precincts not set apart, indeed, by any legal formula, but by a natural law of

classification which seems to be inherent in the universe. It was a curious and motley crowda little dull,

perhaps, but orderly, wellbehaved, and selfrespecting, with here and there part of the flotsam and jetsam of

a great city, a ragged, sodden, hopeless wretch wending his way about with the rest, thankful for any

Under the trees, each in the centre of his group, large or small according to his magnetism and eloquence,

stood the park 'shouter,' airing his special grievance, playing his special part, preaching his special creed,

pleading his special cause,anything, probably, for the sake of shouting. We were plainly dressed, and did

not attract observation as we joined the outside circle of one of these groups after another. It was as

interesting to watch the listeners as the speakers. I wished I might paint the sea of faces, eager, anxious,

stolid, attentive, happy, and unhappy: histories written on many of them; others blank, unmarked by any

thought or aspiration. I stole a sidelong look at the Honourable Arthur. He is an Englishman first, and a man

afterwards (I prefer it the other way), but he does not realise it; he thinks he is just like all other good fellows,

although he is mistaken. He and Willie Beresford speak the same language, but they are as different as Malay

and Eskimo. He is an extreme type, but he is very likeable and very well worth looking at, with his long coat,

his silk hat, and the white Malmaison in his buttonhole. He is always so radiantly, fascinatingly clean, the

Honourable Arthur, simple, frank, direct, sensible, and he bores me almost to tears.

The first orator was edifying his hearers with an explanation of the drama of The Corsican Brothers, and his

eloquence, unlike that of the other speakers, was largely inspired by the hope of pennies. It was a novel idea,

and his interpretation was rendered very amusing to us by the wholly original Yorkshire accent which he

An Irishman in black clerical garb held the next group together. He was in some trouble, owing to a

pigheaded and quarrelsome Scotchman in the front rank, who objected to each statement that fell from his

lips, thus interfering seriously with the effect of his peroration. If the Irishman had been more convincing, I

suppose the crowd would have silenced the scoffer, for these little matters of discipline are always attended to

by the audience; but the Scotchman's points were too well taken; he was so trenchant, in fact, at times, that a

voice would cry, 'Coom up, Sandy, an' 'ave it all your own w'y, boy!' The discussion continued as long as we

were within hearing distance, for the Irishman, though amiable and ignorant, was firm, the 'unconquered Scot'

was on his native heath of argument, and the listeners were willing to give them both a hearing.

Under the next tree a fluent Cockney lad of sixteen or eighteen years was declaiming his bitter experiences

with the Salvation Army. He had been sheltered in one of its beds which was not to his taste, and it had found

employment for him which he had to walk twentytwo miles to get, and which was not to his liking when he

did get it. A meeting of the Salvation Army at a little distance rendered his speech more interesting, as its

Of course there were religious groups and temperance groups, and groups devoted to the tearing down or

raising up of most things except the Government; for on that day there were no Anarchist or Socialist

As we strolled down one of the broad roads under the shade of the noble trees, we saw the sun setting in a

redgold haze; a glory of vivid colour made indescribably tender and opalescent by the kind of luminous mist

that veils it; a wholly English sunset, and an altogether lovely one. And quite away from the other knots of

people, there leaned against a bit of wire fence a poor old man surrounded by half a dozen children and one

tired woman with a nursing baby. He had a tattered book, which seemed to be the story of the Gospels, and

his little flock sat on the greensward at his feet as he read. It may be that he, too, had been a shouter in his

lustier manhood, and had held a larger audience together by the power of his belief; but now he was helpless

to attract any but the children. Whether it was the pathos of his white hairs, his garb of shreds and patches, or

the mild benignity of his eye that moved me, I know not, but among all the Sunday shouters in Hyde Park it

The English Park Lover, loving his love on a green bench in Kensington Gardens or Regent's Park, or indeed

in any spot where there is a green bench, so long as it is within full view of the passerby,this English

public lover, male or female, is a most interesting study, for we have not his exact counterpart in America. He

is thoroughly respectable, I should think, my urban Colin. He does not have the air of a gay deceiver roving

from flower to flower, stealing honey as he goes; he looks, on the contrary, as if it were his intention to lead

Phoebe to the altar on the next bank holiday; there is a dead calm in his actions which bespeaks no other

course. If Colin were a Don Juan, surely he would be a trifle more ardent, for there is no tropical fervour in

his matteroffact caresses. He does not embrace Phoebe in the park, apparently, because he adores her to

madness; because her smile is like fire in his veins, melting down all his defences; because the intoxication of

her nearness is irresistible; because, in fine, he cannot wait until he finds a more secluded spot: nay, verily, he

embraces her becausetell me, infatuated fruiterers, poulterers, soldiers, haberdashers (limited), what is

your reason? For it does not appear to the casual eye. Stormy weather does not vex the calm of the Park

Lover, for 'the rains of Marly do not wet' when one is in love. By a clever manipulation of four arms and four

hands they can manage an umbrella and enfold each other at the same time, though a feminine macintosh is

well known to be ill adapted to the purpose, and a continuous drizzle would dampen almost any other lover in

The park embrace, as nearly as I can analyse it, seems to be one part instinct, one part duty, one part custom,

and one part reflex action. I have purposely omitted pleasure (which, in the analysis of the ordinary embrace,

reduces all the other ingredients to an almost invisible faction), because I fail to find it; but I am willing to

believe that in some rudimentary form it does exist, because man attends to no purely unpleasant matter with

such praiseworthy assiduity. Anything more fixedly stolid than the Park Lover when he passes his arm round

his chosen one and takes her crimson hand in his, I have never seen; unless, indeed, it be the fixed stolidity of

the chosen one herself. I had not at first the assurance even to glance at them as I passed by, blushing myself

to the roots of my hair, though the offenders themselves never changed colour. Many a time have I walked

out of my way or lowered my parasol, for fear of invading their Sunday Eden; but a spirit of inquiry awoke in

me at last, and I began to make psychological investigations, with a view to finding out at what point

embarrassment would appear in the Park Lover. I experimented (it was a most arduous and unpleasant task)

with upwards of two hundred couples, and it is interesting to record that selfconsciousness was not apparent

in a single instance. It was not merely that they failed to resent my stopping in the path directly opposite

them, or my glaring most offensively at them, nor that they even allowed me to sit upon their green bench

and witness their chaste salutes, but it was that they did fail to perceive me at all! There is a kind of superb

finish and completeness about their indifference to the public gaze which removes it from ordinary

Among all my English experiences, none occupies so important a place as my forced meeting with the Duke

of Cimicifugas. (There can be no harm in my telling the incident, so long as I do not give the right names,

which are very well known to fame.) The Duchess of Cimicifugas, who is charming, unaffected, and lovable,

so report says, has among her chosen friends an untitled woman whom we will call Mrs. Apis Mellifica. I met

her only daughter, Hilda, in America, and we became quite intimate. It seems that Mrs. Apis Mellifica, who

has an income of 20,000 pounds a year, often exchanges presents with the duchess, and at this time she had

brought with her from the Continent some rare old tapestries with which to adorn a new morningroom at

Cimicifugas House. These tapestries were to be hung during the absence of the duchess in Homburg, and

were to greet her as a birthday surprise on her return. Hilda Mellifica, who is one of the most talented

amateur artists in London, and who has exquisite taste in all matters of decoration, was to go down to the

ducal residence to inspect the work, and she obtained permission from Lady Veratrum (the confidential

companion of the duchess) to bring me with her. I started on this journey to the country with all possible

delight, little surmising the agonies that lay in store for me in the mercifully hidden future.

The tapestries were perfect, and Lady Veratrum was most amiable and affable, though the blue blood of the

Belladonnas courses in her veins, and her greatgrandfather was the celebrated Earl of Rhus Tox, who

rendered such notable service to his sovereign. We roamed through the splendid apartments, inspected the

superb picture gallery, where scores of deadandgone Cimicifugases (most of them very plain) were

glorified by the art of Van Dyck, Sir Joshua, or Gainsborough, and admired the priceless collections of

marbles and cameos and bronzes. It was about four o'clock when we were conducted to a magnificent

apartment for a brief rest, as we were to return to London at halfpast six. As Lady Veratrum left us, she

The door closed, and at the same moment I fell upon the brocaded satin state bed and tore off my hat and

"Hilda," I gasped, "you brought me here, and you must rescue me, for I absolutely decline to drink tea with a

"Nonsense, Penelope, don't be absurd," she replied. "I have never happened to see him myself, and I am a

"Not to you, perhaps, but to me impossible," I said. "I thought he was in Homburg, or I would never have

entered this place. It is not that I fear nobility. I could meet Her Majesty the Queen at the Court of St. James

without the slightest flutter of embarrassment, because I know I could trust her not to presume on my

defencelessness to enter into conversation with me. But this duke, whose dukedom very likely dates back to

the hour of the Norman Conquest, is a very different person, and is to be met under very different

circumstances. He may ask me my politics. Of course I can tell him that I am a Mugwump, but what if he

"And how shall I address him?" I went on. "Does one call him 'your Grace,' or 'your Royal Highness'? Oh for

a thousandthpart of the unblushing impertinence of that countrywoman of mine who called your future king

'Tummy'! but she was a beauty, and I am not pretty enough to be anything but discreetly wellmannered.

Shall you sit in his presence, or stand and grovel alternately? Does one have to curtsy? Very well, then, make

any excuses you like for me, Hilda: say I'm eccentric, say I'm deranged, say I'm a Nihilist. I will hide under

the scullery table, fling myself in the moat, lock myself in the keep, let the portcullis fall on me, die any

appropriate early English death,anything rather than curtsy in a tailormade gown; I can kneel beautifully,

Hilda, if that will do: you remember my ancestors were brought up on kneeling, and yours on curtsying, and

Hilda smiled benignantly as she wound the coil of russet hair round her shapely head. "He will think

whatever you do charming, and whatever you say brilliant," she said; "that is the advantage in being an

Just at this moment Lady Veratrum sent a haughty maid to ask us if we would meet her under the trees in the

park which surrounds the house. I hailed this as a welcome reprieve to the dreaded function of tea with the

duke, and made up my mind, while descending the marble staircase, that I would slip away and lose myself

accidentally in the grounds, appearing only in time for the London train. This happy mode of issue from my

difficulties lent a springiness to my step, as we followed a waxwork footman over the velvet sward to a nook

under a group of copper beeches. But there, to my dismay, stood a charmingly appointed teatable glittering

with silver and Royal Worcester, with several liveried servants bringing cakes and muffins and berries to

Lady Veratrum, who sat behind the steaming urn. I started to retreat, when there appeared, walking towards

"That cannot be the Duke of Cimicifugas," thought I, "a man in a corduroy jacket, without a sign of a suite;

probably it is a Banished Duke come from the Forest of Arden for a buttered muffin."

But it was the Duke of Cimicifugas, and no other. Hilda was presented first, while I tried to fire my courage

by thinking of the Puritan Fathers, and Plymouth Rock, and the Boston TeaParty, and the battle of Bunker

Hill. Then my turn came. I murmured some words which might have been anything, and curtsied in a

stiffnecked selfrespecting sort of way. Then we talked,at least the duke and Lady Veratrum talked.

Hilda said a few blameless words, such as befitted an untitled English virgin in the presence of the nobility;

while I maintained the probationary silence required by Pythagoras of his first year's pupils. My idea was to

observe this first duke without uttering a word, to talk with the second (if I should ever meet a second), to

chat with the third, and to secure the fourth for Francesca to take home to America with her.

Of course I know that dukes are very dear, but she could afford any reasonable sum, if she found one whom

she fancied; the principal obstacle in the path is that tiresome American lawyer with whom she considers

herself in love. I have never gone beyond that first experience, however, for dukes in England are as rare as

snakes in Ireland. I can't think why they allow them to die out so,the dukes, not the snakes. If a country is

to have an aristocracy, let there be enough of it, say I, and make it imposing at the top, where it shows most,

especially since, as I understand it, all that Victoria has to do is to say, 'Let there be dukes,' and there are

This sounds like a reasonable and sensible statement, yet the moment it is made I retract it, as quite

We have a charming English friend who has not been to the Tower since he was a small boy, and begs us to

conduct him there on the very next Saturday. Another has not seen Westminster Abbey for fifteen years,

because he attends church at St. Dunstan'sinthe East. Another says that he should like to have us 'read up'

London in the redcovered Baedeker, and then show it to him, properly and systematically. Another, a flower

of the nobility, confesses that he never mounted the top of an omnibus in the evening for the sake of seeing

London after dark, but that he thinks it would be rather jolly, and that he will join us in such a democratic

We think we get a kind of vague apprehension of what London means from the top of a 'bus better than

anywhere else, and this vague apprehension is as much as the thoughtful or imaginative observer will ever

arrive at in a lifetime. It is too stupendous to be comprehended. The mind is dazed by its distances, confused

by its contrasts; tossed from the spectacle of its wealth to the contemplation of its poverty, the brilliancy of its

extravagances to the stolidity of its miseries, the luxuries that blossom in Mayfair to the brutalities that lurk in

We often set out on a fine morning, Salemina and I, and travel twenty miles in the day, though we have to

We never know whither we are going, and indeed it is not a matter of great moment (I mean to a woman)

where everything is new and strange, and where the driver, if one is fortunate enough to be on a front seat,

tells one everything of interest along the way, and instructs one regarding a different route back to town.

We have our favourite 'buses, of course; but when one appears, and we jump on while it is still in motion, as

the conductor seems to prefer, and pull ourselves up the corkscrew stairway,not a simple matter in the

garments of sophistication,we have little time to observe more than the colour of the lumbering vehicle.

We like the Cadbury's Cocoa 'bus very much; it takes you by St. MaryleStrand, BowBells, the Temple,

If you want to go and lunch, or dine frugally, at the Cheshire Cheese, eat black pudding and drink pale ale, sit

in Dr. Johnson's old seat, and put your head against the exact spot on the wall where his rested,although

the traces of this form of worship are all too apparent,then you jump on a Lipton's Tea 'bus, and are

deposited at the very door. All is novel, and all is interesting, whether it be crowded streets of the East End

traversed by the Davies' PeaFed Bacon 'buses, or whether you ride to the very outskirts of London, through

There are trams, too, which take one to delightful places, though the seats on top extend lengthwise, after the

old 'knifeboard pattern,' and one does not get so good a view of the country as from the 'garden seats' on the

roof of the omnibus; still there is nothing we like better on a warm morning than a good outing on the Vinolia

tram that we pick up in Shaftesbury Avenue. There is a street running from Shaftesbury Avenue into Oxford

Street, which was once the village of St. Giles, one of the dozens of hamlets swallowed up by the great maw

of London, and it still looks like a hamlet, although it has been absorbed for many years. We constantly

happen on these absorbed villages, from which, not a century ago, people drove up to town in their coaches.

If you wish to see another phase of life, go out on a Saturday evening, from nine o'clock on to eleven, starting

on a Beecham's Pill 'bus, and keep to the poorer districts, alighting occasionally to stand with the crowd in the

It is a market night, and the streets will be a moving mass of men and women buying at the hucksters' stalls.

Everything that can be sold at a stall is there: fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, crockery, tinware, children's

clothing, cheap toys, boots, shoes, and sun bonnets, all in reckless confusion. The vendors cry their wares in

stentorian tones, vying with one another to produce excitement and induce patronage, while gasjets are

streaming into the air from the roofs and flaring from the sides of the stalls; children crying, children dancing

to the strains of an accordion, children quarrelling, children scrambling for the refuse fruit. In the midst of

this spectacle, this din and uproar, the women are chaffering and bargaining quite calmly, watching the scales

to see that they get their full pennyworth or sixpennyworth of this or that. To the student of faces, of manners,

of voices, of gestures; to the person who sees unwritten and unwritable stories in all these groups of men,

women, and children, the scene reveals many things: some comedies, many tragedies, a few plain narratives

(thank God!) and now and thenonly now and thena romance. As to the dark alleys and tenements on the

fringe of this glare and brilliant confusion, this Babel of sound and antbed of moving life, one can only

surmise and pity and shudder; close one's eyes and ears to it a little, or one could never sleep for thinking of

it, yet not too tightly lest one sleep too soundly, and forget altogether the seamy side of things. One can

hardly believe that there is a seamy side when one descends from his travelling observatory a little later, and

stands on Westminster Bridge, or walks along the Thames Embankment. The lights of Parliament House

gleam from a hundred windows, and in the dark shadows by the banks thousands of coloured discs of light

twinkle and dance and glow like fairy lamps, and are reflected in the silver surface of the river. That river, as

full of mystery and contrast in its course as London itselfwhere is such another? It has ever been a river of

pageants, a river of sighs; a river into whose placid depths kings and queens, princes and cardinals, have

whispered state secrets, and poets have breathed immortal lines; a stream of pleasure, bearing daily on its

bosom such a freight of youth and mirth and colour and music as no other river in the world can boast.

Sometimes we sally forth in search of adventures in the thick of a 'London particular,' Mr. Guppy's phrase for

a fog. When you are once ensconced in your garden seat by the driver, you go lumbering through a world of

bobbing shadows, where all is weird, vague, grey, dense; and where great objects loom up suddenly in the

mist and then disappear; where the sky, heavy and leaden, seems to descend bodily upon your head, and the

A Lipton's Tea 'bus is the only one we can see plainly in this sort of weather, and so we always take it. I do

not wish, however, to be followed literally in these modest suggestions for omnibus rides, because I am well

aware that they are not sufficiently specific for the ordinary tourist who wishes to see London systematically

and without any loss of time. If you care to go to any particular place, or reach that place by any particular

time, you must not, of course, look at the most conspicuous signs on the tops and ends of the chariots as we

do; you must stand quietly at one of the regular points of departure and try to decipher, in a narrow horizontal

space along the side, certain little words that show the route and destination of the vehicle. They say that it

can be done, and I do not feel like denying it on my own responsibility. Old Londoners assert that they are

not blinded or confused by Pears' Soap in letters two feet high, scarlet on a gold ground, but can see below in

fine print, and with the naked eye, such legends as Tottenham Court Road, Westbourne Grove, St. Pancras,

Paddington, or Victoria. It is certainly reasonable that the omnibuses should be decorated to suit the

inhabitants of the place rather than foreigners, and it is perhaps better to carry a few hundred stupid souls to

the wrong station daily than to allow them to cleanse their hands with the wrong soap, or quench their thirst

The conductors do all in their power to mitigate the lot of unhappy strangers, and it is only now and again

that you hear an absent minded or logical one call out, 'Castoria! all the w'y for a penny.'

We claim for our method of travelling, not that it is authoritative, but that it is simplesuitable to persons

whose desires are flexible and whose plans are not fixed. It has its disadvantages, which may indeed be said

of almost anything. For instance, we had gone for two successive mornings on a Cadbury's Cocoa 'bus to

Francesca's dressmaker in Kensington. On the third morning, deceived by the ambitious and unscrupulous

Cadbury, we mounted it and journeyed along comfortably three miles to the east of Kensington before we

discovered our mistake. It was a pleasant and attractive neighbourhood where we found ourselves, but

If you have determined to take a certain train from a certain station, and do not care for any other, no matter if

it should turn out to be just as interesting, then never take a Lipton's Tea 'bus, for it is the most unreliable of

all. If it did not sound so learned, and if I did not feel that it must have been said before, it is so apt, I should

quote Horace, and say, 'Omnibus hoc vitium est.' There is no 'bus unseized by the Napoleonic Lipton. Do not

ascend one of them supposing for a moment that by paying fourpence and going to the very end of the route

you will come to a neat tea station, where you will be served with the cheering cup. Never; nor with a draught

of Cadbury's cocoa or Nestle's milk, although you have jostled along for nine weary miles in company with

their blatant recommendations to drink nothing else, and though you may have passed other 'buses with the

same highlycoloured names glaring at you until they are burned into the grey matter of your brain, to remain

These pictorial methods doubtless prove a source of great financial gain; of course it must be so, or they

would never be prosecuted; but although they may allure millions of customers, they will lose two in our

modest persons. When Salemina and I go into a cafe for tea we ask the young woman if they serve Lipton's,

and if they say yes, we take coffee. This is selfpunishment indeed (in London!), yet we feel that it may have

a moral effect; perhaps not commensurate with the physical effect of the coffee upon us, but these delicate

Sometimes when we are to travel on a Pears' Soap 'bus we buy beforehand a bit of pure white Castile, cut

from a shrinking, reserved, exclusive bar with no name upon it, and present it to some poor woman when we

arrive at our journey's end. We do not suppose that so insignificant a protest does much good, but at least it

On one of our excursions Hilda Mellifica accompanied us, and we alighted to see the place where the

Smithfield martyrs were executed, and to visit some of the very old churches in that vicinity. We found

hanging in the vestibule of one of them something quite familiar to Hilda, but very strange to our American

eyes: 'A Table of Kindred and Affinity, wherein whosoever are related are forbidden in Scripture and our

Salemina was very quiet that afternoon, and we accused her afterwards of being depressed because she had

discovered that, added to the battalions of men in England who had not thus far urged her to marry them,

there were thirty persons whom she could not legally espouse even if they did ask her!

I cannot explain it, but it really seemed in some way that our chances of a 'sweet, safe corner of the household

"It only goes to prove what Salemina remarked yesterday," I said: "that we can go on doing a thing quite

properly until we have seen the rule for it printed in black and white. The moment we read the formula we

fail to see how we could ever have followed it; we are confused by its complexities, and we do not feel the

slightest confidence in our ability to do consciously the thing we have done all our lives unconsciously."

"The Table of Kindred and Affinity is all too familiar to me," sighed Hilda, "because we had a governess who

made us learn it as a punishment. I suppose I could recite it now, although I haven't looked at it for ten years.

We used to chant it in the nursery schoolroom on wet afternoons. I well remember that the vicar called one

day to see us, and the governess, hearing our voices uplifted in a pious measure, drew him under the window

to listen. This is what he heardyou will see how admirably it goes! And do not imagine it is wicked: it is

merely the Law, not the Gospel, and we framed our own musical settings, so that we had no associations with

"A woman may not marry with her Grandfather . Grandmother's Husband, Husband's Grandfather .. Father's

Brother . Mother's Brother . Father's Sister's Husband .. Mother's Sister's Husband . Husband's Father's

Brother . Husband's Mother's Brother .. Father . Step Father . Husband's Father .. Son . Husband's Son .

Daughter's Husband .. Brother . Husband's Brother . Sister's Husband .. Son's Son . Daughter's Son . Son's

Daughter's Husband .. Daughter's Daughter's Husband . Husband's Son's Son . Husband's Daughter's Son ..

Brother's Son . Sister's Son . Brother's Daughter's Husband .. Sister's Daughter's Husband . Husband's

"It seems as if there were nobody left," I said disconsolately, "save perhaps your Second Cousin's Uncle, or

"That's just the effect it has on one," answered Hilda. "We always used to conclude our chant with the

"And if there is anybody, after this, in the universe . left to . marry .. marry him as expeditiously . as you .

possibly . can .. Because there are very few husbands omitted from this table of . Kindred and . Affinity ..

And it behoveth a maiden to snap them up without any delay . willing or unwilling . whenever and . wherever

"We were also required to learn by heart the form of Prayer with Thanksgiving to be used Yearly upon the

Fifth Day of November for the happy deliverance of King James I. and the Three Estates of England from the

most traitorous and bloodyintended Massacre by Gunpowder; also the prayers for Charles the Martyr and

the Thanksgiving for having put an end to the Great Rebellion by the Restitution of the King and Royal

Family after many Years' interruption which unspeakable Mercies were wonderfully completed upon the 29th

"1660! We had been forty years in America then," soliloquised Francesca; "and isn't it odd that the long

thanksgivings in our country must all have been for having successfully run away from the Gunpowder

Treason, King Charles the Martyr, and the Restituted Royal Family; yet here we are, you and I, the best of

As we jog along, or walk, by turns, we come to Buckingham Street, and looking up at Alfred Jingle's

lodgings say a grateful word of Mr. Pickwick. We tell each other that much of what we know of London and

Deny him the right to sit among the elect, if you will; talk of his tendency to farce and caricature; call his

humour low comedy, and his pathos bathosalthough you shall say none of these things in my presence

unchallenged; the fact remains that every child, in America at least, knows more of Englandits almshouses,

debtors' prisons, and lawcourts, its villages and villagers, its beadles and cheap jacks and hostlers and

coachmen and boots, its streets and lanes, its lodgings and inns and landladies and roastbeef and

plumpudding, its ways, manners, and customs,knows more of these things and a thousand others from

Dickens's novels than from all the histories, geographies, biographies, and essays in the language. Where is

there another novelist who has so peopled a great city with his imaginary characters that there is hardly room

O these streets of London! There are other more splendid shades in them,shades that have been there for

centuries, and will walk beside us so long as the streets exist. One can never see these shades, save as one

goes on foot, or takes that chariot of the humble, the omnibus. I should like to make a map of literary London

somewhat after Leigh Hunt's plan, as projected in his essay on the World of Books; for to the booklover 'the

poet's hand is always on the place, blessing it.' One can no more separate the association from the particular

'Fleet Street is always Johnson's Fleet Street' (so Leigh Hunt says); 'the Tower belongs to Julius Caesar, and

Blackfriars to Suckling, Vandyke, and the Dunciad. . .I can no more pass through Westminster without

thinking of Milton, or the Borough without thinking of Chaucer and Shakespeare, or Gray's Inn without

calling Bacon to mind, or Bloomsbury Square without Steele and Akenside, than I can prefer brick and

mortar to wit and poetry, or not see a beauty upon it beyond architecture in the splendour of the recollection.'

Francesca wishes to get some old hallmarked silver for her home teatray, and she is absorbed at present in

answering advertisements of people who have secondhand pieces for sale, and who offer to bring them on

approval. The other day, when Willie Beresford and I came in from Westminster Abbey (where we had been

choosing the best locations for our memorial tablets), we thought Francesca must be giving a 'small and

early'; but it transpired that all the silver sellers had called at the same hour, and it took the united strength

of Dawson and Mr. Beresford, together with my diplomacy, to rescue the poor child from their clutches. She

came out alive, but her safety was purchased at the cost of a George IV. creamjug, an Elizabethan

sugarbowl, and a Boadicea teacaddy, which were, I doubt not, manufactured in Wardour Street towards

Salemina came in just then, cold and tired. (Tower and National Gallery the same day. It's so much more

work to go to the Tower nowadays than it used to be!) We had intended to take a sail to Richmond on a

penny steamboat, but it was drizzling, so we had a cosy fire instead, slipped into our teagowns, and ordered

tea and thin breadandbutter, a basket of strawberries with their frills on, and a jug of Devonshire cream.

Willie Beresford asked if he might stay; otherwise, he said, he should have to sit at a cold marble table on the

"Yes," I said severely, "we will allow you to stay; though, as you are coming to dinner, I should think you

would have to go away some time, if only in order that you might get ready to come back. You've been here

"I know," he answered calmly, "and my only error in judgment was that I didn't take an earlier breakfast, in

order to begin my day here sooner. One has to snatch a moment when he can, nowadays; for these rooms are

so infested with British swells that a baseborn American stands very little chance!"

Now I should like to know if Willie Beresford is in love with Francesca. What shall I dothat is what shall

we doif he is, when she is in love with somebody else? To be sure, she may want one lover for foreign and

another for domestic service. He is too old for her, but that is always the way. When Alcides, having gone

through all the fatigues of life, took a bride in Olympus, he ought to have selected Minerva, but he chose

I wonder why so many people call him 'Willie' Beresford, at his age. Perhaps it is because his mother sets the

example; but from her lips it does not seem amiss. I suppose when she looks at him she recalls the past, and is

ever seeing the little child in the strong man, mother fashion. It is very beautiful, that feeling; and when a girl

surprises it in any mother's eyes it makes her heart beat faster, as in the presence of something sacred, which

she can understand only because she is a woman, and experience is foreshadowed in intuition.

The Honourable Arthur had sent us a dozen London dailies and weeklies, and we fell into an idle discussion

of their contents over the teacups. I had found an 'exchange column' which was as interesting as it was novel,

and I told Francesca it seemed to me that if we managed wisely we could rid ourselves of all our useless

belongings, and gradually amass a collection of the English articles we most desired. "Here is an opportunity,

"'S.G., of Kensington, will post 'Woman' three days old regularly for a box of cut flowers.'"

I wanted to tell him I didn't suppose that he could find anything too young for his taste, but I didn't dare.

"'A handsome orange male Persian cat, also a tabby, immense coat, brushes and frills, is offered in exchange

"Buy one," suggested Mr. Beresford. "Even then you'd be getting a bargain. Do you understand that you

receive the male orange cat for the dish, and the frilled tabby for the bath, or do you get both in exchange for

"'A harmonium with seven stops is offered in exchange for a really good Plymouth cockerel hatched in

"I should want to know when the harmonium was hatched," said Francesca prudently. "Now you cannot

usurp the platform entirely, my dear Pen. Listen to an English marriage notice from the Times. It chances to

be the longest one today, but there were others just as remarkable in yesterday's issue.

"'On the 17th instant, at Emmanuel Church (Countess of Padelford's connection), WestonsuperMare, by

the Rev. Canon Vernon, B.D., Rector of St. Edmund the King and Martyr, Suffolk Street, uncle of bride,

assisted by the Rev. Otho Pelham, M.A., Vicar of All Saints, Upper Norwood, Dr. Philosophial Konrad

Rasch, of Koetzsenbroda, Saxony, to Evelyn Whitaker Rake, widow of the late Richard Balaclava Rake,

Barristeratlaw of the Inner Temple and Bombay, and third surviving daughter of George Frederic

Goldspink, C.B., of Sydenham House, Craig Hill, Commissioner of Her Majesty's Customs, and formerly of

By the time this was finished we were all quite exhausted, but we revived like magic when Salemina read us

Waddington, Essex. Deal with her whenever you possibly can. When you want to purchase, ask her for

anything under the canopy of heaven, from jewels, bijouterie, and curios to rare books and highclass articles

of utility. When you want to sell, consign only to her, from choice gems to mundane objects. All transactions

embodying the germs of small profits are welcome. As a sample of her stock please note: A superlatively

exquisite, essentially beautiful, and important lace flounce for sale, at a reasonable price. Also a bargain of

peerlessly choice character.Six grandly glittering paste cluster buttons, of important size, emitting dazzling

rays of incomparable splendour and lustre. Don't readily forget this or her name and address,Clara (Miss)

Willard (the Lady Trader), Waddington, Essex. Immaculate promptitude and scrupulous liberality observed:

therefore, on these credentials, ye must deal with her; it is the duty of intellect to be reciprocal.'"

Just here Dawson entered, evidently to lay the dinnercloth, but, seeing that we had a visitor, he took the

"It is fiveandthirty minutes past six, Mr. Beresford," I said. "Do you think you can get to the Metropole

and array yourself and return in less than an hour? Because, even if you can, remember that we ladies have

elaborate toilets in prospect,toilets intended for the complete prostration of the British gentry. Francesca

has a yellow gown which will drive Bertie Godolphin to madness. Salemina has laid out a soft, dovelike grey

and steel combination, directed towards the Church of England; for you may not know that Sally has a vicar

Before these shocking personalities were finished Salemina and Francesca had fled to their rooms, and Mr.

Beresford took up my broken sentence and said, "As for you, Miss Hamilton, whatever gown you wear, you

are sure to make one man speak, if you care about it; but, I suppose, you would not listen to him unless he

I really think I shall have to give up the Francesca hypothesis, and, alas! I am not quite ready to adopt any

We discussed international marriages while we were at our toilets, Salemina and I prinking by the light of one

small candleend, while Francesca, as the youngest and prettiest, illuminated her charms with the six

I gave it as my humble opinion that for an American woman an English husband was at least an experiment;

Salemina declared that for that matter a husband of any nationality was an experiment. Francesca ended the

conversation flippantly by saying that in her judgment no husband at all was a much more hazardous

We are all three rather tired this morning,Salemina, Francesca, and I,for we went to one of the smartest

balls of the London season last night, and were robbed of half our customary allowance of sleep in

It may be difficult for you to understand our weariness, when I confess that the ball was not quite of the usual

sort; that we did not dance at all; and, what is worse, that we were not asked, either to tread a measure, or sit

To begin at the beginning, there is a large vacant house directly opposite Smith's Private Hotel, and there has

been hanging from its balcony, until very lately, a sign bearing the following notice:

A few days ago, just as we were finishing a late breakfast, an elderly gentleman drove up in a private hansom,

and alighted at this vacant house on the opposite side. Behind him, in a cab, came two men, who unlocked the

front door, went in, came out on the balcony, cut the wires supporting the sign, took it down, opened all the

inside shutters, and disappeared through some rear entrance. The elderly gentleman went upstairs for a

"The house has been sold, I suppose," said Salemina; "and for my part I envy the new owner his bargain. He

is close to Piccadilly, has that bit of side lawn with the superb oaktree, and the duke's beautiful gardens so

near that they will seem virtually his own when he looks from his upper windows."

At teatime the same elderly gentleman drove up in a victoria, with a very pretty young lady.

"The plot thickens," said Francesca, who was nearest the window. "Do you suppose she is his brideelect,

and is he showing her their future home, or is she already his wife? If so, I fear me she married him for his

"Don't be censorious, child," I remonstrated, taking my cup idly across the room, to be nearer the scene of

action. "Oh, dear! there is a slight discrepancy, I confess, but I can explain it. This is how it happened: The

girl had never really loved, and did not know what the feeling was. She did know that the aged suitor was a

good and worthy man, and her mother and nine small brothers and sisters (very much out at the toes) urged

the marriage. The father, too, had speculated heavily in consorts or consuls, or whateveryoucall 'ems, and

besought his child not to expose his defalcations and losses. She, dutiful girl, did as she was bid, especially as

her youngest sister came to her in tears and said, 'Unless you consent we shall have to sell the cow!' So she

went to the altar with a heart full of palpitating respect, but no love to speak of; that always comes in time to

"It sounds strangely familiar," remarked Mr. Beresford, who was with us, as usual. "Didn't a fellow turn up in

the next chapter, a young nephew of the old husband, who fell in love with the bride, unconsciously and

against his will? Wasn't she obliged to take him into the conservatory, at the end of a week, and say, 'Ggo! I

beseech you! for bboth our sakes!'? Didn't the noble fellow wring her hand silently, and leave her looking

"How can you be so cynical, Mr. Beresford? It isn't like you!" exclaimed Salemina. "For my part, I don't

think the girl is either his bride or his fiancee. Probably the mother of the family is dead, and the father is

This theory being just as plausible as ours, we did not discuss it, hoping that something would happen to

"She is not married, I am sure," went on Salemina, leaning over the back of my chair. "You notice that she

hasn't given a glance at the kitchen or the range, although they are the most important features of the house. I

think she may have just put her head inside the diningroom door, but she certainly didn't give a moment to

the butler's pantry or the china closet. You will find that she won't mount to the fifth floor to see how the

servants are housed,not she, careless, pretty creature; she will go straight to the drawing room."

And so she did; and at the same instant a still younger and prettier creature drove up in a hansom, and was out

of it almost before the admiring cabby could stop his horse or reach down for his fare. She flew up the

stairway and danced into the drawingroom like a young whirlwind; flung open doors, pulled up blinds with

a jerk, letting in the sunlight everywhere, and tiptoed to and fro over the dusty floors, holding up her muslin

"It is his youngest daughter," corrected Salemina,"the youngest daughter of his only wife, and the image of

She might well have been that, we all agreed; for this young beauty was quite the Irish type, such black hair,

greyblue eyes, and wonderful lashes, and such a merry, arch, winsome face, that one loved her on the

She was delighted with the place, and we did not wonder, for the sunshine, streaming in at the back and side

windows, showed us rooms of noble proportions opening into one another. She admired the balcony,

although we thought it too public to be of any use save for flowering plants; she was pleased with a huge

French mirror over the marble mantle; she liked the chandeliers, which were in the worst possible taste; all

this we could tell by her expressive gestures; and she finally seized the old gentleman by the lapels of his coat

and danced him breathlessly from the fireplace to the windows and back again, while the elder girl clapped

"Isn't she lovely?" sighed Francesca, a little covetously, although she is something of a beauty herself.

"For shame!" I cried indignantly. "It is Norah, or Veronica, or Geraldine, or Patricia; yes, it is Patricia,I

know it as well as if I had been at the christening.Dawson, take the teathings, please; and do you know

"It is Lord Brighton, miss." (You would never believe it, but we find the name is spelled Brighthelmston.)

"He hasn't bought the 'ouse; he has taken it for a week, and is giving a ball there on the Tuesday evening. He

has four daughters, miss, and two h'orphan nieces that generally spends the season with 'im. It's the youngest

daughter he is bringing out, that lively one you saw cutting about just now. They 'ave no ballroom, I expect,

in their town 'ouse, which accounts for their renting one for this occasion. They stopped a month in this 'otel

"Lady Brighthelmston is not living, I should judge," remarked Salemina, in the tone of one who thinks it

"Oh, yes, miss, she's alive and 'earty; but the daughters manages everythink, and what they down't manage

the h'orphan nieces does. The 'ouse is run for the young ladies, but m'ludanlady seems to enjoy it."

Dovermarle Street was so interesting during the next few days that we could scarcely bear to leave it, lest

"A ball is so confining!" said Francesca, who had come back from the corner of Piccadilly to watch the

unloading of a huge van, and found that it had no intention of stopping at Number Nine on the opposite side.

First came a small army of charwomen, who scrubbed the house from top to bottom. Then came men with

canvas for floors, bronzes and jardinieres and somebody's family portraits from an auctionroom, chairs and

The night before the event itself I announced my intention of staying in our own drawingroom the whole of

the next day. "I am more interested in Patricia's debut," I said, "than anything else that can possibly happen in

London. What if it should be wet, and won't it be annoying if it is a cold night and they draw the heavy

But it was beautiful day, almost too warm for a ball, and the heavy curtains were not drawn. The family did

not court observation; it was serenely unconscious of such a thing. As to our side of the street, I think we may

have been the only people at all interested in the affair now so imminent. The others had something more

At noon the florists decorated the entrance with palms, covered the balcony with a gay awning, and hung the

railing with brilliant masses of scarlet and yellow flowers. At two the caterers sent silver, tables, linen, and

dishes, and a Broadwood grand piano was installed; but at halfpast seven, when we sat down to dinner, we

were a trifle anxious, because so many things seemed yet to do before the party could be a complete success.

Mr. Beresford and his mother were dining with us, and we had sent invitations to our London friends, the

Hon. Arthur Ponsonby and Bertie Godolphin, to come later in the evening. These read as follows:

At eight o'clock, as we were finishing our fish course, which chanced to be fried sole, the ball began literally

to roll, and it required the greatest ingenuity on Francesca's part and mine to be always down in our seats

when Dawson entered with the dishes, and always at the window when he was absent.

An enormous van had appeared, with half a dozen men walking behind it. In a trice, two of them had

stretched a wire trellis across one wall of the drawingroom, and two more were trailing roses from floor to

ceiling. Others tied the dark wood of the stair railing with tall Madonna lilies; then they hung garlands of

flowers from corner to corner and, alas! could not refrain from framing the mirror in smilax, nor from

hanging the chandeliers with that same ugly, funereal, and artificiallooking vine,this idea being the

We could not catch even a glimpse of the supperrooms, but we saw a man in the fourth story front room

filling dozens of little glass vases, each with its single malmaison, rose, or camellia, and despatching them by

an assistant to another part of the house; so we could imagine from this the scheme of decoration at the

By the time we had finished our entree, which happened to be lamb cutlets and green peas, and had begun our

roast, which was chicken and ham, I remember, they had put wreaths at all the windows, hung Japanese

lanterns on the balcony and in the oaktree, and transformed the house into a blossoming bower.

At this exciting juncture Dawson entered unexpectedly with our sweet, and for the first and only time caught

us literally 'red handed.' Let British subjects be interested in their neighbours, if they will (and when they

refrain I am convinced that it is as much indifference as good breeding), but let us never bring our country

into disrepute with an English butler! As there was not a single person at the table when Dawson came in, we

were obliged to say that we had finished dinner, thank you, and would take coffee; no sweet tonight, thank

Willie Beresford was the only one who minded, but he rather likes cherry tart. It simply chanced to be cherry

tart, for our cook at Smith's Private Hotel is a person of unbridled fancy and endless repertory. She

sometimes, for example, substitutes rhubarb for cherry tart quite out of her own head; and when balked of

both these dainties, and thrown absolutely on her own boundless resources, will create a dish of stewed green

gooseberries and a companion piece of liquid custard. These unrelated concoctions, when eaten at the same

moment, as is her intention, always remind me of the lying down together of the lion and the lamb, and the

scheme is wellnigh as dangerous, under any other circumstances than those of the digestive millennium. I

tremble to think what would ensue if all the rhubarb and gooseberry bushes in England should be uprooted in

a single night. I believe that thousands of cooks, those not possessed of families or Christian principles,

would drown themselves in the Thames forthwith, but that is neither here nor there, and the Honourable

I had forgotten to say that we ourselves were all en grande toilette, down to satin slippers, feeling somehow

that it was the only proper thing to do; and when Dawson had cleared the table and ushered in the other

visitors, we ladies took our coffee and the men their cigarettes to the three front windows, which were open

We seated ourselves there quite casually, as is our custom, somewhat hidden by the lace draperies and potted

hydrangeas, and whatever we saw was to be seen by any passerby, save that we held the key to the whole

Just at this momentit was quarterpast nine, although it was still bright daylightcame a little procession

of servants who disappeared within the doors, and, as they donned caps and aprons, would now and then

reappear at the windows. Presently the supper arrived. We did not know the number of invited guests (there

are some things not even revealed to the Wise Woman), but although we were a trifle nervous about the

amount of eatables, we were quite certain that there would be no dearth of liquid refreshment.

Contemporaneously with the supper came a fourwheeler with a man and a woman in it.

W.B. "It is probably the butler, and I have a premonition that that is good old Nurse with him. She has been

with family ever since the birth of the first daughter twentyfour years ago. Look at her cap ribbons; note the

fit of the stiff black silk over her comfortable shoulders; you can almost hear her creak in it!"

B.G. "My eye! but she's one to keep the goodypot open for the youngsters! She'll be the belle of the ball so

Fran. "It's impossible to tell whether it's the butler or paterfamilias. Yes, it's the butler, for he has taken off his

B.G. "And the florist's assistant is getting slated like one o'clock! The butler doesn't like the rum design over

They were standing with their faces towards us, gesticulating wildly about something on the front wall of the

drawingroom; a place quite hidden from our view. They could not decide the matter, although the butler

intimated that it would quite ruin the ball, while the assistant mopped his brow and threw all the blame on

somebody else. Nurse came in, and hated whatever it was the moment her eye fell on it. She couldn't think

how anybody could abide it, and was of the opinion that his ludship would have it down as soon as he

Our attention was now distracted by the fact that his ludship did arrive. It was ten o'clock, but barely dark

There were two private carriages and two fourwheelers, from which paterfamilias and one other gentleman

"One young chap to brace up the gov'nor," said Bertie Godolphin. "Then the eldest daughter is engaged to be

married; that's right; only three daughters and two h'orphan nieces to work off now!"

As the girls scampered in, hidden by their long cloaks, we could not even discover the two we already knew.

While they were divesting themselves of their wraps in an upper chamber, Nurse hovering over them with

maternal solicitude, we were anxiously awaiting their criticisms of our preparations.

For three days we had been overseeing the details. Would they approve the result? Would they think the

grand piano in the proper corner? Were the garlands hung too low? Was the balcony scheme effective? Was

our menu for the supper satisfactory? Were there too many lanterns? Lord and Lady Brighthelmston had

Now came musicians with their instruments. The butler sent four melancholy Spanish students to the

balcony, where they began to tune mandolins and guitars, while an Hungarian band took up its position, we

conjectured, on some extension or balcony in the rear, the existence of which we had not guessed until we

heard the music later. Then the butler turned on the electric light, and the family came into the

They did admire them as much as we could wish, and we, on our part, thoroughly approved of the family. We

had feared it might prove dull, plain, dowdy, though wellborn, with only dear Patricia to enliven it; but it was

welldressed, merry, and had not a thought of glancing at the windows or pulling down the blinds, bless its

The mother entered first, wearing a grey satin gown and a diamond crown that quite established her position

in the great world. Then girls, and more girls: a rosepink girl, a pale green, a lavender, a yellow, and our

Patricia, in a cloud of white with a sparkle of silver, and a diamond arrow in her lustrous hair.

What an English nosegay they made, to be sure, as they stood in the back of the room while paterfamilias

approached, and calling each in turn, gave her a lovely bouquet from a huge basket held by the butler.

Everybody's flowers matched everybody's frock to perfection; those of the h'orphan nieces were just as

beautiful as those of the daughters, and it is no wonder that the English nosegay descended upon

paterfamilias, bore him into the passage, and if they did not kiss him soundly, why did he come back all rosy

and crumpled, smoothing his dishevelled hair, and smiling at Lady Brighthelmston? We speedily named the

girls Rose, Mignonette, Violet, and Celandine, each after the colour of her frock.

"But there are only five, and there ought to be six," whispered Salemina, as if she expected to be heard across

"Onetwothreefourfive, you are right," said Mr. Beresford. "The plainest of the lot must be staying

in Wales with a maiden aunt who has a lot of money to leave. The old lady isn't so ill that they can't give the

ball, but just ill enough so that she may make her will wrong if left alone; poor girl, to be plain, and then to

miss such a ball as this,hello! the first guest! He is on time to be sure; I hate to be first, don't you?"

The first guest was a strikingly handsome fellow, irreproachably dressed and unmistakably nervous.

"What IS the thing? No wonder he doesn't drive up to the door and go in with it!"

Then electrically from Francesca, "It is Patricia's Irish lover! I forget his name."

"Hush!" she exclaimed at this chorus of Hibernian Christian names, "it is Patricia's undeclared impecunious

lover. He is afraid that she won't know his gift is a harp, and afraid that the other girls will. He feared to send

it, lest one of the sisters or h'orphan nieces should get it; it is frightful to love one of six, and the cards are

always slipping off, and the wrong girl is always receiving your lovetoken or your offer of marriage."

"And if it is an offer, and the wrong woman gets it, she always accepts, somehow," said Mr. Beresford; "It's

"He hoped to arrive before any one else," Francesca went on, "and put the harp in a nice place, and lead

Patricia up to it, and make her wonder who sent it. Now poor dear (yes, his name is sure to be Terence), he is

too late, and I am sure he will leave it in the hansom, he will be so embarrassed."

And so he did, but alas! the driver came back with it in an instant, the butler ran down the long path of

crimson carpet that covered the sidewalk, the first footman assisted, the second footman pursued Terence and

caught him on the staircase, and he descended reluctantly, only to receive the harp in his arms and send a tip

"I can't think why he should give her a harp," mused Bertie Godolphin. "Such a rum thing, a harp, isn't it? It's

"Yes, we always say 'tote,' particularly in the North," I replied; "but perhaps it is Patricia's favourite

instrument. Perhaps Terence first saw her at the harp, and loved her from the moment he heard her sing the

"Perhaps he merely brought it as a sort of symbol," suggested Mr. Beresford; "a kind of flowery metaphor

signifying that all Ireland, in his person, is at her disposal, only waiting to be played upon."

"If that is what he means, he must be a jolly muff," remarked the Honourable Arthur. "I should think he'd

We never knew how Terence arranged about the incubus; we only saw that he did not enter the drawing room

with it in his arms. He was well received, although there was no special enthusiasm over his arrival; but the

He greeted the young ladies as if he were in the habit of meeting them often, but when he came to Patricia,

well, he greeted her as if he could never meet her often enough; there was a distinct difference, and even Mrs.

Patricia took him over to the piano to see the arrangement of some lilies. He said they were delicious, but

"Wonderful!" his seemed to reply, as he stealthily put out his hand and touched a soft fold of its white

I could hear him think, as she leaned into the curve of the Broadwood and bent over the flowers

A footman entered, bearing the harp, which he placed on a table in the corner. He disclaimed all knowledge

of it, having probably been well paid to do so, and the unoccupied girls gathered about it like bees about a

"To think it may never be a match!" sighed Francesca, "and they are such an ideal pair! But it is easy to see

that the mother will oppose it, and although Patricia is her father's darling, he cannot allow her to marry a

"Cheer up!" said Bertie Godolphin reassuringly. "Perhaps some unrelenting beggar of an uncle will die of old

"I hope she will accept him tonight, if she loves him, estates or no estates," said Salemina, who, like many

ladies who have elected to remain single, is distinctly sentimental, and has not an ounce of worldly wisdom.

"Well, I think a fellow deserves some reward," remarked Mr. Beresford, "when he has the courage to drive up

in a hansom bearing a green harp with yellow strings in his arms. It shows that his passion has quite eclipsed

his sense of humour. By the way, I am not sure but I should choose Rose, after all; there's something very

"It is the fact that she is promised to another," laughed Francesca somewhat pertly.

"She would make an admirable wife," Mrs. Beresford interjected absentmindedly; "and so of course

Terence will not choose her, and similarly neither would you, if you had the chance."

At this Mrs. Beresford's son glances up at me with twinkling eyes, and I can hardly forbear smiling, so

unconscious is she that his choice is already made. However, he replies: "Who ever loved a woman for her

solid virtues, mother? Who ever fell a victim to punctuality, patience, or frugality? It is other and different

qualities which colour the personality and ensnare the heart; though the stodgy and reliable traits hold it, I

dare say, when once captured. Don't you know Berkeley says, 'Dn it, madam, who falls in love with

Meantime Violet and Celandine have come out on the balcony, and seeing the tinkling musicians there, have

"A good thing, too!" murmured Bertie Godolphin, "making a beastly row in that 'nailing' little corner,

collecting a crowd sooner or later, don't you know, and putting a dead stop to the jolly little flirtations."

The Honourable Arthur glanced critically at Celandine. "I should make up to her," he said thoughtfully.

"She's the best groomed one of the whole stud, though why you call her Celandine I can't think."

"It's a flower, and her dress is yellow, can't you see, man? You've got no sense of colour," said the candid

Bertie. "I believe you'd just as soon be a green parrot with a red head as not."

And now the guests began to arrive; so many of them and so near together that we hardly had time to label

them as they said good evening, and told dear Lady Brighthelmston how pretty the decorations were, and

how prevalent the influenza had been, and how very sultry the weather, and how clever it was of her to give

her party in a vacant house, and what a delightful marriage Rose was making, and how well dear Patricia

The sound of the music drifted into the usually quiet street, and by halfpast eleven the ball was in full

splendour. Lady Brighthelmston stood alone now, greeting all the late arrivals; and we could catch a glimpse

now and then of Violet dancing with a beautiful being in a white uniform, and of Rose followed about by her

accepted lover, both of them content with their lot, but with feet quite on the solid earth.

Celandine was a bit of a flirt, no doubt. She had many partners, walked in the garden with them impartially,

divided her dances, sat on the stairs. Wherever her yellow draperies moved, nonsense, merriment, and chatter

Patricia danced often with Terence. We could see the dark head, darker and a bit taller than the others, move

through the throng, the diamond arrow gleaming in its lustrous coils. She danced like a flower blown by the

wind. Nothing could have been more graceful, more stately. The bend of her slender body at the waist, the

pose of her head, the line of her shoulder, the suggestion of dimple in her elbowall were so many separate

Terence certainly added little to the general brilliancy and gaiety of the occasion, for he stood in a corner and

looked at Patricia whenever he was not dancing with her, 'all eye when one was present, all memory when

Shortly after midnight our own little company broke up, loath to leave the charming spectacle. The guests

departed with the greatest reluctance, having given Dawson a halfsovereign for waiting up to lock the door.

Mrs. Beresford said that it seemed unendurable to leave matters in such an unfinished condition, and her son

"I leave all the romances in your hands," he whispered to me; "do let them turn out happily, do!"

Salemina also retired to her virtuous couch, remembering that she was to visit infant schools with a great

Francesca and I turned the gas entirely out, although we had been sitting all the evening in a kind of twilight,

and slipping on our dressinggowns sat again at the window for a farewell peep into the past, present, and

At midnight the dowager duchess arrived. She must at least have been a dowager duchess, and if there is

anything greater, within the bounds of a reasonable imagination, she was that. Long streamers of black tulle

floated from a diamond souptureen which surmounted her hair. Narrow puffings of white traversed her

black velvet gown in all directions, making her look somewhat like a railway map, and a diamond fanchain

defined, or attempted to define, what was in its nature neither definable nor confinable, to wit, her waist, or

The entire company was stirred by the arrival of the dowager duchess, and it undoubtedly added new eclat to

what was already a fashionable event; for we counted three gentlemen who wore orders glittering on ribbons

that crossed the white of their immaculate linen, and there was an Indian potentate with a jewelled turban

At twelveforty Lady Brighthelmston reminded Violet (who was a h'orphan niece) that the beautiful being in

At twelvefifty there arrived an elderly gentleman, before whom the servants bowed low. Lord

Brighthelmston went to fetch Patricia, who chanced to be sitting out a dance with Terence. The three came

out on the balcony, which was deserted, in the near prospect of supper, and the personagewhom we

suspected to be Patricia's godfather took from his waistcoat pocket a string of pearls, and, clasping it round

Then at one o'clock came supper. Francesca and I had secretly provided for that contingency, and curling up

on a sofa we drew toward us a little table which Dawson had spread with a galantine of chicken, some cress

At onethirty we were quite overcome with sleep, and retired to our beds, where of course we speedily grew

"It is giving a ball, not going to one, that is so exhausting!" yawned Francesca. "How many times have I

The sound of music came across the street through the closed door of our sittingroom. Waltz after waltz, a

polka, a galop, then waltzes again, until our brains reeled with the rhythm. As if this were not enough, when

our windows at the back were opened wide we were quite within reach of Lady Durden's small dance, where

"Dancing, dancing everywhere, and not a turn for us!" grumbled Francesca. "I simply cannot sleep, can you?"

"We must make a determined effort," I advised; "don't speak again, and perhaps drowsiness will overtake us."

It finally did overtake Francesca, but I had too much to think aboutmy own problems as well as Patricia's.

After what seemed to be hours of tossing I was helplessly drawn back into the sitting room, just to see if

The attendants in the lower hall, when they were not calling carriages, yawned behind their hands, and stood

Women in beautiful wraps, their heads flashing with jewels, descended the staircase, and drove, or even

Lady Brighthelmston began to look tired, although all the world, as it said good night, was telling her that it

The English nosegay had lost its white flower, for Patricia was not in the family group. I looked everywhere

for the gleam of her silvery scarf, everywhere for Terence, while, the waltz music having ceased, the Spanish

I hummed the words as the sweet old tune, strummed by the tinkling mandolins, vibrated clearly in the maze

At last, in a quiet spot under the oaktree, the lately risen moon found Patricia's diamond arrow and

discovered her to me. The Japanese lanterns had burned out; she was wrapped like a young nun, in a cloud of

I looked once, because the moonbeam led me into it before I realised; then I stole away from the window and

We had so far been looking only at conventionalities, preliminaries, things that all (who had eyes to see)

They were as beautiful under the friendly shadow of their urban oak tree as were ever Romeo and Juliet on

the balcony of the Capulets. I may not tell you what I saw in my one quickly repentedof glance. That would

be vulgarising something that was already a little profaned by my innocent participation.

I do not know whether Terence was heir, even ever so far removed, to any title or estates, and I am sure

Patricia did not care: he may have been vulgarly rich or aristocratically poor. I only know that they loved

each other in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs or ands or buts; that he worshipped, she honoured; he

Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe in your heart that it was an ordinary ball,

where a lot of stupid people arrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not think his name was

Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as that in blindness and incredulity I should not expect you to

translate properly what I saw last night under the oaktree, the night of the ball on the opposite side, when

At one of our open windows behind the potted ferns and blossoming hydrangeas sat Salemina, Bertie

Godolphin, Mrs. Beresford, the Honourable Arthur, and Francesca; at another, as far off as possible, sat

Willie Beresford and I. Mrs. Beresford had sanctioned a postprandial cigar, for we were not going out till

They were talking and laughing at the other end of the room; Mr. Beresford and I were rather quiet. (Why is

it that the people with whom one loves to be silent are also the very ones with whom one loves to talk?)

The room was dim with the light of a single lamp; the rain had ceased; the roar of Piccadilly came to us

softened by distance. A belated vendor of lavender came along the sidewalk, and as he stopped under the

The tune comes to me laden with odours. Is it not strange that the fragrances of other days steal in upon the

Presently a horse and cart drew up before an hotel, a little further along, on the opposite side of the way. By

the light of the street lamp under which it stopped we could see that it held a piano and two persons beside

the driver. The man was masked, and wore a soft felt hat and a velvet coat. He seated himself at the piano and

played a Chopin waltz with decided sentiment and brilliancy; then, touching the keys idly for a moment or

two, he struck a few chords of prelude and turned towards the woman who sat beside him. She rose, and,

laying one hand on the corner of the instrument, began to sing one of the season's favourites, 'The Song that

reached my Heart.' She also was masked, and even her figure was hidden by a long dark cloak the hood of

which was drawn over her head to meet the mask. She sang so beautifully, with such style and such feeling, it

seemed incredible to hear her under circumstances like these. She followed the ballad with Handel's 'Lascia

ch'io pianga,' which rang out into the quiet street with almost hopeless pathos. When she descended from the

cart to undertake the more prosaic occupation of passing the hat beneath the windows, I could see that she

limped slightly, and that the hand with which she pushed back the heavy dark hair under the hood was

beautifully moulded. They were all mystery that couple; not to be confounded for an instant with the common

herd of London street musicians. With what an air of the drawingroom did he of the velvet coat help the

singer into the cart, and with what elegant abandon and ultradilettantism did he light a cigarette, reseat

himself at the piano, and weave Scots ballads into a charming impromptu! I confess I wrapped my shilling in

a bit of paper and dropped it over the balcony with the wish that I knew the tragedy behind this little street

Willie Beresford was in a royal mood that night. You know the mood, in which the heart is so full, so full, it

overruns the brim. He bought the entire stock of the lavender seller, and threw a shilling to the mysterious

singer for every song she sung. He even offered to givehimselfto me! And oh! I would have taken him

as gladly as ever the lavender boy took the halfcrown, had I been quite, quite sure of myself! A woman with

a vocation ought to be still surer than other women that it is the very jewel of love she is setting in her heart,

and not a sparkling imitation. I gave myself wholly, or believed that I gave myself wholly, to art, or what I

The singing had put us in a gentle mood, and after a long peroration from Mr. Beresford, which I do not care

to repeat, I said very softly (blessing the Honourable Arthur's vociferous laughter at one of Salemina's

He intimated that if there were any fact in his repertory of which he was particularly and absolutely sure it

"This plant was rooted in American earth, and you know it, Penelope. If it chanced to blossom on the ship, it

was because it had already budded on the shore; it has borne transplanting to a foreign soil, and it grows in

beauty and strength every day: so no slurs, please, concerning oceansteamer hothouses."

"I cannot say yes, yet I dare not say no; it is too soon. I must go off into the country quite by myself and think

"But," urged Mr. Beresford, "you cannot think over a matter of this kind by yourself. You'll continually be

needing to refer to me for data, don't you know, on which to base your conclusions. How can you tell whether

you're in love with me or not if (No, I am not shouting at all; it's your guilty conscience; I'm whispering.)

How can you tell whether you're in love with me, I repeat, unless you keep me under constant examination?"

"That seems sensible, though I dare say it is full of sophistry; but I have made up my mind to go into the

country and paint while Salemina and Francesca are on the Continent. One cannot think in this whirl. A

winter season in Washington followed by a summer season in London,one wants a breath of fresh air

before beginning another winter season somewhere else. Be a little patient, please. I long for the calm that

"Work is all very well," said Mr. Beresford with determination, "but I know your habits. You have a little

way of taking your brush, and with one savage sweep painting out a figure from your canvas. Now if I am on

the canvas of your heart,I say 'if' tentatively and modestly, as becomes me,I've no intention of allowing

you to paint me out; therefore I wish to remain in the foreground, where I can say 'Strike, but hear me,' if I

discover any hostile tendencies in your eye. But I am thankful for small favours (the 'no' you do not quite

dare say, for instance), and I'll talk it over with you to morrow, if the British gentry will give me an

opportunity, and if you'll deign to give me a moment alone in any other place than the Royal Academy."

"Yes, first at the London and Westminster Bank, second in Trafalgar Square, and third on the top of a 'bus,

none of them congenial spots to a man in my humour. Penelope, you are not dull, but you don't seem to

"What are you two people quarrelling about?" cried Salemina. "Come, Penelope, get your wrap. Mrs.

Beresford, isn't she charming in her new Liberty gown? If that New York wit had seen her, he couldn't have

said, 'If that is Liberty, give me Death!' Yes, Francesca, you must wear something over your shoulders.

I am here alone. Salemina has taken her little cloth bag and her notebook and gone to inspect the educational

and industrial methods of Germany. If she can discover anything that they are not already doing better in

Boston, she will take it back with her, but her state of mind regarding the outcome of the trip might be

described as one of incredulity tinged with hope. Francesca has accompanied Salemina. Not that the

inspection of systems is much in her line, but she prefers it to a solitude a deux with me when I am in a

working mood, and she comforts herself with the anticipation that the German army is very attractive. Willie

Beresford has gone with his mother to AixlesBains, like the dutiful son that he is. They say that a good son

makes a good But that subject is dismissed to the background for the present, for we are in a state of armed

neutrality. He has agreed to wait until the autumn for a final answer, and I have promised to furnish one by

that time. Meanwhile, we are to continue our acquaintance by post, which is a concession I would never have

After paying my last week's bill in Dovermarle Street, including fees to several servants whom I knew by

sight, and several others whose acquaintance I made for the first time at the moment of departure, I glanced at

my ebbing letter of credit and felt a season of economy setting in upon me with unusual severity; accordingly,

I made an experiment of coming thirdclass to Belvern. I handed the guard a shilling, and he gave me a seat

riding backwards in a carriage with seven other women, all very frumpish, but highly respectable. As he

could not possibly have done any worse for me, I take it that he considered the shilling a graceful tribute to

his personal charms, but as having no other bearing whatever. The seven women stared at me throughout the

journey. When one is really of the same blood, and when one does not open one's lips or wave the stars and

stripes in any possible manner, how do they detect the American? These women looked at me as if I were a

highly interesting anthropoidal ape. It was not because of my attire, for I was carefully dressed down to a

thirdclass level; yet when I removed my plain Knox hat and leaned my head back against my

travellingpillow, an electrical shudder of intense excitement ran through the entire compartment. When I

stooped to tie my shoe another current was set in motion, and when I took Charles Reade's White Lies from

my portmanteau they glanced at one another as if to say, 'Would that we could see in what language the book

is written!' As a travelling mystery I reached my highest point at Oxford, for there I purchased a small basket

of plums from a boy who handed them in at the window of the carriage. After eating a few, I offered the rest

to a dowdy elderly woman on my left who was munching dry biscuits from a paper bag. 'What next?' was the

facial expression of the entire company. My neighbour accepted the plums, but hid them in her bag; plainly

thinking them poisoned, and believing me to be a foreign conspirator, conspiring against England through the

medium of her inoffensive person. In the course of the fourhours' journey, I could account for the strange

impression I was making only upon the theory that it is unusual to comport oneself in a firstclass manner in

a thirdclass carriage. All my companions chanced to be thirdclass by birth as well as by ticket, and the

Upon arriving at Great Belvern (which must be pronounced 'Bevern') I took a trap, had my luggage put on in

front, and start on my quest for lodgings in West Belvern, five miles distant. Several addresses had been

given me by Hilda Mellifica, who has spent much time in this region, and who begged me to use her name. I

told the driver that I wished to find a clean, comfortable lodging, with the view mentioned in the guidebook,

and with a purple clematis over the door, if possible. The last point astounded him to such a degree that he

had, I think, a serious idea of giving me into custody. (I should not be so eccentrically spontaneous with these

We visited Holly House, Osborne, St. James, Victoria, and Albert houses, Tank Villa, Poplar Villa, Rose,

Brake, and Thorn Villas, as well as Hawthorn, Gorse, Fern, Shrubbery, and Providence Cottages. All had

apartments, but many were taken, and many more had rooms either dark and stuffy or without view. Holly

House was my first stoppingplace. Why will a woman voluntarily call her place by a name which she can

never pronounce? It is my landlady's misfortune that she is named 'Obbs, and mine that I am called 'Amilton,

but Mrs. 'Obbs must have rushed with eyes wide open on 'Olly 'Ouse. I found sittingroom and bedroom at

Holly House for two guineas a week; everything, except roof, extra. This was more than, in my new spirit of

economy I desired to pay, but after exhausting my list I was obliged to go back rather than sleep in the

highroad. Mrs. Hobbs offered to deduct two shillings a week if I stayed until Christmas, and said she should

not charge me a penny for the linen. Thanking her with tears of gratitude, I requested dinner. There was no

meat in the house, so I supped frugally off two boiled eggs, a stodgy household loaf, and a mug of ale, after

which I climbed the stairs, and retired to my featherbed in a rather depressed frame of mind.

Visions of Salemina and Francesca driving under the lindentrees in Berlin flitted across my troubled

reveries, with glimpses of Willie Beresford and his mother at AixlesBains. At this distance, and in the dead

of night, my sacrifice in coming here seemed fruitless. Why did I not allow myself to drift for ever on that

pleasant sea which has been lapping me in sweet and indolent content these many weeks? Of what use to

labour, to struggle, to deny myself, for an art to which I can never be more than the humblest handmaiden? I

felt like crying out, as did once a braver woman's soul than mine, 'Let me be weak! I have been seeming to be

strong so many years!' The woman and the artist in me have always struggled for the mastery. So far the artist

has triumphed, and now all at once the woman is uppermost. I should think the two ought to be able to live

peaceably in the same tenement; they do manage it in some cases; but it seems a law of my being that I shall

The question for me to ask myself now is, "Am I in love with loving and with being loved, or am I in love

In this mood I fell asleep, and on a sudden I found myself in a dear New England garden. The pillow slipped

away, and my cheek pressed a fragrant mound of mignonette, the selfsame one on which I hid my

tearstained face and sobbed my heart out in childish grief and longing for the mother who would never hold

me again. The moon came up over the Belvern Hills and shone on my halfclosed lids; but to me it was a

very different moon, the faraway moon of my childhood, with a river rippling beneath its silver rays. And

the wind that rustled among the poplar branches outside my window was, in my dream, stirring the pink

petals of a blossoming appletree that used to grow beside the bank of mignonette, wafting down sweet

odours and drinking in sweeter ones. And presently there stole in upon this harmony of enchanting sounds

and delicate fragrances, in which childhood and womanhood, pleasure and pain, memory and anticipation,

seemed strangely intermingled, the faint music of a voice, growing clearer and clearer as my ear became

familiar with its cadences. And what the dream voice said to me was something like this:

'If thou wouldst have happiness, choose neither fame, which doth not long abide, nor power, which stings the

hand that wields it, nor gold, which glitters but never glorifies; but choose thou Love, and hold it for ever in

thy heart of hearts; for Love is the purest and the mightiest force in the universe, and once it is thine all other

gifts shall be added unto thee. Love that is passionate yet reverent, tender yet strong, selfish in desiring all yet

generous in giving all; love of man for woman and woman for man, of parent for child and friend for

friendwhen this is born in the soul, the desert blossoms as the rose. Straightway new hopes and wishes,

sweet longings and pure ambitions, spring into being, like green shoots that lift their tender heads in sunny

places; and if the soil be kind, they grow stronger and more beautiful as each glad day laughs in the rosy

skies. And by and by singingbirds come and build their nests in the branches; and these are the pleasures of

life. And the birds sing not often, because of a serpent that lurketh in the garden. And the name of the serpent

is Satiety. He maketh the heart to grow weary of what it once danced and leaped to think upon, and the ear to

wax dull to the melody of sounds that once were sweet, and the eye blind to the beauty that once led

enchantment captive. And sometimeswe know not why, but we shall know hereafter, for life is not

completely happy since it is not heaven, nor completely unhappy since it is the road thither sometimes the

light of the sun is withdrawn for a moment, and that which is fairest vanishes from the place that was

enriched by its presence. Yet the garden is never quite deserted. Modest flowers, whose charms we had not

noted when youth was bright and the world seemed ours, now lift their heads in sheltered places and whisper

peace. The morning song of the birds is hushed, for the dawn breaks less rosily in the eastern skies, but at

twilight they still come and nestle in the branches that were sunned in the smile of love and watered with its

happy tears. And over the grave of each buried hope or joy stands an angel with strong comforting hands and

I have changed my Belvern, and there are so many others left to choose from that I might live in a different

Belvern each week. North, South, East, and West Belvern, New Belvern, Old Belvern, Great Belvern, Little

Belvern, Belvern Link, Belvern Common, and Belvern Wells. They are all nestled together in the velvet

hollows or on the wooded crowns of the matchless Belvern Hills, from which they look down upon the fairest

plains that ever blessed the eye. One can see from their heights a score of market towns and villages, three

splendid cathedrals, each in a different county, the queenly Severn winding like a silver thread among the

trees, with soft flowing Avon and gentle Teme watering the verdant meadows through which they pass. All

these hills and dales were once the Royal Forest, and afterwards the Royal Chase, of Belvern, covering nearly

seven thousand acres in three counties; and from the lonely height of the Beacon no less than

of signals, when the country was threatened by a Spanish invasion. As for me, I mourn the decay of Romance

with a great R; we have it still among us, but we spell it with a smaller letter. It must be so much more

interesting to be threatened with an invasion, especially a Spanish invasion, than with a strike, for instance.

The clashing of swords and the flashing of spears in the sunshine are so much more dazzling and inspiring

than a line of policemen with clubs! Yes, I wish it were the age of chivalry again, and that I were looking

down from these hills into the Royal Chase. Of course I know that there were wicked and selfish tyrants in

those days, before the free press, the jury system, and the foldingbed had wrought their beneficent

influences upon the common mind and heart. Of course they would have sneered at Browning Societies and

improved tenements, and of course they did not care a penny whether woman had the ballot or not, so long as

man had the bottle; but I would that the other moderns were enjoying the modern improvements, and that I

were gazing into the cool depths of those deep forests where there were once good lairs for the wolf and wild

boar. I should like to hear the baying of the hounds and the mellow horns of the huntsman. I should like to

see the royal cavalcade emerging from one of those wooded glades: monarch and baron bold, proud prelate,

abbot and prior, belted knight and ladye fair, sweeping in gorgeous array under the arcades of the

overshadowing trees, silver spurs and jewelled trappings glittering in the sunlight, princely forms bending

low over the saddles of the court beauties. Why, oh why, is it not possible to be picturesque and pious in the

same epoch? Why may not chivalry and charity go hand in hand? It amuses me to imagine the amazement of

the barons, bold and belted knights, could they be resuscitated for a sufficient length of time to gaze upon the

hydropathic establishments which dot their ancient hunting grounds. It would have been very difficult to

Such is the fascination of historic association that I am sure, if I could drag my beloved but conscientious

Salemina from some foreign soupkitchen which she is doubtless inspecting, I could make even her mourn

the vanished past with me this morning, on the Beacon's towering head. For Salemina wearies of the age of

charity sometimes, as every one does who is trying to make it a beautiful possibility.

The manner of my changing from West to North Belvern was this. When I had been two days at Holly

House, I reflected that my sittingroom faced the wrong way for the view, and that my bedroom was dark

and not large enough to swing a cat in. Not that there was the remotest necessity of my swinging cats in it,

but the figure of speech is always useful. Neither did I care to occupy myself with the perennial inspection

and purchase of raw edibles, when I wished to live in an ideal world and paint a great picture. Mrs. Hobbs

would come to my bedside in the morning and ask me if I would like to buy a fowl. When I looked upon the

fowl, limp in death, with its headless neck hanging dejectedly over the edge of the plate, its giblets and

kidneys lying in immodest confusion on the outside of itself, and its liver 'tucked under its wing, poor thing,' I

never wanted to buy it. But one morning, in taking my walk, I chanced upon an idyllic spot: the front of the

whitewashed cottage embowered in flowers, birdcages built into these bowers, a little notice saying

'Canaries for Sale,' and an English rose of a baby sitting in the path stringing hollyhock buds. There was no

apartment sign, but I walked in, ostensibly to buy some flowers. I met Mrs. Bobby, loved her at first sight, the

passion was reciprocal, and I wheedled her into giving me her own sittingroom and the bedroom above it. It

only remained now for me to break my projected change of residence to my present landlady, and this I

distinctly dreaded. Of course Mrs. Hobbs said, when I timidly mentioned the subject, that she wished she had

known I was leaving an hour before, for she had just refused a lady and her husband, most desirable persons,

who looked as if they would be permanent. Can it be that lodgers radiate the permanent or transitory quality,

I was very much embarrassed, as she threatened to become tearful; and as I was determined never to give up

Mrs. Bobby, I said desperately, "I must leave you, Mrs. Hobbs, I must indeed; but as you seem to feel so

The fact is, I had seen, not long before, a lady going in and out of houses, as I had done on the night of my

arrival, and it occurred to me that I might pursue her, and persuade her to take my place in Holly House and

buy the headless fowl. I walked for nearly an hour before I was rewarded with a glimpse of my victim's grey

dress whisking round the corner of Pump Street. I approached, and, with a smile that was intended to be a

justification in itself, I explained my somewhat unusual mission. She was rather unreceptive at first; she

thought evidently that I was to have a percentage on her, if I succeeded in capturing her alive and delivering

her to Mrs. Hobbs; but she was very weary and discouraged, and finally fell in with my plans. She

accompanied me home, was introduced to Mrs. Hobbs, and engaged my rooms from the following day. As

she had a sister, she promised to be a more lucrative incumbent than I; she enjoyed ordering food in a raw

state, did not care for views, and thought purple clematis vines only a shelter for insects: so every one was

satisfied, and I most of all when I wrestled with Mrs. Hobb's itemised bill for two nights and one day. Her

weekly account must be rolled on a cylinder, I should think, like the list of Don Juan's amours, for the bill of

my brief residence beneath her roof was quite three feet in length, each of the following items being set down

The total was seventeen shillings and sixpence, and as Mrs. Hobbs wrote upon it, in her neat English hand,

'Received payment, with respectful thanks,' she carefully blotted the wet ink, and remarked casually that

service was not included in 'attendance,' but that she would leave the amount to me.

Mrs. Bobby and I were born for each other, though we have been a long time in coming together. She is the

pink of neatness and cheeriness, and she has a broad, comfortable bosom on which one might lay a

motherless head, if one felt lonely in a stranger land. I never look at her without remembering what the poet

Samuel Rogers said of Lady Parke: 'She is so good that when she goes to heaven she will find no difference

No raw fowls visit my bedside here; food comes as I wish it to come when I am painting, like manna from

heaven. Mrs. Bobby brings me three times a day something to eat, and though it is always whatever she likes,

I always agree in her choice, and send the blue dishes away empty. She asked me this morning if I enjoyed

my 'h'egg,' and remarked that she had only one fowl, but it laid an egg for me every morning, so I might

know it was 'fresh as fresh.' It is certainly convenient: the fowl lays the egg from seven to seventhirty, I eat

it from eight to eightthirty; no haste, no waste. Never before have I seen such heavenly harmony between

supply and demand. Never before have I been in such visible and unbroken connection with the source of my

food. If I should ever desire two eggs, or if the fowl should turn sulky or indolent, I suppose Mrs. Bobby

would have to go half a mile to the nearest shop, but as yet everything has worked to a charm. The cow is

milked into my pitcher in the morning, and the fowl lays her egg almost literally in my eggcup. One of the

little Bobbies pulls a kidney bean or a tomato or digs a potato for my dinner, about half an hour before it is

served. There is a sheep in the garden, but I hardly think it supplies the chops; those, at least, are not raised on

One grievance I did have at first, but Mrs. Bobby removed the thorn from the princess' pillow as soon as it

was mentioned. Our next door neighbour had a kennel of homesick, discontented, and sleepless puppies of

various breeds, that were in the habit of howling all night until Mrs. Bobby expostulated with Mrs. Gooch in

my behalf. She told me that she found Mrs. Gooch very snorty, very snorty indeed, because the pups were an

'obby of her 'usbants; whereupon Mrs. Bobby responded that if Mrs. Gooch's 'usbant 'ad to 'ave an 'obby, it

was a shame it 'ad to be 'owling pups to keep h'innocent people awake o' nights. The puppies were removed,

but I almost felt guilty at finding fault with a dog in this country. It is a matter of constant surprise to me, and

it always give me a warm glow in the region of the heart, to see the supremacy of the dog in England. He is

respected, admired, loved, and considered, as he deserves to be everywhere, but as he frequently is not. He is

admitted on all excursions; he is taken into the country for his health; he is a factor in all the master' plans; in

My interior surroundings are all charming. My little sittingroom, out of which I turned Mrs. Bobby, is bright

with potted ferns and flowering plants, and on its walls, besides the photographs of a large and unusually

plain family, I have two works of art which inspire me anew every time I gaze at them: the first a scriptural

subject, treated by an enthusiastic but inexperienced hand, 'Susanne dans le Bain, surprise par les Deux

Vieillards'; the second, 'The White Witch of Worcester on her Way to the Stake at High Cross.' The

unfortunate lady in the latter picture is attired in a white lawn wrapper with angel sleeves, and is followed by

an abbess with prayerbook, and eight surpliced choirboys with candles. I have been long enough in

England to understand the significance of the candles. Doubtless the White Witch had paid four shillings a

week for each of them in her prison lodging, and she naturally wished to burn them to the end.

One has no need, though, of pictures on the walls here, for the universe seems unrolled at one's very feet. As I

look out of my window the last thing before I go to sleep, I see the lights of Great Belvern, the dim shadows

of the distant cathedral towers, the quaint priory seven centuries old, and just the outline of Holly Bush Hill, a

sacred seat of magic science when the Druids investigated the secrets of the stars, and sought, by auspices

and sacrifices, to forecast the future and to penetrate the designs of the gods.

It makes me feel very new, very undeveloped, to look out of that window. If I were an Englishwoman, say

the fiftyfifth duchess of something, I could easily glow with pride to think that I was part and parcel of such

antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land and titles, but of historic associations. But as I am an

American with a very recent background, I blow out my candle with the feeling that it is rather grand to be

I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to be just a little miserable in Belvern, so that

I could paint with a frenzy. Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing loneliness and

gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the lines have shaped themselves under my hand

independent of my own volition. Now, tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the knowledge that I

need never be lonely again unless I choose. When I yield myself fully to the sweet enchantment of this

thought, I feel myself in the mood to paint sunshine, flowers, and happy children's faces; yet I am sadly

lacking in concentration, all the same. The fact is, I am no artist in the true sense of the word. My hope flies

ever in front of my best success, and that momentary success does not deceive me in the very least. I know

exactly how much, or rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the imagination, the industry, the training, the

ambition, to achieve any lasting results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it is impossible for me to

work merely for money or popularity, or indeed for anything less than the desire to express the best that is in

me without fear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on present approval and dash off unworthy

stuff while I have command of the market. I am quite above all that, but I am distinctly below that other

mental and spiritual level where art is enough; where pleasure does not signify; where one shuts oneself up

and produces from sheer necessity; where one is compelled by relentless law; where sacrifice does not count;

where ideas throng the brain and plead for release in expression; where effort is joy, and the prospect of

doing something enduring lures the soul on to new and ever new endeavour: so I shall never be rich or

What shall I paint today? Shall it be the bit of garden underneath my window, with the tangle of pinks and

roses, and the cabbages growing appetisingly beside the sweetwilliams, the woodbine climbing over the

brown stone wall, the wicketgate, and the cherry tree with its fruit hanging red against the whitewashed

cottage? Ah, if I could only paint it so truly that you could hear the drowsy hum of the bees among the thyme,

and smell the scented haymeadows in the distance, and feel that it is midsummer in England! That would

indeed be truth, and that would be art. Shall I paint the Bobby baby as he stoops to pick the cowslips and the

flax, his head as yellow and his eyes as blue as the flowers themselves; or that bank opposite the gate, with its

gorse bushes in golden bloom, its mountainash hung with scarlet berries, its tufts of harebells blossoming in

the crevices of rock, and the quaint low clocktower at the foot? Can I not paint all these in the full glow of

summer time in my secret heart whenever I open the door a bit and admit its lifegiving warmth and

I wonder how the great artists worked, and under what circumstances they threw aside the implements of

their craft, impatient of all but the throb of life itself? Could Raphael paint Madonnas the week of his

betrothal? Did Thackeray write a chapter the day his daughter was born? Did Plato philosophise freely when

he was in love? Were there interruptions in the world's great revolutions, histories, dramas, reforms, poems,

and marbles when their creators fell for a brief moment under the spell of the little blind tyrant who makes

slaves of us all? It must have been so. Your chronometer heart, on whose pulsations you can reckon as on the

procession of the equinoxes, never gave anything to the world unless it were a system of diet, or something

There are many donkeys owned in these nooks among the hills, and some of the thriftier families keep

donkeychairs (or 'cheers,' as they call them) to let to the casual summer visitor. This vehicle is a regular

Bath chair, into which the donkey is harnessed. Some of them have a tiny driver's seat, where a small lad sits

beating and berating the donkey for the incumbent, generally a decrepit dowager from London. Other chairs

are minus this absurd coachman's perch, and in this sort I take my daily drives. I hire the miniature chariot

from an old woman who dwells at the top of Gorse Hill, and who charges one and fourpence the hour, It is a

little more when she fetches the donkey to the door, or when the weather is wet or the day is very warm, or

there is an unusual breeze blowing, or I wish to go round the hills; but under ordinary circumstances, which

may at any time occur, but which never do, one and four the hour. It is only a shilling, if you have the boy to

drive you; but, of course, if you drive yourself, you throw the boy out of employment, and have to pay extra.

It was in this fashion and on these elastic terms that I first met you, Jane, and this chapter shall be sacred to

you! Jane the long eared, Jane the ironjawed, Jane the stubborn, Jane donkeyer than other donkeys,in a

word, MULIER! It may be that Jane has made her bow to the public before this. If she has ever come into

close relation with man or woman possessed of the instinct of self expression, then this is certainly not her

first appearance in print, for no human being could know Jane and fail to mention her.

Pause, Jane,this you will do gladly, I am sure, since pausing is the one accomplishment to which you lend

yourself with special energy,pause, Jane, while I sing a canticle to your character. Jane is a tinyperson, I

was about to say, for she has so strong an individuality that I can scarcely think of her as less than human

Jane is a tiny, solemn creature, looking all docility and decorum, with long hair of a subdued tan colour, very

I am a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and I hope that I am as

tenderhearted as most women; nevertheless, I can understand how a man of weak principle and violent

temper, or a man possessed of a desire to get to a particular spot not favoured by Jane, or by a wish to reach

any spot by a certain hour,I can understand how such a man, carried away by helpless wrath, might

Jane is small, yet mighty. She is multum in parvo; she is the rock of Gibraltar in animate form; she is cosmic

obstinacy on four legs. When following out the devices and desires of her own heart, or resisting the devices

and desires of yours, she can put a pressure of five hundred tons on the bit. She is further fortified by the

possession of legs which have iron rods concealed in them, these iron rods terminating in stout griphooks,

When I start out in the afternoon, Mrs. Bobby frequently asks me where I am going. I always answer that I

have not made up my mind, though what I really mean to say is that Jane has not made up her mind. She

never makes up her mind until after I have made up mine, lest by some unhappy accident she might choose

For example, I wish to visit St. Bridget's Well, concerning which there are some quaint old verses in a village

St. Bridget's Well is a beautiful spot, and my desire to see it is a perfectly laudable one. In strict justice, it is

really no concern of Jane whether my wishes are laudable or not; but it only makes the case more flagrant

when she interferes with the reasonable plans of a reasonable being. Never since the day we first met have I

harboured a thought that I wished to conceal from Jane (would that she could say as much!); nevertheless she

treats me as if I were a monster of caprice. As I said before, I wish to visit St. Bridget's Well, but Jane

absolutely refuses to take me there. After we pass Belvern churchyard we approach two roads: the one to the

right leads to the Holy Well; the one to the left leads to Shady Dell Farm, where Jane lived when she was a

girl. At the critical moment I pull the right rein with all my force. In vain: Jane is always overcome by

sentiment when she sees that lefthand road. She bears to the left like a whirlwind, and nothing can stop her

mad career until she is again amid the scenes so dear to her recollection, the beloved pastures where the

Now this is all very pretty and touching. Her action has, in truth, its springs in a most commendable

sentiment that I should be the last to underrate. Shady Dell Farm is interesting, too, for once, if one can

swallow one's wrath and dudgeon at being taken there against one's will; and one feels that Jane's parents and

Jane's early surroundings must be worth a single visit, if they could produce a donkey of such unusual

capacity. Still, she must know, if she knows anything, that a person does not come from America and pay one

and fourpence the hour (or thereabouts) merely in order to visit the home of her girlhood, which is neither

mentioned in Baedeker nor set down in the local guidebooks as a feature of interest.

Whether, in addition to her affection for Shady Dell Farm, she has an objection to St. Bridget's Well, and thus

is strengthened by a double motive, I do not know. She may consider it a relic of popish superstition; she may

But, you ask, have you tried various methods of bringing her to terms and gaining your own desires?

Certainly. I have coaxed, beaten, prodded, prayed. I have tried leading her past the Shady Dell turn; she walks

all over my feet, and then starts for home, I running behind until I can catch up with her. I have offered her

one and tenpence the hour; she remained firm. One morning I had a happy inspiration; I determined on

conquering Jane by a subterfuge. I said to myself: "I am going to start for St. Bridget's Well, as usual; several

yards before we reach the two roads, I shall begin pulling, not the right, but the left rein. Jane will lift her ears

suddenly, and say to herself: 'What! has this girl fallen in love with my birthplace at last, and does she now

prefer it to St. Bridget's Well? Then she shall not have it!' Whereupon Jane will race madly down the

righthand road for the first time, I pulling steadily at the left rein to keep up appearances, and I shall at last

This was my inspiration. Would you believe that it failed utterly? It should have succeeded, and would with

an ordinary donkey, but Jane saw through it. She obeyed my pull on the left rein, and went to Shady Dell

Another of Jane's eccentricities is a violent aversion to perambulators. As Belvern is a fine, healthy, growing

country, with steadily increasing population, the roads are naturally alive with perambulators; or at least alive

with the babies inside the perambulators. These are the more alarming to the timid eye in that many of them

are doublebarrelled, so to speak, and are loaded to the muzzle with babies; for not only do Belvern babies

frequently appear as twins, but there are often two youngsters of a perambulator age in the same family at the

same time. To weave that donkey and that Bath 'cheer' through the narrow streets of the various Belverns

without putting to death any babies, and without engendering the outspoken condemnation of the screaming

mothers and nurserymaids, is a task for a Jehu. Of course Jane makes it more difficult by lunging into one

perambulator in avoiding another, but she prefers even that risk to the degradation of treading the path I wish

I often wish that for one brief moment I might remove the lid of Jane's brain and examine her mental

processes. She would not exasperate me so deeply if I could be certain of her springs of action. Is she old, is

she rheumatic, is she lazy, is she hungry? Sometimes I think she means well, and is only ignorant and dull;

but this hypothesis grows less and less tenable as I know her better. Sometimes I conclude that she does not

understand me; that the difference in nationality may trouble her. If an Englishman cannot understand an

American woman all at once, why should an English donkey? Perhaps it takes an American donkey to

comprehend an American woman. Yet I cannot bring myself to drive any other donkey; I am always hoping

to impress myself on her imagination, and conquer her will through her fancy. Meanwhile, I like to feel

myself in the grasp of a nature stronger than my own, and so I hold to Jane, and buy a photograph of St.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, and I suddenly heard a strange sound, that of our fowl cackling.

Yesterday I heard her telltale note about noon, and the day before just as I was eating my breakfast. I knew

that it would be so! The serpent has entered Eden. That fowl has laid before eight in the morning for three

weeks without interruption, and she has now entered upon a career of wild and reckless uncertainty which

compels me to eat eggs from twelve to twentyfour hours old, just as if I were in London.

A hen, being of the feminine gender, underestimates the majesty of order and system; she resents any

approach to the unimaginative monotony of the machine. Probably the Confederated Fowl Union has been

meddling with our little paradise where Labour and Capital have dwelt in heavenly unity until now. Nothing

can be done about it, of course; even if it were possible to communicate with the fowl, she would say, I

suppose, that she would lay when she was ready, and not before; at least, that is what an American hen would

Just as I was brooding over these mysteries and trying to hatch out some conclusions, Mrs. Bobby knocked at

the door, and, coming in, curtsied very low before saying, "It's about namin' the 'ouse, miss."

"Oh yes. Pray don't stand, Mrs. Bobby; take a chair. I am not very busy; I am only painting prickles on my

I shall not attempt to give you Mrs. Bobby's dialect in reporting my various interviews with her, for the

spelling of it is quite beyond my powers. Pray remove all the h's wherever they occur, and insert them where

they do not; but there will be, over and beyond this, an intonation quite impossible to render.

Mrs. Bobby bought her place only a few months ago, for she lived in Cheltenham before Mr. Bobby died.

The last incumbent had probably been of Welsh extraction, for the cottage had been named 'Dany cefn.'

Mrs. Bobby declared, however, that she wouldn't have a heathenish name posted on her house, and expect her

friends to pronounce it when she couldn't pronounce it herself. She seemed grieved when at first I could not

see the absolute necessity of naming the cottage at all, telling her that in America we named only grand

places. She was struck dumb with amazement at this piece of information, and failed to conceive of the

confusion that must ensue in villages where streets were scarcely named or houses numbered. I confess it had

never occurred to me that our manner of doing was highly inconvenient, if not impossible, and I approached

"Well, Mrs. Bobby," I began, "it is to be Cottage; we've decided that, have we not? It is to be Cottage, not

House, Lodge, Mansion, or Villa. We cannot name it after any flower that blows, because they are all taken.

"Very good, we must follow another plan. Family names seem to be chosen, such as Gower House, Marston

Villa, and the like. 'Bobby Cottage' is not pretty. What was your maiden name, Mrs. Bobby?"

"Buggins, thank you, miss. 'Elizabeth Buggins, Licensed to sell Poultry,' was my name and title when I met

"I'm sorry, but 'Buggins Cottage' is still more impossible than 'Bobby Cottage.' Now here's another idea:

"There is always Victoria or Albert," I said tentatively, as I wiped my brushes.

"Yes, miss, but with all respect to her Majesty, them names give me a turn when I see them on the gates, I am

"True. Can we call it anything that will suggest its situation? Is there a Hill Crest?"

"Yes, miss, there is 'Ill Crest, 'Ill Top, 'Ill View, 'Ill Side, 'Ill End, H'under 'Ill, 'Ill Bank, and 'Ill Terrace."

"But we have no hedge." (She shall not have anything with an h in it, if I can help it.)

"And wait three or four years before people would know why the cottage was named? Oh no, Mrs. Bobby."

"We might have something quite out of the common, like 'Providence Cottage,' down the bank. I don't know

why Mrs. Jones calls it Providence Cottage, unless she thinks it's a providence that she has one at all; or

because, as it's just on the edge of the hill, she thinks it's a providence that it hasn't blown off. How would

"Begging your pardon, miss, it's neither peace nor rest I gets in it these days, with a twentyfive pound debt

"I fear we are not very clever, Mrs. Bobby, or we should hit upon the right thing with less trouble. I know

what I will do: I will go down in the road and look at the place for a long time from the outside, and try to

"Thank you, miss; and I'm sure I'm grateful for all the trouble you are taking with my small affairs."

Down I went, and leaned over the wicketgate, gazing at the unnamed cottage. The brick pathway was

scrubbed as clean as a penny, and the stone step and the floor of the little kitchen as well. The garden was a

maze of fragrant bloom, with never a weed in sight. The fowl cackled cheerily still, adding insult to injury,

the pet sheep munched grass contentedly, and the canaries sang in their cages under the vines. Mrs. Bobby

settled herself on the porch with a pan of peas in her neat gingham lap, and all at once I cried:

"'Comfort Cottage'! It is the very essence of comfort, Mrs. Bobby, even if there is not absolute peace or rest.

Mrs. Bobby was most complacent over the name. She had the greatest confidence in my judgment, and the

characterisation pleased her housewifely pride, so much so that she flushed with pleasure as she said that if

she 'ad 'er 'ealth she thought she could keep the place looking so that the passersby would easily

It was some days after the naming of the cottage that Mrs. Bobby admitted me into her financial secrets, and

explained the difficulties that threatened her peace of mind. She still has twentyfive pounds to pay before

Comfort Cottage is really her own. With her cow and her vegetable garden, to say nothing of her

procrastinating fowl, she manages to eke out a frugal existence, now that her eldest son is in a blacksmith's

shop at Worcester, and is sending her part of his weekly savings. But it has been a poor season for canaries,

and a still poorer one for lodgers; for people in these degenerate days prefer to be nearer the hotels and the

mild gaieties of the larger settlements. It is all very well so long as I remain with her, and she wishes

fervently that that may be for ever; for never, she says, eloquently, never in all her Cheltenham and Belvern

experience, has she encountered such a jewel of a lodger as her dear Miss 'Amilton, so little trouble, and

always a bit of praise for her plain cooking, and a pleasant word for the children, to whom most lodgers

object, and such an interest in the cow and the fowl and the garden and the canaries, and such kindness in

painting the name of the cottage, so that it is the finest thing in the village, and nobody can get past the 'ouse

without stopping to gape at it! But when her American lodger leaves her, she asks,and who is she that can

expect to keep a beautiful young lady who will be naming her own cottage and painting signboards for

herself before long, likely?but when her American lodger is gone, how is she, Mrs. Bobby, to put by a few

shillings a month towards the debt on the cottage? These are some of the problems she presents to me. I have

turned them over and over in my mind as I have worked, and even asked Willie Beresford in my weekly letter

what he could suggest. Of course he could not suggest anything: men never can; although he offered to come

there and lodge for a month at twentyfive pounds a week. All at once, one morning, a happy idea struck me,

"Mrs. Bobby," I said, sitting down comfortably on the edge of the lettuceframe, "I am sure I know how you

can earn many a shilling during the summer and autumn months, and you must begin the experiment while I

"But, miss, thanking you kindly, nobody would think of stoppin' 'ere for a cup of tea once in a twelvemonth."

"You never know what people will do until you try them. People will do almost anything, Mrs. Bobby, if you

only put it into their heads, and this is the way we shall make our suggestion to the public. I will paint a

second signboard to hang below 'Comfort Cottage.' It will be much more beautiful than the other, for it shall

have a steaming kettle on it, and a cup and saucer, and the words 'Tea Served Here' underneath, the letters all

intertwined with tea plants. I don't know how teaplants look, but then neither does the public. You will set

one round table on the porch, so that if it threatens rain, as it sometimes does, you know, in England, people

will not be afraid to sit down; and the other you will put under the yewtree near the gate. The tables must be

immaculate; no spotted, rumpled cloths and chipped cups at Comfort Cottage, which is to be a strictly

firstclass tea station. You will put vases of flowers on the tables, and you will not mix red, yellow, purple,

"It's the way the good Lord mixes 'em in the fields," interjected Mrs. Bobby piously.

"Very likely; but you will permit me to remark that the good Lord can manage things successfully which we

poor humans cannot. You will set out your creamjug that was presented to Mrs. Martha Buggins by her

friends and neighbours as a token of respect in 1823, and the bowl that was presented to Mr. Bobby as a

sword and shooting prize in 1860, and all your pretty little odds and ends. You will get everything ready in

the kitchen, so that customers won't have to wait long; but you will not prepare much in advance, so that

"It sounds beautiful in your mouth, miss, and it surely wouldn't be any 'arm to make a trial of it."

"Of course it won't. There is no inn here where nice people will stop (who would ever think of asking for tea

at the Retired Soldier?), and the moment they see our sign, in walking or driving past, that moment they will

be consumed with thirst. You do not begin to appreciate our advantages as a tea station. In the first place,

there is a wateringtrough not far from the gate, and drivers very often stop to water their horses; then we

have the lovely garden which everybody admires; and if everything else fails, there is the baby. Put that faded

pink flannel slip on Jem, showing his tanned arms and legs as usual, tie up his sleeves with blue bows as you

did last Sunday, put my white tenniscap on the back of his yellow curls, turn him loose in the hollyhocks,

and await results. Did I not open the gate the moment I saw him, though there was no apartment sign in the

Mrs. Bobby was overcome by the magic of my arguments, and as there were positively no attendant risks, we

decided on an early opening. The very next day after the hanging of the second sign, I superintended the

arrangements myself. It was a nice thirsty afternoon, and as I filled the flowervases I felt such a desire for

custom and such a love of trade animating me that I was positively ashamed. At three o'clock I went upstairs

and threw myself on the bed for a nap, for I had been sketching on the hills since early morning. It may have

been an hour later when I heard the sound of voices and the stopping of a heavy vehicle before the house. I

stole to the front window, and, peeping under the shelter of the vines, saw a charabancs, on the way from

Great Belvern to the Beacon. It held three gentlemen, two ladies, and four children, and everything had

worked precisely as I intended. The driver had seen the wateringtrough, the gentlemen had seen the

teasign, the children had seen the flowers and the canaries, and the ladies had seen the baby. I went to the

back window to call an encouraging word to Mrs. Bobby, but to my horror I saw that worthy woman

disappearing at the extreme end of the lane in full chase of our cow, that had broken down the fence, and was

Ruin stared us in the face. Were our cherished plans to be frustrated by a marauding cow, who little realised

that she was imperilling her own means of existence? Were we to turn away three, five, nine thirsty

customers at one fell swoop? Never! None of these people ever saw me before, nor would ever see me again.

What was to prevent my serving them with tea? I had on a pink cotton gown,that was well enough; I

hastily buttoned on a clean painting apron, and seizing a freshly laundered cushion cover lying on the bureau,

a square of lace and embroidery, I pinned it on my hair for a cap while descending the stairs. Everything was

right in the kitchen, for Mrs. Bobby had flown in the midst of her preparations. The loaf, the breadknife, the

butter, the marmalade, all stood on the table, and the kettle was boiling. I set the tea to draw, and then dashed

to the door, bowed appetisingly to the visitors, showed them to the tables with a winning smile (which was to

be extra), seated the children maternally on the steps and laid napkins before them, dashed back to the

kitchen, cut the thin breadandbutter, and brought it with the marmalade, asked my customers if they

desired cream, and told them it was extra, went back and brought a tray with tea, boiling water, milk, and

cream. Lowering my voice to an English sweetness, and dropping a few h's ostentatiously as I answered

questions, I poured five cups of tea, and four mugs for the children, and cut more breadandbutter, for they

were all eating like wolves. They praised the butter. I told them it was a specialty of the house. They

requested muffins. With a smile of heavenly sweetness tinged with regret, I replied that Saturday was our

muffin day; Saturday, muffins; Tuesday, crumpets; Thursday, scones; and Friday, teacakes. This inspiration

sprang into being full grown, like Pallas from the brain of Zeus. While they were regretting that they had

come on a plain breadandbutter day, I retired to the kitchen and made out a bill for presentation to the

Feeling five and threepence to be an absurdly small charge for five adult and four infant teas, I destroyed this

immediately, and made out another, putting each item fourpence more, and the breadand butter at

oneandsix. I also introduced ninepence for extra teas for the children, who had had two mugs apiece, very

weak. This brought the total to six shillings and tenpence, and I was beset by a horrible temptation to add a

shilling or two for candles; there was one young man among the three who looked as if he would have

The father of the family looked at the bill, and remarked quizzically, "Bond Street prices, eh?"

He paid it without flinching, and gave me sixpence for myself. I was very much afraid he would chuck me

under the chin; they are always chucking barmaids under the chin in old English novels, but I have never seen

it done in real life. As they strolled down to the gate, the second gentleman gave me another sixpence, and the

nice young fellow gave me a shilling; he certainly had read the old English novels and remembered them, so I

"Fourpence apiece for the fine ones," I answered glibly, hoping it was enough, "thrippence for the small ones;

Each of the ladies took some roses and mignonette, and the gentlemen, who did not care for carnations in the

least, weakened when I approached modestly to pin them in their coats, a la barmaid.

Rapid calculation on my part, excessively difficult without pencil and paper. A canary is three to five dollars

in America,that is, from twelve shilling to a pound; then at a venture, "From ten shillings to a guinea,

"Would you like one for your birthday, Margaret, and do you think you can feed it and take quite good care

"Certainly, madam; it is not a new one, but I shall only charge you a shilling for it." (Impromptu plan: not

knowing whether Mrs. Bobby had any cages, or if so where she kept them, to remove the canary in Mrs.

Bobby's chamber from the small wooden cage it inhabited, close the windows, and leave it at large in the

"Very well, then, please select me a good singer for about twelve shillings; a very yellow one, please."

I did so. I had no difficulty about the colour; but as the birds all stopped singing when I put my hand into the

cages, I was somewhat at a loss to choose a really fine performer. I did my best, with the result that it turned

out to be the mother of several fine families, but no vocalist, and the generous young man brought it back for

an exchange some days afterwards; not only that, but he came three times during the next week and nearly

The party finally mounted the charabancs, just as I was about to offer the baby for twentyfive pounds,

and dirt cheap at that. Meanwhile I gave the driver a cup of lukewarm tea, for which I refused absolutely to

I had cleared the tables before Mrs. Bobby returned, flushed and panting, with the guilty cow. Never shall I

forget that good dame's astonishment, her mild deprecations, her smilesnay, her tearsas she inspected

I told her I regretted deeply putting down the marmalade so low as sixpence; but as they had not touched it, it

did not matter so much, as the entire outlay for the entertainment had been only about a shilling. On that

modest investment, I considered one pound three shillings a very fair sum to be earned by an inexperienced

'licensed victualler' like myself, particularly as I am English only by adoption, and not by birth.

I essayed another nap after this exciting episode. I heard the gate open once or twice, but a single stray

customer, after my hungry and generous horde, did not stir my curiosity, and I sank into a refreshing slumber,

dreaming that Willie Beresford and I kept an English inn, and that I was the barmaid. This blissful vision had

been of all too short duration when I was awakened by Mrs. Bobby's apologetic voice.

"It is too bad to disturb you, miss, but I've got to go and patch up the fence, and smooth over the matter of the

turnips with Mrs. Gooch, who is that snorty I don't know 'ow ever I can pacify her. There is nothing for you

to do, miss, only if you'll kindly keep an eye on the customer at the yewtree table. He's been here for 'alf an

hour, miss, and I think more than likely he's a foreigner, by his actions, or may be he's not quite right in his

'ead, though 'armless. He has taken four cups of tea, miss, and Billy saw him turn two of them into the

'olly'ocks. He has been feeding bread andbutter to the dog, and now the baby is on his knee, playing with

his fine gold watch. He gave me a 'alfacrown and refused to take a penny change; but why does he stop so

long, miss? I can't help worriting over the silver creamjug that was my mother's."

Mrs. Bobby disappeared. I rose lazily, and approached the window to keep my promised eye on the

It was Willie Beresford! He looked up at my ejaculation of surprise, and, dropping the baby as if it had been a

I. "You shouldn't have come without asking. Where are all your fine promises? What shall I do with you? Do

He. "That is nothing; it was four hundred miles that I couldn't endure. But give me a less grudging welcome

than this, though I am like a starving dog that will snatch any morsel thrown to him! It is really autumn,

(The sight of him so near, after my weeks of loneliness, gave me a feeling so sudden, so sweet, and so vivid

that it seemed to smite me first on the eyes, and then in the heart; and at the first note of his convincing voice

I. "Yes, if you must know it, I am glad to see you; so glad, indeed, that nothing in the world seems to matter

He (striding a little nearer, and looking about involuntarily for a ladder). "Penelope, do you know the penalty

I. "Perhaps it is because I know the penalty that I'm committing the offence. Besides, I feel safe in saying

He. "Don't pride yourself on your safety unless you wish to see me transformed into a nineteenthcentury

Romeo, to the detriment of Mrs. Bobby's creepers. I can look at you for ever, dear, in your pink gown and

He. "You would like it very much down here, after a little. So you didn't 'paint me out,' after all?"

I. "No; on the contrary, I painted you in, to every twig and flower, every hill and meadow, every sunrise and

He. "You MUST come down! The distance between Belvern and Aix when I was not sure that you loved me

was nothing compared to having you in a second story when I know that you do. Come down, Pen! Pretty

I. "Suppose we compromise. My sittingroom is just below; will you walk in and look at my sketches until I

come? You needn't ring; the bell is overgrown with honeysuckle and there is no one to answer it; it might

I. "It isn't a serpent; it is the kindest landlady in England. Mrs. Bobby, this gentleman is a dear friend of

mine from America. Mr. Beresford, this is Mrs. Bobby, the most comfortable hostess in the world, and the

owner of the cottage, the canaries, the tea tables, and the baby.The reason Mr. Beresford was so thirsty,

Mrs. Bobby, was that he has walked here from Great Belvern, so we must give him some supper before he

Mrs. B. "Certainly, miss, he shall have the best in the 'ouse, you can depend upon that."

He. "Don't let me interfere with your usual arrangements. I am not hungryfor food; I shall do very well

I. "Indeed you will not, sir! Billy shall pull some tomatoes and lettuce, Tommy shall milk the cow, and Mrs.

Bobby shall make you a savory omelet that Delmonico might envy. Hark! Is that our fowl cackling? It is,at

halfpast six! She heard me mention omelet and she must be calling, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"

But all that is many days ago, and there are no more experiences to relate at present. We are making history

very fast, Willie Beresford and I, but much of it is sacred history, and so I cannot chronicle it for any one's

Mrs. Beresford is here, or at least she is in Great Belvern, a few miles distant. I am not painting, these latter

days. I have turned the artist side of my nature to the wall just for a bit, and the woman side is having full

play. I do not know what the world will think about it, if it stops to think at all, but I feel as if I were 'right

side out' for the first time in my life; and when I take up my brushes again, I shall have a new world within

Goodbye, dear Belvern! Autumn and winter may come into my life, but whenever I think of you it will be

summertime in my heart. I shall hear the tinkle of the belled sheep on the hillsides; inhale the fragrance of

the flowering vine that climbed in at my cottage window; relive in memory the days when Love and I first

walked together, hand in hand. Dear days of happy idleness; of dreaming dreams and seeing visions; of

morning walks over the hills; of 'breadandcheese and kisses' at noon, with kind Mrs. Bobby hovering like a

plump guardian angel over the simple feast; afternoon tea under the friendly shades of the yewtree, and

parting at the wicketgate. I can see him pass the clocktower, the little greengrocer shop, the old stocks, the

green pump; then he is at the turn of the road where the stone wall and the hawthorn hedge will presently hide

him from my view. I fly up to my window, push back the vines, catch his last wave of the hand. I would call

him back, if I dared; but it would be no easier to let him go the second time, and there is always tomorrow.

Thank God for tomorrow! And if there should be no tomorrow? Then thank God for today! And so

goodbye again, dear Belvern! It was in the lap of your lovely hills that Penelope first knew das irdische

Gluck; that she first loved, first lived; forgot how to be artist, in remembering how to be woman.