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Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own
Paper, vol. VIII., no. 377, March 19, 1887
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Girl's Own Paper, vol. VIII., no. 377, March 19, 1887

Author: Various

Release date: February 14, 2024 [eBook #72955]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Religious Tract Society, 1880

Credits: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading

Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL'S

OWN PAPER, VOL. VIII., NO. 377, MARCH 19, 1887 ***
Vol. VIII.—No. 377.] MARCH 19, 1887. [Price One Penny.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the

original.]
THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.
MERLE’S CRUSADE.
EASTER TIDE.
NOTES FOR APRIL.
THE ROMANCE OF THE BANK OF ENGLAND.
OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.
UNCLE JASPER.
“SHE COULDN’T BOIL A POTATO.”
VARIETIES.
DR. ZIMMERMAN’S DAUGHTER.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
 THE BLIND GIRL AND THE SPRING.
By SYDNEY GREY.

All rights reserved.]

Yes, it is true that I am blind (it was not always thus),

But oft it comes into my mind how God can comfort us.
For if of some good gift bereft, we bend before His will,
He ever has a blessing left which should our sorrow still.
This very morn I found it so; scarce had the day begun,
Ere with small pattering, restless feet that hither swiftly run,
The children came in joyous mood, and shouted, “Spring is
here!”
And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was
near.
I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,
A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves
among,
In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s
touch,
And all my soul with rapture filled; yet when I said as much,
The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the
wind!”
To them, perhaps, it might be so; but ah! if folks are blind,
They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway
dark—
The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden
voice to mark.
Therefore when spring begins to don her garments fresh and
gay,
Because I cannot look upon her beauty day by day,
Nor see the pointed crocus flame above the garden mould,
Nor watch the snowy tips that frame the daisy’s heart of gold;
Because unto my longing eyes may never be displayed
The changeful glory of the skies, warm shine and soothing
shade,
Nor the great sun’s far reaching rays which crown the day
with light,
Nor yet the star-lit purple haze that comes before the night;
She breathes the tender tale to me, in accents clear and
plain,
Until I nearly rend the veil and see it all again.
And though I’m blind, I know quite well, when to the woods we
go,
The place to find the wild bluebell, and where the lilies blow;
Shy violets tell me, as I pass, their buds are at my feet,
And through the lengthening meadow grass run murmurs soft
and sweet.
Oh! I thank God that He doth bring such daily joy to me,
For even I can welcome spring, like happy girls who see.
 MERLE’S CRUSADE.
By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt
Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XXII.

UNCLE KEITH.
I had been obliged to defer my visit to Aunt Agatha for more than a
fortnight, and it was not until an early day in October that I could find
a leisure afternoon. I believe that only very busy and hard worked
people really enjoy a holiday—listless and half occupied lives know
nothing of the real holiday feeling and the joyousness of putting
one’s work aside for a few hours of complete idleness.
I felt almost as buoyant and light-hearted as a child when I caught
sight of the old bridge and the grey towers of All Saints. The river
looked blue and clear in the October sunshine; there were barges
floating idly down the stream; a small steamer had just started from
the tiny pier; two or three clumsy-looking boats with heavy brown
sails were moored to the shore; there was a man in a red cap in one
of the boats; two or three bare-legged urchins were wading in the
water. There was a line of purple shadow in the distance, little
sparkles of sunlight everywhere, yellow and red leaves streaming, a
little skiff with a man in white flannel coming rapidly into sight,
omnibuses, cabs, heavy waggons clattering over the bridge. Beyond
the white arches of the new bridge the busy hum of workers, the
heaving of great cranes, the toil and strain of human activity.
The sight always fascinated me, and I stood aside with others to
watch until a well-known figure in the distance recalled me with a
start. Surely that was Aunt Agatha crossing the road by the bridge;
no one else walked in that way—that quick, straightforward walk,
that never seemed to linger or hesitate, that could only belong to her.
Yes, it was she, for there was the dear woman holding out her hands
to me, with the old kind smile breaking over her face.
“I came to meet you, Merle; I did not want to lose one minute of your
company, but I was a little late after all, dear child. What a stranger
you are, all these months that we have not met!”
“It has seemed a long time to me, Aunt Agatha, so much seems to
have happened since I was last here.”
“You may well say so,” she returned, gravely; “we have both much
for which to be thankful. Your accident, Merle, which might have had
such grave results, and——” here she checked herself, but
something in her manner seemed strange to me.
“We need not walk quite so fast, surely,” I remonstrated. “How these
people jostle one, and I want to talk to you so.”
“And I to you. Never mind, we shall find a quiet corner under the
shadow of St. Mary’s.” And as she spoke we turned into the narrow
flagged path skirting the church, with the tombs and grey old
headstones gleaming here and there. There were fewer people here.
“Are you sure you are quite well?” I began, rather anxiously. “You are
looking paler than usual, Aunt Agatha, and, if it be not my fancy, a
little thinner.”
“Yes, and older, and perhaps a trifle graver,” she returned, rather
briskly; but I thought her cheerfulness a little forced. “We have not
yet learnt how to grow younger, child. Well, if you must know, and
this is why I came to meet you, that we might have our little talk
together. I have not been without my troubles; your uncle has been
very ill, Merle, so ill that, at one time, I feared I might lose him; but
Providence has been good to me and spared my dear husband.”
And here Aunt Agatha’s voice trembled and her eyes grew misty.
I was almost too shocked to answer, but my first words were to
reproach her for keeping me in ignorance.
“You must not blame me, Merle,” she replied, gently. “I wanted you
dreadfully; I felt quite sore with the longing to see you, but I knew
you could not come to me. Mrs. Morton was in Scotland; you were in
sole charge of those children. Unless things grew worse I knew I had
no right to summon you. Thank God I was spared that necessity; the
danger only lasted forty-eight hours; after that he only required all
the nursing I could give him.”
“Aunt Agatha, it was not right; you ought to have told me.”
“I thought differently, Merle; I put myself in your place—you could not
desert your post, and you would only have grown restless with the
longing to come and help me—the same feeling that made you hide
your accident from me led me to suppress my trouble. I should only
have burthened your kind heart, Merle, and spoiled your present
enjoyment. I said to myself, ‘Let the child be happy; she will only fret
herself into a fever to help me, and she must do her duty to her
employers.’ If Ezra had got worse I must have written; when he grew
better I preferred telling you nothing until we met.”
“I shall never trust you again,” I burst out, for this reticence wounded
me sorely. “How am I to know if things are well with you if you are
always keeping me in the dark?”
“It will not happen again, Merle; indeed, my dear, I can promise you
that it shall never happen. If you had been at Prince’s Gate I should
have summoned you at once, but, in your position, how could I ask
you to desert your post, Merle, when those who placed you there
were hundreds of miles away?”
I saw what she meant, and I could not deny that she had kept me in
ignorance for my own peace of mind. It was just her unselfishness,
for I knew how she must have longed for me; we were so much to
each other, we were so sure of mutual sympathy and help. Aunt
Agatha cried a little when she saw how hurt I was, and then, of
course, I tried to comfort her, and I very soon succeeded. I never
could bear to see her unhappy, and I knew it was only her goodness
to me.
I begged her to tell me about Uncle Keith’s illness, and she soon put
me in possession of the salient points. He had worked a little too
hard, and then had got wet in a thunderstorm, and a sharp attack of
inflammation had been the result.
“He considers himself well now,” she continued, “but he is still very
weak, and will not be able to resume work for another week or two.
His employers have been very kind; they seem to value him highly.
Oh! he has been so patient, Merle, it has been quite a privilege to
nurse him; not a complaint, not an irritable word. I always knew he
was a good man, but illness is such a test of character.”
“But you have worn yourself out,” I grumbled; “you do not look well.”
But she interrupted me.
“Do not notice my looks before your uncle,” she said, pleadingly; “he
is so anxious about me; but indeed, I am only a little tired; I shall be
better now I have told you and got it over. You have been on my
mind, Merle, and then that horrid accident.” But I would not let her
dwell upon that. We had reached the cottage by this time, and
Patience was watching for us; she looked prettier and rosier than
ever.
I found Uncle Keith sitting pillowed up in an armchair by the drawing-
room fire. I thought he looked shrunken, and there was a pinched
look about his features. He had not grown younger and handsomer
to my eyes, but as he turned his prominent brown eyes on me with a
kind look of welcome, and held out his thin hand, I kissed him with
real affection, and my eyes were a little wet.
“Hir-rumph, my dear, I am pleased to see you—there, there, never
mind my stupid illness; I am quite a giant now, eh, Agatha? It is
worth being ill, Merle, to be nursed by your aunt; oh, quite a luxury I
assure you! Hir-rumph.” And here Uncle Keith cleared his throat in
his usual fashion, and stirred the fire rather loudly, though he looked
a little paler after the exercise.
“But I am so dreadfully sorry, Uncle Keith,” I said, when Aunt Agatha
had taken the poker from him and bustled out of the room to fetch
him some jelly, “to think I never knew how ill you were.”
“That was all the better, child,” he returned, cheerfully. “Agatha was a
wise woman not to tell you; but there are not many people in the
world, Merle, who would come up to your aunt, not many,” rubbing
his hands together.
“No indeed, Uncle Keith.”
“How do you think she looks?” he continued, turning round rather
sharply. “Have I tired her out, eh?”
“She looks a little tired certainly.”
“Hir-rumph, I thought so. Agatha, my dear,” as she re-entered with
the jelly, “I do not want all this waiting on now; it is my turn to wait on
you! I must not wear out such a good wife, must I, Merle?” And
though we both laughed at that, and Aunt Agatha pretended that he
was only in fun, it was almost pathetic to see how he watched her
busy movements about the room, and how he begged her again and
again to sit down and not tire herself, and yet she loved to do it. I
think we both of us knew that. I was not disposed to pity Aunt Agatha
as I had done in former years. Perhaps I had grown older and more
womanly in those eight months of service, and less disposed to be
critical on quiet, matter-of-fact lives. On the contrary, I began to
understand in a vague sort of way that Aunt Agatha was garnering in
much happiness in her useful middle age, in her honest, single-eyed
service. Love had come to her in a sober guise, and without
pretension, but it was the right sort of love after all, no doubt. To
youthful eyes, Uncle Keith was not much of a hero; but a plain
honest man, even though he has fewer inches than his fellows, may
have merit enough to fill one woman’s heart, and I ceased to wonder
at Aunt Agatha’s infatuation in believing herself a happy woman.
We had not much talk apart that day. Aunt Agatha could not leave
Uncle Keith, but I never felt him less in the way. I talked quite openly
about things; he was as much interested as Aunt Agatha in listening
to my description of Marshlands and Wheeler’s Farm, and had not a
dissenting word when I praised Gay Cheriton in my old enthusiastic
way, and only a soft “hir-rumph” interrupted my account of Reggie’s
accident.
It was Aunt Agatha who walked back with me over the bridge in the
soft October twilight. Tired as she was, she refused to part with me
until the last minute.
“You must come again soon, Merle,” she said, as we parted; “Ezra
and I are not young people now, and a bright face does us both
good, and your face has grown a very bright one, Merle.”
Was Aunt Agatha right, I wondered? Had I really grown happier
outwardly? Had the inward peace of satisfied conscience and a heart
at rest cast its reflection of brightness? I was certainly very happy
just then; my life was growing wider, friends were coming round me,
interests were thickening, there was meaning and purpose in each
opening day. I no longer thought so much of myself and my own
feelings; the activities of life, the needs and joys of others seemed to
press and crush out all morbid ideas. I had so many to love and so
many who seemed to need me and care for me.
I went more than once to Putney during the next two or three weeks.
My mistress was far too sympathising and unselfish to keep me from
my own people when they needed me; on the contrary, she was
always full of contrivances that I should be spared.
November passed very pleasantly. Mrs. Morton was recovering
strength slowly but surely; she was no longer a prisoner to her
dressing-room, but could spend the greater part of the day in the
drawing-room or in her husband’s library.
But she still continued her invalid habits and saw few people. I still
sat with her in the afternoon, and either Joyce or Reggie played
about the room. When Mr. Morton was absent I came down to her in
the evening, and read or talked to her. I prized these hours, for in
them I learned to know my sweet mistress more intimately and to
love her more dearly.
At the beginning of December Gay came to us. I was looking forward
to her visit with some eagerness, though I knew my evenings would
then be spent in the nursery, as Mrs. Morton would only need her
sister’s society; but, to my great surprise, I was summoned to the
drawing-room on the evening of her arrival. She had come just in
time to dress for dinner, and we had not yet seen her. I could
scarcely credit Travers’ message when she delivered it.
“Will you please go down to the little drawing-room, Miss Fenton?
Miss Gay wants to see you, and my mistress does not care to be left
alone.”
She started up and came to meet me with outstretched hands. She
looked prettier than ever, and her eyes were shining with happiness.
“I am so glad to see you, Merle. I wanted to come up to the nursery,
but this spoiled woman—how you have all spoilt her!—refused to be
left. She said Hannah would be there, and that we could not talk
comfortably.”
“Yes, but there was another reason,” returned my mistress, smiling;
and Gay blushed and cast down her eyes.
“I wanted to tell you the news myself, because I knew you would be
interested. Sit down, Merle, in your usual place, and guess what has
happened.”
I did not need to guess; the first look at Gay’s happy face had told
me, and then I had glanced at a certain finger. Opals tell their own
tales.
“Guess,” continued my mistress, mischievously. “Who was the guest
who came oftenest to Marshlands?”
“There were two who came most frequently,” I returned, looking
steadily into Gay’s blushing face, “Mr. Hawtry and Mr. Rossiter, but I
do not need to be told it is Mr. Rossiter.” And Gay jumped up and
kissed me in her impulsive way.
I could see that she was pleased I had guessed it.
“I told you it would be no news to her, Vi,” she said, breathlessly. “Do
you remember our talk in the orchard, Merle, when I told you I was
afraid of poverty?”
“Yes, but I knew you magnified your fears, Miss Gay.” But she shook
her head at that.
“I hate it just as much as ever. I tell Walter I am the worst possible
person for a poor man’s wife, and if you ask Violet she will agree with
me, but I was obliged to have him, poverty and all; he would not take
‘No’ for an answer.”
“I think Walter was very sensible,” returned her sister. “I should have
despised him for giving it up.”
“He would never have done that,” replied Gay, with decision, “until I
had married somebody else, and there was no chance of that. You
are grave, Merle; do you mean to forbid the banns? Why do you not
congratulate me?”
“I do congratulate you with all my heart; will that content you?”
“To be sure; but what then, Merle?”
“I ought not to say, perhaps, if you have made up your mind. I like
Mr. Rossiter. He is young, but he seems very good. But do you
remember what I said to you that evening, Miss Gay, when we were
watching the moon rise over Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, that your
environment just suited you; I can’t realise Marshlands without you.”
I saw the sisters exchange a meaning look, and then Gay said, in a
low voice, “What should you say, Merle, if I am not to leave
Marshlands—if my father refuses to part with me?”
“I do not think that would answer. Mrs. Markham would be mistress,
and you have told me so often that she does not like Mr. Rossiter.”
“There are to be changes at Marshlands, Merle,” broke in my
mistress; she had been listening to us with much interest, and I
wished Mr. Morton could have seen her with that bright animated
look on her face. “Adelaide will be mistress there no longer. A young
cousin of ours, Mrs. Austin, who was with Adelaide in Calcutta, has
just lost her husband. She is an invalid, is very rich, and very
helpless, and has no one except ourselves belonging to her. She is
very fond of Adelaide, and she has begged her to live with her, and
superintend her establishment. She has a large house at
Chislehurst, and so Adelaide and Rolf and Judson are to take up
their abode with her.”
“Things have not been very pleasant lately, Merle,” observed Gay,
gravely. “Adelaide has set her face against my marrying Walter, and
she has worried father and tormented me, and made things rather
difficult for all of us. It is quite true, as she says, that Walter is poor,
and has no present prospects,” continued Gay, “and she has dinned
his poverty so incessantly into father’s ear that he has got frightened
about it, and has made up his mind that he will not part with me at all
—that Walter must make his home with us. There was a terrible
scene when Adelaide heard this; she declared she would not stop in
the house under these conditions. And then Amy’s letter came, and
she announced her resolution of living at Chislehurst. I do not like
the idea of driving Addie away, but,” finished Gay, with an odd little
laugh, “I think father and I will manage very well without her.”
We talked a little more on the subject until I was dismissed, and I
had plenty of food for my thoughts when I went back to the quiet
nursery.
(To be continued.)
EASTER TIDE

A PRAYER.
 Lord, by the stripes which wounded Thee,
From death’s dread sting Thy servants free,
That we may live and sing to Thee Alleluia!

EASTER EGGS.
The origin of the practice of connecting eggs with our Easter festival
is, I believe, lost in antiquity; but they are said to have been used by
the Jews at the Feast of Passover. In some Eastern countries there
is a very old custom, which still prevails, of presenting eggs at this
season of the year—some say because the egg is an emblem of
creation, or recreation, there being a tradition that the world was
created in the spring. In parts of Russia people present eggs to one
another on Easter day, saying, “Jesus Christ is risen,” being
answered, “It is so of a truth,” or “Yes, He is risen.” The Russians
also serve red eggs on that day, symbolising at the same time the
resurrection and the blood of the Saviour.
At the time of Edward the First the eggs to be given to the members
of the royal household on Easter day formed an item in the
expenses. Over four hundred eggs, which cost about one shilling
and sixpence, were, we learn, distributed on that day. Eggs used to
be blessed by the Pope for allotment throughout the Christian world,
and the service of Pope Paul the Fifth contains the following curious
form of consecration:—
“Bless, Lord, we beseech Thee, this Thy creature of eggs that it may
become a wholesome sustenance to Thy faithful servants, eating it
in thankfulness to Thee, on account of the resurrection of our Lord.”
In some parts of the north of England, particularly parts of
Cumberland, decorated Pasch or Pace eggs are still sent to children,
so that the present fancy for ornamenting eggs is but the revival of a
very old custom. Some young readers of The Girl’s Own Paper
may be disposed to try what they can do in this way. I will, therefore,
tell them some of the methods employed; but first let me mention
that all eggs to be decorated must be perfectly clean, for the least