I think, my dear Elder Daughters, we will take for our motto two verses from the Book of Books:-"EVERY WISE WOMAN BUILDETH HER HOUSE; BUT THE FOOLISH PLUCKETH IT DOWN WITH HER HANDS."-Prov. xiv. 1. "SHE" (the virtuous woman whose price is far above rubies) "LOOKETH

WELL TO THE WAYS OF HER HOUSEHOLD, AND EATETH NOT THE BREAD OF IDLENESS."

No. 1. A MUTTON HASH, which nine times out of ten is tough and tasteless, but when properly treated becomes a wholesome appetizing dish. The best way to hash the remains of a leg or shoulder of mntton, is, I find, as follows:-Over night, cut up your meat in thin slices, break the bones, put all into a saucepan with water enough to cover it, and let it simmer about an hour; finally, let it come to the point of boiling, then turn it out into an earthen vessel, and leave it till the morning; (never permit soups, stews, stock, &c., to remain all night in metal pots or pans.) Take off the cake of fat, which may be rendered down for common pastry, or frying purposes, &c. Remove all the bones and skin, and most of the pieces of fat; place the meat in layers in a saucepan, sprinkle every layer with a little salt, pepper, and flour; slice one or more good sized onions, according to quantity of meat and to taste, cover with the skimmed liquid and set upon the hob. Then let it gradually heat till it simmers-keep it at simmering point for half an hour. A quarter of an hour before dinner time, thicken with flour, making a smooth thick paste with cold water or milk in a cup, and gradually thin with the broth of the hash. Add a teaspoonful of mushroom ketchup, or Lea and Perrin's "Worcestershire Sauce." Stir this mixture well into the hash,--taste and see if the seasoning is enough; if not add salt or pepper, very gently: remembering that you may remedy a deficiency, whilst an overplus is ruin to your dish. Boil up for half a minute to let the thickening do its work, then serve in a hot dish, garnished with thin crisp sippets of toasted bread. If you have broth by you use it instead of water, in the preparation of the hash: if milk is plentiful, use milk and water, half and half; and if you have any cold gravy

from roast or pie, add it to the hash. In all made dishes, Lea and Perrin's "Worcestershire Sauce" is invaluable. A shilling bottle discreetly used will last for months.

2. ECONOMICAL BUT DELICIOUS FAMILY SOUP.-We will suppose you have finished a joint of splendid Christmas beef, a piece of the sirloin, weighing from 10lb to 14lb. Divide the bones, and put them with two pennyworth of melt into a pot, with two quarts of water, or broth, or liquor in which beef has been boiled, (though the latter is often too salt for use) the remains of a cold tongue, pork bones, fowl bones, &c., should be saved and added. Simmer gently for four hours, then strain off the soup into an earthen pan-let it stand till cold. Skim off all the fat, but put in any bits of meat, and of the soft part of thet ongue; also slice in a couple of good thick carrots, two or three turnips, a couple or so of onions according to the size, and as much celery as you think right. Season with salt and pepper-DISCREETLY - remembering the consequences of a heavy hand in condiments! The peas, either split or whole, should be soaked in rain water all night, then boiled to a mash, separately, taking care they do not burn, add them gradually to the soup, an hour before wanted. Taste and see if there are salt and pepper enough-just boil up, and serve with toasted bread cut into dice. Some people like a little dried mint, finely powdered, on the table. The toasted bread should be served separately, never in the soup. Be sure to remove the milt, which is only fit for pussy, when the goodness is extracted. You may always make the soup richer by adding half a pound of gravy beef-a ham bone is a grand addition. If at the second simmering you have not liquid enough, add water; but do not "drown the miller!"-one rash moment spoils your labour! The vegetables should be just melting into the soup, when it is ready. In France I have seen the carrots and turnips boiled separately, and rubbed through a sieve into the soup; also, two or three large mealy potatoes treated in the same way. This I can recommend! You may make a tureen of this soup and call it Soupe Parisienne!

PART I.

MRS. Patience Martin! What a joke!" exclaimed Georgie Evershed, rushing into the pleasant upstairs sitting-room, which still bore the old familiar name of "the nursery." "Why, nurse, here's a book from somebody who does not know much about you. Do let me see what it is. I hope something nice!"

Patience Martin, the children's former nurse, and now the much esteemed and trusted friend of the whole family, took the book from Georgie's hand, tore off the paper which encased it, and then said, as if well pleased, yet surprised at the same time

The annual report of my old school at Swanford. A presentation copy, and so prettily bound too! Well, that is very kind!"

"If they send reports to all their old scholars, they must have good memories, and a great deal of troublesome business into the bargain," said Georgie. "I'm quite disappointed, I hoped it was something really nice."

With these words, Georgie skipped out of the room again, to join her

VOL. I

brother and sister in singing the glee of the "Three Blind Mice."

These three children, Georgie, Hilda, and Lawrence, were as merry as children could be, and children can and ought to be very merry.

At the beginning of winter, however, there was not much mirth amongst them; for Lawrence, the youngest, was then very ill. It had been a long illness, for it commenced in September, and, in consequence, they had spent a very sorrowful Christmas. All the more disappointing, also, was this, because the whole family had anticipated a happy time in their new home at Brackenlea, whence they had been absent for two years whilst the new house was building, and which time they spent at various homes both in Scotland and Ireland; a pleasant, wandering life which all had enjoyed for the time, but ever looking forward to the still happier time when they would be settled down once more at their beautiful Brackenlea.

Instead of the great and merry "house-warming," which had been anticipated, came the sad anxiety of Lawrence's illness, and instead of all settling down, as had been hoped,

F

under their own roof, another dispersion followed. Lawrence and his mother removed to the warmer climate of Malvern for the hydropathic treatment of one of the great establishments there, and Georgie and Hilda were sent to Yarmouth under the care of the good Patience Martin, who herself was a native of Norfolk.

Now, however, all the sorrow and anxiety of that time is long past. They are established in their beautiful home, and nothing but pleasant memories remain even out of that season of trial. Their father, too, is now with them daily, their cheerful, kind father, who seems to them especially the embodiment of strength; for "Papa can do everything!" He was, in fact, physically, morally, and intellectually a strong man, and children soon feel this, though they may not analyse it. Therefore, one of the pleasures of the new home was that they saw their father every evening at least, and all Sunday, instead of only in flying visits, as at Malvern or Yarmouth. His evening return was one of the pleasantest events of the day, and generally, at the first sound of the coming train, they ran down the shrubbery walk to the small side-gate, which opened almost upon the platform of the little country station, to meet him and to bring him with rejoicings home.

But now a word or two of the children themselves. Georgie is a bright, happy creature. She is sometimes called George, but this does not please her, for she persists in not being boyish nor yet too much of a romp. Nor do I think she is, neither do her parents; though she can whistle and dance the hornpipe as well as any little sailor, and in her tight-fitting gymnastic costume run up the poles and swing on the ropes in their gymnastic room as light as a feather. The parents approve of their children taking a great deal of exercise, and, therefore, in his new house, Mr. Evershed, who is a rich and celebrated architect, has built a splendid gymnastic room for their use, and here he frequently drills and exercises them himself.

Hilda is much quieter than Georgie. She is fond of poetry and music; composes little verses, and sets them to tunes of her own.

When Lawrence first returned from Malvern, and was still considered somewhat of an invalid, it was she who always muffled him up when he went out, and fetched him his "nooning," as she called it, according to her favourite Norfolk phrase, of jelly, at twelve o'clock. Moreover, she allowed him to accompany some of her little pieces on his concertina, which was a great act of forbearance on her part, seeing that she had a fine ear for music, and Lawrence made an excruciating din.

"Music, however," she said consolingly to herself, "is the part of Lawrence which has not grown yet."

As for Lawrence, his illness had made him somewhat of a despot, for everybody at Malvern, from the old bath-woman, who especially attended upon him, upwards, had agreed to spoil him, and she, certainly more than all the rest; so, at least, his mother said. Nevertheless, Lawrence was naturally a good-hearted, generous lad, and now that he had returned home, one of his greatest pleasures was to hear about his sisters' stay at Yarmouth, where they had lodged at the house of a brave, noble old pilot, called Captain Hedley, and his wife. He, in his turn, was very diffuse on his stay at Malvern, and had endless stories to tell about the ladies and gentlemen there, and his kind old bath-woman.

When the children had sung themselves hoarse, and it was now dusk, they agreed to go to Patience, and get her to tell them something amusing by the fire in the twilight.

They were very fond of Patience, who had taken care of them ever since they were born. She was more like a second mother to them than a nurse.

"Now, Patience, we are come for you to tell us something that will make us split our sides with laughing," was Lawrence's greeting, as they entered the room.

"No; tell us about Miss Winterflood's Establishment for Young

Hilda put her fingers in her ears, determined not to listen; and Patience began:

"It really was the most miserable place you can think of, though it was so grand to look at. People talk against charity-schools, but, at all events, we had at Swanford plenty to eat and drink, and were so happy, that going straight from there to the Miss Winterflood's, I felt as if I had dropped out of Paradise. If I could have helped the poor young ladies it would have been so different. But I could do nothing."

"So you left, and came direct to mamma," said Hilda, who was tired of stopping her ears. "Now, don't go on with that dismal story. We know all about it. Come; let us sit round the fire, and make ourselves cozy, and fix about sending off our valentines."

"There's one favour I should like to ask of you," replied Patience, drawing her chair closer to the cheerful glowing fire round which all were now seated.

"We'll do anything for you, dear old Patience," said Lawrence, who began whittling a stick, and making a great mess on the hearth, " anything it may be your ladyship's pleasure to ask."

"It is only to write me a pretty valentine," said Patience, smiling, "for a poor little girl at Swanford, who is much on my mind. I have been thinking of it for some time; and now the report coming this afternoon made me desire it still more. She is a Norfolk child, poor thing, used to keeping Valentine's day.

"She shall have a prime one,' returned Lawrence. "Hilda shall write some capital verses; not any rubbish, and papa shall make them run smooth, and mamma shall paint the picture!"

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"It is little Sally Prior, who has been two years at the school. I knew her parents, and, indeed, others of her family," said Patience, with a sigh. But her parents are now dead. They both died when she was a baby, and her grandmother lives at Fieldfare Marsh, in Norfolk; a long way off. So I thought a Valentine would cheer her up; and, perhaps, now that Master Lawrence is quite well, and we are all settled down again, your mamma would spare me some Wednesday, which is the visiting-day, that I might go and see her, for she is a friendless little thing."

"That she will!" responded Hilda. "But why have you not told us about this little Sally before; and how did you come to know her friends?"

"Oh, Miss Hilda, I knew them as well as my own family almost," replied Patience. "I knew Mr. and Mrs. Bendelow; they were little Sally's grandparents when I was quite a child. He was in the herring-fishery, like my father; and we were very friendly. They lived next door to us, and we used to joke about our two cottages being called Unity Cottages, because we were just like one family. We used to knock on the wall by the fire, and ask how each other did, of a morning, and were always running in and out."

"I remember you went to see an old Mrs. Bendelow when we were at Yarmouth," said Hilda; "why did you not tell us about her?"

"It is a sad story altogether," returned Patience, sorrowfully, "and some way I never much like to talk about it. Still, you must know about little Sally. The Bendelows had three children; Mary, who was poor