29. Grouse.—Let the birds hang as long as possible; they are tough and tasteless, if not well-kept. Pluck and draw them, and wipe them inside and out with a damp cloth, but do not wash them, or you impair the flavour. Truss them without the head, the same as a roast fowl; there are persons who still twist the head tinder tho wing, but the former method is now observed at all the best tables. Put them down to a brisk, clear fire, and keep basting them with butter all tho time they aro roasting, though lard, or good beef dripping is an excellent substitute. Five minutes before taken up, they should be frothed with a light sprinkling of flour. Thirty minutes is generally long enough for thorough cooking, for grouse is not good overdone, but some prefer five-and-thirty minutes. Send them to table on a buttered toast, soaked in the dripping-pan, or with fried bread crumbs; or else dish them up with gravy under them, and send in the tureen of bread sauce, or melted butter, as may be preferred, or else a sauce which is very good for wild-fowl, made as follows:—a teacupful of port wine, and the same quantity of good meat gravy, simmered with a small fihalot, and a little salt and pepper, and a grate of nutmeg, for ten minutes; slightly thicken with a little butter and flour, give it one boil, and pour it over the birdie. Black-cock may be cooked like grouse, only they take longer to roast; and Sodjo cooks, after trussing, cover the breast with vine-leaves and slices of bacon.

30. French Duck.—This is a very nice way of warming up any cold duck you may happen to have in your larder. Lay the joints and slices, with the remains of seasoning, in the gravy, and you may add to them with great advantage thin slices of ham, cold beef, or cold roast pork if it be yet in season, which it is not in hot weather, though some persons imprudently eat it all the year round. Season with a

little salt and pepper, but in this matter of seasoning be sure to have a sparing hand j if you overdo it, your dish is spoiled, whereas a little more can be added at any time. Add a little lemon-poel very finely minced, and let it all gradually warm through, and just come to the boil—-but no more. If you have not sufficient gravy, dilute with water, but sparingly. Meanwhile, boil in water slightly salted, a quart of green peas; and when they are tender, drain them, and stir in one teaspoonful of pounded white sugar, and a little butter ; sprinkle them with flour, shake them over the fire for several minutes, and serve them on the middle of a flat dish, laying the meat all round. French beans are nearly as good as peas for this purpose, and when neither are to be had, mash some potatoes with butter and a little cream; add salt and pepper, and place in tho middle of the dish. The remains of stuffed roast leg of pork, with or without any beef, are excellent this way.

31. Green-gages.—To make greengage jam, divide the fruit, take out the stones, and put them in the preserving-pan, and bring the fruit to a boil before adding the sugar, which must be in the proportion of threequarters of a pound of sugar to every pound of gages. When tho sugar is in, keep stirring it over a gentle fire till it is melted. Remove the scum as fast as it rises, and boil rapidly for the last five minutes. Tho jam will generally be done in threo-qnarters of an hour after the sugar is added; but to ascertain certainly, pour a little on a coldplate.and the syrup will thicken and appear firm if the boiling be sufficient. Have ready the kernels blanched, put them into the preserve, give one boil, and pour into pots. Many people do not trouble themselves to remove the stones, in which case, there are of course no kernels to blanch; but the jam is certainly not so nice. To preserve them another way, choose the largest; when they begin to soften split them without paying, and strew a part of the sugar which you have previously weighed, allowing an equal quantity of fruit and sugar. Next day, pour the syrup from the gages, and boil it with the rest of the sugar six or eight minutes, but very gently; then add the plums and the blanched kernels, and simmer till clear, carefully taking off any scum that rises. Put the fruit singly into jars, and pour the syrup and kernels to it. Keep in a cool dry place.

32. Raspberry Vinegar.—Carefully pick six pounds of fine ripe raspberries, and pour on them four pints of the very finest vinegar. Leave them thus for four days, frequently stirring, but not mashing the fruit, so as to bruise the seeds; then place a piece of clean washed lined or flannel in a sieve, and filter through it tho vinegar; to each pint of juice, adding two pounds of loaf sugar. Put it into a glazed jar or pan, which place in hot water, and keep there till the juice boils thick and syrupy. Let it become cold, then bottle it. The whole process should be carried on in glazed earthen vessels.

33. Stewed Cucumbers.—Choose straight, well-grown cucumbers, peel them and divide them into quarters

long-ways, remove the seeds, and place the quarters on a sieve to drain ; when quite dry, dust them thickly with flour. Melt half-a-pound of butter, lard, or best dripping in the frying-pan; when it boils, put in the cucumbers and fry them till they are of a light-brown; lift the pieces carefully with a tin slice, and set them to drain off the fat. Have ready some rich beef gravy, in which onions have been used, put the cucumbers into a stew-pan, covered with gravy, and let them simmer slowly till quite tender. Before serving, take out the cucumbers, thicken the gravy with flour, season it to your taste with salt and pepper, and add a dessert-spoonful of mushroom ketchup; boil it up, and pour it hot over the slices. Another, and far simpler way is to slice them thick, or halve and divide them into lengths; strew on them salt and pepper, and some sliced onions, add a little broth, and simmer slowly. When ready, thicken with a little flour and butter, and add a small quantity of mushroom ketchup. Either mode produces a nice, tasty little supper-dish; and people who grow their own cucumbers frequently find their frames producing more at one time than they can dispose of among their friends, or treat as mere salad.


The winds make mournful music,

Around our shattered nest;
And we are weary, missing

Its shelter and its rest.
So long the radiant sunshine

Upon our path had streamed,
That it could ever darken,

Our spirits had not dreamed.

The chain of deep affection

Had bound our hearts in one; And cherished tones and voices,

Played round our dear hearth-stone. Our days were never lonely,

Within that sheltered home; Its spell of love upon us,

Forbade our steps to roam.

But now our sun is clouded,
Its rays are bright no moref

One voice's cherished music
Is hushed; its song is o'er.

The light within our dwelling
Is darkened, and the shade

Deepens around our homestead,
For death the gloom has made.

Yet far beyond the sighing

And mournf ulness of earth, Within a golden city,

Another soul has birth: And in the 14 many mansions"

Prepared by Jesus' love, Our dear one waiteth, longing

To welcome us above.

Soon shall the broken circle,

Again be made complete; Wit h new and pure affection,

Once more we all shall meet. There parting never cometh,

To mar our heart's deep joy; The home to which we hasten

Knoweth not death's alloy.


Christian World Magazine.

September, 1866.





I Told you that we were to leave Forest Range early in September, and in accordance with this intention, we were very busy during the month of August making preparations for the journey. Sir John had enough to do in settling all possible difficulties with his bailiff, in going over the home-farm, in saying "good-bye" to tenants and to personal friends, and in attending to county business, and providing substitutes on whom certain responsibilities should rest during his absence. Certainly Sir John had very little leisure in those days; nevertheless, he rode over several times to Southchester to reconnoitre the enemy 's ground, and to be quite sure that Mr. Gower was still persecuting salmon in some remote regions of Norway; at any rate, far away from Monkswood. There was no sign of the new master of Monkswood anywhere about the fair cathedral city; the workmen he employed went drowsily about their work, and the restorations were nearly at a standstill; it would be October, Vivian Gower's servants told all the world, before


their master, whom they evidently held not in reverence or esteem, would be among them again. And in the meantime, the prebend of T wycombe's house witnessed strange scenes, and listened to very strange language, if all the tales that were afloat might be relied on: and, "like master like man," was the proverbial rejoinder of the outraged Close. The bishop himself openly regretted the advent of Mr. Gower, and heartily wished that Monkswood had remained in the possession of its original owners, and it was understood that on his return he would not be received at the palace. The dean shook his head whenever the gentleman's name was mentioned, arJfl sighed, and looked portentous; prebends, canons, and minor canons, and even juvenile choristers and vergers, were of opinion that Mr. Gower was a very bad man, and must be tabooed for the honour of the cathedral. Only a few tradesmen, who were charmed by extensive orders and ready money, took his part; all the city, with a few exceptions, ranged themselves under the episcopal banners, and were prepared to show Vivian Gower a very cold shoulder on his return. The young ladies of


the Closes were desired by the powers that were, not to know Mr. Gower when next they saw him, albeit many of them had spent hours in his company in sundry prebendal drawing-rooms; and young men of repute whom he had met and chatted with freely around the archidiaconal mahogany, virtuously resolved to "cut the fellow," when he came once more to Southchester.

So very unpopular had the "fellow" become, that we began to hope the place would be too hot to hold him ; and, at any rate, that he would defer his return till the storm had somewhat spent itself: it was quite a relief to feel assured that we should not meet him again for many a long day.

And from time to time Elizabeth heard some of the tales current respecting her bete noire of a lover, and she knew pretty well the general odium attaching itself to his name, and even to his household. But she said nothing, and seemed on the whole resigned to the will of her parents. And yet I was never quite sure that it was genuine resignation: there were times when it seemed to me a yielding, half sullen and half apathetic, to the inevitable; a sort of submission under protest, that might any day, tinder fostering influences, turn into revolt. My great hope lay in the absence of Vivian Gower.

During this busy, anxious month, Lady Ashbumer's health seriously declined; it caused her the keenest pain to discover that she had not the key to Elizabeth's confidence, that she could'ftot win her daughter to be candid, and to speak freely on all she was pondering so deeply in her heart.

Many hours the mother and child spent together, and we knew that Lady Ashburner was striving to bring back the old sweet freedom of other days—days when Elizabeth had nothing to conceal, when she spoke her mind almost too freely, when she relied on her mother for counsel and for comfort, when she poured out all her heart, and ever found the ready sympathy

she sought. But now, without any outward estrangement, a new and insurmountable barrier to all pleasant intercourse existed. Elizabeth would talk on general subjects cheerfully enough; she would discuss routes and plans; she would listen while Agnes read, and seem interested; she would concern herself about the gardens and the greenhouses, wondering how they would look when we all came back again; but the slightest allusion to Vivian Gower and his suit, the merest mention of Cyril's name, or anything approaching to expostulation or warning, however moderate, however tender, invariably sealed her lips, or she would say gently, but very decidedly, "Mamma! I cannot talk about these things; I know you are mistaken, and you think I am deceived; on these points wo can never agree; let us leave them." And then no entreaties, no representations, no commands could drag from her another word; either she maintained an impenetrable silence, or she left the room, sometimes with angry and impatient step, sometimes with tears streaming down her face. And all this tried Lady Ashburner sorely, and one day she said to me, "My dear, this will kill me if it continue; I cannot get at my child; what have I ever done to repulse her?"

I tried to comfort her as best I might, saying that Elizabeth would alter presently; that when we were abroad, and away from certain associations which Forest Range and Southchester presented, she would be herself again; and much more that I devoutly hoped for, yet only half expected; for the whole character of Miss Ashburner seemed to have undergone an inexplicable change, and she was no longer capricious, cliildlike. and petulant: but a woman among women, firm, unwavering, and self-reliant. Also, she had learned the lesson of selfrepression, which once she had so greatly needed. I began to fear, and so did Agnes, that she had learned it but too well.

At last that weary mouth of August came to its close, and all our arrangements were complete; packing was going on in every room, and Murrays and Bradshaws were in requisition; and then it came to the Monday evening, and we were to start for Southam by the 10.MO train on Thursday morning.

How well I remember that evening, hot, close, and dull! Not a breath stirred the leaves as Agnes and I just about sunset wandered through the shrubbery, talking absently about many trifling things. One idea was absorbing us both, and yet we made an effort, both of us, "to conceal the true current of our thoughts."

"What an oppressive day this has been!" was my remark, as we emerged from the dense shade into the outer circle, and seated ourselves under the great tulip-tree, which was the glory of Forest Range.

"Yes," said Agnes, dreamily, "and there is thunder in the air; my headache tells me so." She was looking very pale and tired, and there were dark circles round her eyes. I felt that for her it would bo well when we were fairly on our way. Something prompted me to plunge right into the subject which for many days we had been avoiding, and I said, in as careless a tone as I could assume, "Have you heard aught about Cyril?"

Her face changed, as if some cruel pain had seized her, and she replied, " Yes, I heard to-day."

'• Anything good?"

"No! the reverse of good. Cyril's passionate impulses will be his destruction."

'• What has he done now '.'" I asked tremblingly: the pale cheeks and excited manner of my companion suggested various miseries. It crossed my mind that Cyril had started in pursuit of his rival, resolved to seek that dreadful and devilish alternative, called, "the satisfaction of a gentleman." I was not a romantic person, and I knew that the days * of Chalk Farm notoriety were long ago

ended; but I knew that Cyril had been fearfully tried, that a yearning for revenge had sprung up within his heart, for Sally Hawkes had told me so much, and that, being not a Christian in the true sense of the word, he was not to be depended on. I felt sick at the bare notion of the horrors that might be in store for us, and it all flashed through my mind while I asked what he had done.

"He has engaged himself to marry a woman whom certainly he does not love, that is all!"

"All indeed! Agnes, you cannot mean it?"

"I do! He has told me so; that was the fatal mistake to which he referred. Some weeks ago, before we met him at the British Museum, there came a girl to the house where he is boarding, a Laura Somerset, very beautiful and clever; she, too, had suffered from the falsehood of one she loved, and they found comfort, I suppose, in each other's sympathy. Aid one evening, Cyril, who had previously never dreamed of such a thing, was wrought upon to propose, and he was accepted on the spot, and all in the house knew of it an hour afterwards."

"A planned thing, Agnes ; the girl is an adventuress!"

"We have no right to say so. Cyril says she seems—no! he has scratched out 'seems,' and written, 'she seemed quite the gentlewoman.'"

"Who is she?"

"He only says she is Laura Somerset, and he sends me her carte; here it is."

Now this was in the early days of cartes, and the soft ivory finish and delicate tinting of the carts that now ore taken, were unknown. Consequently there was nothing to redeem its so-called errors. But photography tells the truth—sometimes most unpleasantly, for if you have a hidden weakness or a cherished wickedness in your heart, it will surely come out in the sunpicture. The face that annoys you, and yet is "so very like," in spite of all its heaviness, its impudence, or its sinister expression, has got

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