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Press, Volume LXIV, Issue 13161, 7 July 1908, Page 13

you nuvui ?" "Oh, motor or oUvorwi&a. Whenever a TOman taken to boi'ng strident, and having a profession, or doing tJuiigo "iiKiopt-inlcnt,' she takes to spectacles.' , "Do you know any of them?" 'Know any! Rather not. Freaks don't- come much our way, do they, thank good m\ss—unless it's soino upheaving exeftptioii like Maude Stormaway, and 1 suppc&e si motor-mad daughter of an earl can foroo licr way into any company. Mau<lo Storina"way iis r»\illy a yood sort, and sho aiid John Travers are dovotetl to on« anotlu.*r; but my nioUitM - doo&n't know that, and I talievo siio undergoce tornietrts when Maude aiid I are together, fearing last 1 should Joso my heart to that modern specimen of iTOnifinhooti, and introduce siich an unsuoinly addition to lier faiuiJy." "Lady -Matido might hay© done worso," said Beatrice, her vodco trembling a littlf?, and her anger rising. "&h« might Ivave. taken to real work, to reaching, or (singing in public, or— or oook-ing, or something -equally diereputable.''

'Y-'-he might, of course, though I can't picture a Stormaway taking to •real work of amy kind. Still, as you say, thero are worse trades than motor driving anel worso smells than petrol. But don't let us waste* your last day in discussing work-women, and horrors we need never face. I want you to accept the Heartmeadows' invitation for tho autumn—"

But Beatrice, stung to indignation by his wholesale condemnation of women who "did things," roso to her feet. "I shall accept no invitation for tiie autumn," sho declared hotly, "for by that time I shall bo a work-woman myself."

•■You," he exclaimed, still laughing, scarcely realising that her anger was a fAct. "What do you mean to do?"

"Mean?'' she retorted, "7 mean to work for my living. I am quite poor, and lam going to learn to bo a 060k." Sho even stamped her foot as she said it. "I shall not .wear glasses, but I shall -weai*' a coanse apron, and I shall probably smell of—ol— *' her thoughts flew wildly from one culinary item to another —'of onions," she concluded desperately. 'And I shall sink from the sacred circle graced by your mother and yourself, and I shall never, if I can help it, speak to one of your nar-row-raitided, boat-less set again." And with that she turned her back on him, and hurried towards the house, leaving George, who was really a very good fellow at heart, and honestly beginning to be in lovo with her, staring after her white-gowned form with _io_.reely seeing eyes,, his brain was in such a whirl with the shock of hor. ui-expected vehemence. UT In the long, white kitchen of Mrs Sheraton's Cookery JSstablishnient Beatrice Dude stood, with whito apron over her lilac cotton gown, and with sleeves rolled back to her white elbows, sugaring a wedding-c___e—Rosie Lascelles'w-dding-oake. . It was ho very wonderful coincide-ice that this wedding-cake should be for Rosio Lascelles, or tha* Beatrice should bo holping to make it. Beatrice had real ___<!-wieri, aho first oamo to Pallaminster -that Rosie's aunt lived but a few miles outside the little town; sho know, too, that SLrs Sheraton's establishment had a wide reputation (that fact indeed had decided her to enter it as a pupil), aad, was "patronised by all the'country-'folk round about; amd surely it was not surprising that Rosie should need a wedding-cake, pretty, sweet-tempered Rosie

There was a tender little smile lingering about Beatrice's lips, though her eyes, at times filled with tears, as she moultlod ' the white - sugar, and thought of the Rosio of a year ago. Beatrice's deft hands did not fail in their delicate work, shaping here a dove, there a heart, hero a love-bnot,' there a flower; but her thoughts were far away from tho long kitchen., with its marble slabs and wide windows opening to tho garden. Again she lived those happy weeks a year ago at Courtfiekl, that littlo spell of freedom from care and sweet intimacies, before she became a working-woman. Again she lived that lost day, when something akin to tenderness i"*i.n George Dashwood's voice hael overwhelmed hor with a sense, of shame for hear deeep tion in not telling of her. altered circumstances from a rich, man's niece to a i>oimiless girl, and had sent Iter flying to Helen to unburden her heart by confession. Ah, how that last day was bitte.n into her memory—the scene with Helen; tho quarrel, with George Dash wood in th<o garden: the evening which followed when at their last din-ner-party she had worn her prettiest gown and a smiling face, but had given George Dashwood no opportunity to exchange more than a formal, word with her.

And then had como tho grey, dewy morning after ■ the., sleepless night, when, with Helen's help, she had left a loving letter telling the truth to Rosie, and then had driven off to the station, before either of the other guests were astir.

Helen bad kept bar word; she told no ono of Beatrice's whereabouts. But in her own letters she still gave Beatrice yoine tiding), of the world which had once bocai -her \vorld also. "Rosie Lascelle. iW to l» married to Mr Dashwood," wrote Helen one day; and perhaps never till that moment did Beatrie.* realise how much George Dashwood hael meant in lier life. But since that day there had come a littlo softening of tho pain. "Why it should make mc _ happier I don't know," sho saiel severely to herself a. she looked at the initials "H..D." and '"R.L." handed to her by Mrs Sheraton to bo wrought in white sugar. Over and over again Beatrice told herself that even if George Dashwood did not marry Rosie he certainly would not marry a cook; yet that Tetter "H" did make a difference. It gave her less pain to shape it on Rosie's weddingcake than if it had beein a "G." The relief was still in ber heart this day, when suddendy Mrs Sheraton burst in upon her thoughts. "Oh, Miss Dueio! wthat can I do? What can I do? Here's trouble for us indeed »"-.-■ "Has .-oroeooe broken my sugar bell " cried Beatrice. "No, no, nothing half so trifling," wailed tbe poor lady. "Miss Collier has had a telegram to aay her mothor is very ill, and she mtrst go at onoe. And here'am I with oceans of special cookery on hand—" "Oh, dear Mrs Sheraton," exclaimed Beatrice, "don't trouble about that. I nm -sure I can do those entrees and thinaj. by this time. 11l work nights as well as days if need be. Poor Miss Coll'er." . 'Tew, indeed. I'm afraid my own dilemma has made mc very unsympathetic, poor girl. If it wero just one's own dinners one wouldn't- mind anything; but Tve undertaken so much, and thoro's .this wedding—nothing short- nf an earthquake could excuse my failing to have everything right and i«ady. Of course, I can't say poor

Miss Collier mustn't- go to her mother,; but my worst anxiety is that-she won b be able to come back in- time to go" to bhe wedding to see to things—•" "Oh.'' g-a*ped lk'atrico faintly. -Yon ,«.--», I myself-must be superintending at the Qnex lun_h_*__- at tibo very same hour; I promised I would.' "l)-V" guspod "Beatrice again. "What shall we do, for certainly -eliss Clollior won't bo back in timo; she'll scarcely have reached hor home.*' . "I couldn't trust any of the other pupils, they are so.raw—" "You mean—?" "Any but you. Of course, I haven't forgotten tliat I promised you yon shouldn't be sent to the wedding—but—well. I stippc__e, I must insist on Miss Colliers return; business is busim*,;—.u:<l Fvo undertaken—" Beatrice's litMirt qitaileel. In another j moment she was facing one of those oc- ] casion,, whish coiik> to most {htsohs at some time in their lives, when be- i fore them lies t\to ohoieo between performing a kindness or v cruelty; anel yet to a gentk* nature tjipre. i-* no choice, for it woulel be hi, ..-wiblo not to yiokl'to the distasteful eourso, and so help a fellow creaturx*. "3lrs Bheraton," saiel Beatrice slowly, "Miss Collier may stay as. long as sht* is needeHl, if I can do her work; anel—we*ll, ii" she is not hero when tlio day come-, I will superintend at Miss La-celles' wedding. I.osio La..celle_' wedding-<lay dawned fair and bright enough as to weather, but a quite unlooked-for trouble arose, anil that at tho very moment when tho brido should havo been slipping her white satin gown over her he_el. Instead of slipping into a wedding dress she was rushing up and down stairs in a bluo muslin drevssing-gown :rvgard_c-_. of her newly-d-resseel coiffure, for "the second green bridesmaid" had eiippexi on tho ovor-polishod corridor, and in let*? timo than it takes to tell'she was an incapacitated wedding guest.' fit only for bed and hot com presses to an anguished ankle. Consternation was filling the hearts of every member of tho householei who hael any intimate-knowledge of I.osio, "dragon of an aunt/ for Rosie's aunt was a lady Mho, if things discomposed her, stormed and raved with the full force of her gouty temper; and Rosio herself well knew that if this elire upsotting of plans should reach ' .i-untio's oars," that fierce lady was quite capable of bringing down hor fist with a bang and eleclaring, "Then thero shall be no wedding to-day!" In any other house tho briele would probably havo been tlio person to bo considered and sympathised with, next to the su_ferer; but in this house tho poor sufFerer valiantly suppressed her moans till sho was out of ear-shot, and the bride-elect went hurrying hithor and thither to bring comfort, and guarel her auntie's door Beatrice Ducio,. busy in the diningroom, knew nothing of tlio consternation abovo stairs, till she heard a little cry, and looking up from tlio flowens sho was arranging looked straight into tho eyes of Rosio herself, ' "Beatrice! Beatrice!" cried Rosio in amazement, "oh, you darling! How did you come? Why didn't you tell mc!" And Beatrice's hands were caught impulsively, and her cheeks covered with kisses. "Ch, you will help mo now. I'm in such trouble." "Rosie, dear. 1 m not a guest, I'm just hero* for Mrs Sheraton, to look after the breakfast." ; ''You are a guest; you must be. Oh, Bee, what shall I do?" In another moment Rosie was pouring her tragic tale into Beatrice* sympathetic care. "You poor little soul! What can be done?" "I don't know. Auntie will be furious ;we daren't toll her. Sho planned the whole procession herself, colour-' scheme and all, two bridesmaids of each tint, and grcomsmen to correspond. She'll be like a tornado." _ "Oh, how I wish I could do some- | thing. Ie there nothing I can—" j "Nothing," cried Rosie despairingly." Then, with a little shriek of gladness. "Oh, yes, yes, yes, you can. You must bei. tho second green bridesmaid, and auntie would never know." "No, no. I couldn't possibly do that! "What an idea!" " 'Tou must." [ "My dear Rosie, I am here to do the table—" - "It is far more important that you, should go to church." "But it is madnees—•!" "No, it's the very wisest thing." "Oh, Rosie." "0-h, Beatrice." "I oouKn't." •'.-•■;. , "Beatrice. In that dreadful last letter you wrote to mc you protnised that if ever you could do anything .to prove your love for mc yon i\"_uld;and now. on my wedding day, 1 beseech you to do this to help mc" out of my trouble.'' "I think," said-Beatrice"a .little' dazedly, drawing h*r hand slowly across her eyes,- "that the world niutst be going a little mad round abont nie. Perhaps, after all, I had better do mad .things, to. keep pace .vith it. Rocie Lasoelles, I look hidecata in green, and the gown won't fit you may bo sure; but if you really want mo to act as a stopper on an "explosive aunt I suppose it doesn't much matter what--'I look like, so—cook or bridesmaid—l'll play tho part you choose.*" •'You darling," cried Rosie. "Gcorgo Dashwood," sho added, "will be your groomsman." , ' . "Miss i>ucie." " "Mr Dashwood." Thoy had come face to face at last in the garden, away from the crowd, and there was.no escape for Beatrice. . "Ami forgiven?" ''Forgiven?" she echoed stupidly. "When I saw you as a bridesmaid—" "I was not really a brkkvsmaid. I ought to have been waiting at table," sho said desperately, tryi >. r - to make the truth as ttgly as possible. "It is T who havo been waiting," he said softly, '"waiting a whole year for a sight of you." "Then I hope you like mc in this colour gown," sho snapped, almost hysterically. ,"I do," he replied with fervour. "Ft fits a ten-_tone girl, and I am eight, and it is all—" . "AU ono to mc," he persisted. "Shall I teli you what you looked like all through the service." " . "How <lo you know?" "I was watching yon." "Oh." '•Yes, and __iall I tell you what you looked like?" " Yos " "A happy bridesmaid. And all the time I wanted to quote—" "What?" " 'Oh. happy bridesmaid, bo a happy bride.'" 'To mc?" "To you. T ' A flood of.happiness surged over her heart, and .he sitock of it flushed her checks. But <lid he realise tho truth after all? "Men of your sort don't marry cooks," sho saiel haughtily. ''One man of my sort want** to," .so declared. And ho held out his arms. "Come, Beatrice, come. If you're a cook you can 'feed the brute,' only come and bo a barppy bride. "Well." sho sighed, "if you can love mc in this green frock, you must love mc well indeed." "I do." ho declared. And she hid her happy face on his wedding "favour," arid gave up further argument. Mothers, when your children have a cold give them Tonking's Linseed Emulsion. 3

A MAN. r ' ~ ' \". : -. ' '\:;'._-..,.;..r'•"""#--.,-"Tii_ Bo..L_ii\ J ' 1 hael often, met and admired the oH. foreigner. He was >o: tall and smart . f r and And Iseeretiy wove round him a* romance He looked like the last roi .-'of a nowe famaiy. Then, with pity, I noted a change. He no longer took has place 3«_u_tt_ly at the next table to mine. But I me*, him. a-id saw him turn into a Flaw ileis street ''si-peii-i-V *"» s wn_ W« t, frayed, and the wat-*b-oha_n was anesine. I mentally wondered how long' the money would, last: Melbourne vx%wnbrokers are not lavish m then■advances-. One day I turned in aad took a seat the"Situa-ioiK.\acanV of tho Age." ' _ Pi-esenlly he looked up; and, affect, im* a careless tone., l askvd ; 'Out.of a portion, M'sieu?" He nodded calmly. "1 am out— yes. out of a posit-on. and out of Hick. I will noon bo out of elbows, M'sitvu." 44.11 c Presently I drew him on to talk of France. Then I got my first enrPr * l *_.o, M'sieu, Ido not return. Frcuic© T do nor longer have any regard for. I have what you call—tuT-h my hands— >-o_. I am 'now naturalise'—l liave papers ah, yes. Australia I adopt, I kluto your flag. Frunco have treat mc badly, ver' badly. She j.—what you call' it—one rotten country—yes, one rotten country," "You're about right there, Frenohy, a wharf labourer on m,\ left struck in; "it's the rbttenest flamin' place in t_ie The old Frenchman stiffened. "M'sieu,'" he said deliberately, "probably speaks from personal experience. - Yes. of course.!' '~_.. x . "Wotcher mean? asked tbe other, ' darkly. I translated. I didn't want to miss tho circus. x ,-. "Havo you ever been in Fnwic© Monsieur wish-, to know?" "No, I r_in't,' n ho growled. "But, ali the same, I stick to what I say. 1-fcad * _. a Froggie for a mate onco on a mining * tribute, an' he beat mo fer arf a quid. An' we 'ael a second mate on my kst -> trip to the Big Smoke. Bo was a j_rene*hy, an' he was. no dam good. I, stick to it France is just what Mossoo savs-r-a darned rotten country.'* 'M'sieu was white-lipped and li __d. ' 'And for these reasons" —he spoke , with difficulty—"you bay—you abuse, you speak her a rotten countrj. 'Plie other gaaed at him __*-Ohi_JM-d. "Why, you said it yorself, .Froggio Didn't you say you was a __M_he_**_n_*i--t Britisher? Didn't yer, now? An' — an' —an' didn't yer bloom-n* ootrntry ,^ send Dreyfust to exile fer 20 bloom- _. in' years,* an'—<an'. air-how, w_» licked _ yer'outer sight at AVaterko." „ . , . Ti.'on the tornado burst. "Pig I *~■.. Canaille! ' W r lv_urf rat I I spit upon *"T you, scorn you." t _!"^, The hot soup flew: straight, Ana. tho , f ~ "wharf rat" leaped up cursing. . ■*■** - "A fig for Waterloo!, _H fus! I would __aYO_h___fe__t---.-ir. head should have your Nelson!" The i_j^r-b-___n- ! ----; ,i tltat - time. '- "Vive" Napoleon 1.-..''i^Viv«' - France! I hurrah ''for,: tho world. , • - '•.--.■■,-• ■-~:--■-.-"'v./-..: ~;=';£■§-%& A waiter, hurrying up, got board -full ■in the with a yell: '.-'■''.' "•-.;• • :;; . .'- v - ; S'.^/e"!.^-^?j^-^igi •'Come on, wharf _*af-.!, : Bello '• France J- : .Yes, '■ fight : you' to a—wliat;-ypu. : C-il'_.__^^fij__.>|"^g^_^ is-." . ■ ■ ■ ..■■■'"■. •■'■ .'^■-yi :::: -'-^^^l0}^^^p^m ■■ He had -hrrnvn'-everytltbg-r-U-rbwaWe;-?* by this timo,'and ; -tihe-.''wliarf at'him.- -But -M'sieu 'wM kicked, bit, tore,scratched,. . upon his : enemy nail.-'' The ''-to.-*"* He,. too, was a gan.o fight-r{.b_-|/j.liiw:i||#|MM was--not.' the kind> of■'. warfare u|ed to. ■■■ -■-';: :^-i4i^^^M^S^s^&m >'That 5 1 _ Froggk. 'ad' enoiigh \-j -You're;. _w_bloom_isy^_tti^{^^ ■ quake,' -an':,yor : .don't-.fi^i_iJ*f^^|%Cl-_IIS,|a|%M ■-■ Mm orf j.' -he -appe_d©d' , '"■ I did;. -One eye. was ■.'<*lo_*-d,' : rusg-fc-green, colour-wassptei-.dattipiWfelaS'*i!iSlp • ly. ever-.tho ch-*&. .i-Has': : .Ahi^'-lio,^. I *"^^ . < s - .i,-»*»o/*'-'*' ? **^^ H -* | **^-*__.-H* a **_nr"- ■ v * : '#'- ;: ~ , r ,k _.;""____ '-■•■■■-■•,■- 'Aw^i£&*i . JW-i-'-svas ..s_alil.i'g*me.': r -l : . crowd';'crfe-i. anc_l_f__ia__t.^@^^^_r'???^^ " - > ';V'Jl^ioui_,_ , .-—i-'-n'ny>other-'-'ge.ntleman'':'_rf-*n > ■tioh..to'd^rih_..l_a' ;^_e_l^»___fe^ .-;- vHe-was- twirling.'*"• .- .■•suggest-ively.:j.n-,h-ts'-l^.n_K|»^;:Mfc|&J4ii^^M ■ . •- ,Thnt--nightVllhaa. -• for. three ' mi-n, '. have' " -Wren's 'pavilion .itranv^timeJ^Hli'-rlt-iC'^^^^P the '. 'Marseillaiso" oii t^t^^iibtimemi^^^B : b_dting' time,;with;'a. b-coß^«^^|i^J#^^ ■"■- ' mm^m mmmMmWmmWWmWmWmmmmmm $ _*?'■?r_.-i?^_i_f!___S-__SH