scarcely seems, at times, commonly grateful for all the thought | appointment as would have soured most men, but cnly seemed and care he has for her." "May there not be a reason for that?" Mrs. Sirgood could not help asking. She was a keen woman; she had a great deal of curiosity, and she had seen something in Mr. Halford's face which she wanted to understand fully. "What reason?" asked her friend, a little startled at Mrs. Sirgood's meaning tone. The vicar's wife besitated; she did not want to do mischief; she only wanted to satisfy her own cursosity. Mr. Halford was an invaluable parishioner; she could not aford to offend him. She waited to put her thoughts into the least objectionable words; and whilst she did so, Mrs. Neville repeated her question a little anxiously-" What reason?" Mrs Sirgood laid down her knitting, and looked her friend gravely in the face. "You must excuse me, Mrs. Neville," she prefaced, "if what I am going to say sounds a little impertinent; and pray let it be entirely between ourselves; but did it never occur to you that there might be an attachment between your brother and Miss Gray?" Mrs. Neville started; instantly there flashed across her mind the remembrance of looks, words, actions of her brother's which all tended to this point. She never understood Mrs. Sirgood's full meaning; she saw only one side of the matter-her brother's. How, indeed, could she dream that Ellie's studied coldness and indifference were only assumed! “Oh, pour, poor Anderson!" she exclaimed, mentally, " is he always to be unfortunate? Is his happiness to be wrecked a second time?'' Mrs. Sirgood saw the look of real distress upon ber face, and misinterpreting it, according to her own turn of mind, into dismay that her brother should marry at all, and especially that he should think of marrying a governess, wisely ceased to pursue the subject. That evening Mre. Neville watched her brother and Ellie when together, and decided that Mrs. Sirgood was right; and she was almost prepared for the announcement which Mr. Halford made, as soon as they were left alone together, of his intention to start for America as soon as possible. to raise and elevate his character to what it is." Ellie saw now that Mrs. Neville was watching her, and, with the determination to cross-purposes which marked the actors in this drama, she entirely misconstrued the motive. "You are so much one of us now, my dear," continued Mrs. Neville, "that I do not mind telling you that sad history. My brother, very early in life, formed a strong attachment to a very sweet girl; I sometimes think, do you know, that you are like her. She lived near us, in our old home, and my brother and she had known each other all their lives. She had lost both her parents, and resided with an uncle; she was rich, but then, you know, my brother was an only son, and my dear father's fine fortune was divided between us. "Well, they loved each other for years, Anderson and Amy, and without a word being spoken between them, each understood the other; and I am sure that my brother considered Amy as much his future wife as if the promise had been given, and yet he had not asked her, when he was summoned abroad for a few weeks on business of importance. Whilst he was away a great family misfortune, as we thought it at the time, a crime we knew it to be afterwards, happened to Amy's uncle, and he removed his whole household very suddenly from our neighborhood. Amy, of course went with them; she did not understand, any more than we did, all the circumstances of the She believed her uncle to be a martyr. I remember that she ran over to our house the morning she left, and bade my asked her for a message for Anderson, she gave it with a mother and me good-by, and wept at parting; and when we pretty blush. Oh, I am sure she loved him! case. "Afterwards Amy wrote, sometimes to my mother, and then my brother came back, and strange things were whispered about of Mr. Allerton, Amy's uncle-things, my dear, which her to leave her uncle's roof, and to become his wife; and then were proved to be true. My brother wrote to Amy, pressing he told us what he had done, and prepared us to receive her, as we should have been only too happy to do; but no answer came to that letter, nor to any others which he wrote. Then he went to see her, but she had left the place to which she had first gone, and all his efforts could not trace her. He came back and tried to wait patiently. I am so sure of Amy,' he “This idle life is enervating me, Sophy; I want action," he used to say, 'it must be all right in the end.' said. She looked at him wistfully, through gathering tears. "If it will be for your happiness, go," she said; "but we shall miss you terribly. At least wait with us till after Easter." Mrs. Neville lay awake all night, revolving all sorts of schemes to bring about bis happiness. "I would go down on my knees to her, and ask her to marry him, if that would do any good, but it would not. If she could only see it, it would be the happiest thing in the world for her and she must soon love him, he is so good, and so kind and true. How can any woman dream of a happier fate than to be Anderson's wife?" She felt quite angry with poor Ellie when she met her at the breakfast table, and would have shown that she was so, if Ellie's pale looks and untasted breakfast had not called for all her compassion. "I will tell her all his history," she resolved, in the courset of the morning, and it may move her to think differently about him." The opportunity came that afternoon when Mr. Halford had taken Annie for her daily walk with him, and Ellie and Mrs Neville sat together over their needlework. "A year later he received back all the letters he had written to her, and with them the notice of her marriage to her cousin, Frank Allerton. I am sure, even to this day, that there must have been some great wrong and treachery somewhere; that the uncle was a bad man, and that Amy was innocent. But we never heard of her again. "The shock to my poor brother was very great; it seemed to break up his whole life-that life which for so many years, ever since he was a lad of sixteen, he had been used to identify with Amy. My mother died a few weeks later, and then my brother went abroad, and lost himself among those eastern scenes of. which you have heard so much. I went to live with an aunt, and married from her house." Both the narrator and the listener had been absorbed in the interest of the story, and forgot, for a time its application; but presently Mrs. Neville came back to it with a sigh. "So you see, my dear, after all he has gone through, I am earnestly anxious that his future life should be happy. If he would only stay with us!" Ellie folded up her work, keeping her face all the time from the light; she knew how Mrs. Neville was watching her; then she turned round, and said, "Thank you, Mrs Neville for what "I am sorry to say," began the sister, her voice trembling a you have told me. Would you mind telling me also the family little" that my brother means to leave us." of the lady Mr. Halford loved?" 66 'Fuller, Amy Fuller," was the reply. Ellie had been sure of it; she was glad to remember that her mother had called herself" guiltless."' She left the room with a composed step; and before she had reached her own room her plan of action was determined on. Miss Ullathorne, cruel as she had seemed, was quite right j› sho had come to "compromise the peace and comfort" of the family in which she had been so kindly received. Had they not suffered enough through her mother ? – They should suffer no more through her. Mrs. Neville had discovered the secret of her unmaidenly love; Mr. Halford had seen it yesterday, and it was driving him from his pleasant home-that home which had been such a blessed refuge to her. Mrs. Neville, in her kindness, had told her this story of his unhappy love, that she might understand how hopeless was her own; and she had appealed thus to her-Ellie-to withdraw herself from the home which her unhappy presumption was ruining. Oh, yes, she would go at once. Was it for her mother's daughter, of all women, to disturb the peace of that household? She began with feverish haste to collect and pack all her possessions; action was soothing to her, and she never stayed in her task until she had completed it. She excused herself from the teatable; she could not meet Mr. Halford again. Mrs. Neville came up to her room, and then Ellie, appearing suddenly before her, abrupt from agitation, announced her wish to leave on the following morning. Mrs. Neville burst into tears. She had been indulging in fond visions of the softening effect of her late conversation with Miss Gray, and the disappointment was terrible. "My dear," she said, "you must not go-we could not bear it. Stay with us, and not a word, not a look shall ever wound your feelings." James, bring the carriage round again immediately!" he exclaimed. "Sophy, be quick !'' He was walking up and down the hall when Mrs. Neville came down, cloaked and bonneted. "We shall catch the express," he said, "and that reaches London an hour before the eight o'clock train." Poor Ellie's world was a world of wonders; and, perhaps, after the strange surprise of meeting Mr. Halford and Mrs. Neville on the platform, as she alighted from the railway carriage at the end of her journey, nothing ought ever to have surprised her much again. Yet it did. It came upon her with a great shock of surprise, when, in the pretty drawing-room at the Lodge, which she had thought never to see again, her guardian held her hands in his, and prayed her, for her mother's sake, to trust his calmer sense, and to pardon and forget the illfated love which had offended her once, but should never offend her again. How it came out, Ellie never remembered; whether, in her surprise, she spoke or looked, or cried out; or whether one of those sudden intuitions revealed to him the mistake he had made. She only knew, and remembered all her life afterwards, that, as be held her in his arms, he whispered, in tones that trembled with emotion, "Ellie, it is no new love which I offer But Ellie only shook her head. "I must go-it is best," she to you; it is the love of my life." repeated. "My poor child, where can you go to?" said Mrs. Neville. Ellie had not thought of this. She had only one friend, away from that house, and she repeated her name-"Miss Clementina." After all, Ellie Gray spent her Easter holidays with Miss Clementina; for Miss Ullathorne went away on a trip to Paris, leaving behind her a gracious invitation for Mr. Halford's ward ; and just the day before she came back again, a fair young bride passed out of Ellora House, leaving Mrs. Neville and Miss Clemance of her bridesmaid delight, voted these Easter holidays the "jolliest" she had ever known. Mrs. Neville was vanquished. "Anderson will be so grieved," entina in sympathetic tears, whilst Katie Darell, in the exubershe said. "Promise me you will not tell him until I am gone," said Ellie. Mrs. Neville hesitated ere she replied, "I have never hidden anything from him yet, and he might be seriously angry." "Oh, no, no! This is my affair-mine only!" cried Ellie. "Dear Mrs. Neville, add this last kindness to the many you have shown me. Have pity upon me! Let me get away early in the morning. I cannot see him again!" was wrung from her in the desperation of the moment. "Poor Anderson !" said Mrs. Neville again to herself-"how unfortunate he is! How can she be so cruel to him!" But she yielded, and said, "Very well, dear, it shall be as you wish. James shall drive you over to the station for the eight o'clock train, and we will say that you have gone to spend the Easter holidays with your friend. Perhaps," she added, wistfully, "before they are over, you may think better of all this, and return to us; and then nobody will know of it but ourselves." So in the sweet freshness of the early spring morning, Ellie was driven away from the home where she had known the greatest happiness and the greatest misery of her life. She had ield her mother's letter in her hand the night before, hesitating as to what she should do with it; then the words came back to her, "Should any great trouble or perplexity come to you, send him the letter I have enclosed." With a hasty resolve she wrote a few lines, enclosed the letter to Mr. Halford in them, and giving it to James, as he set her down at the railway station, bade him deliver it to his master. Afterwards, seated in the carriage, on her way to London, she would fain have snatched the letter back again; she agonised over the sending it; she shrank from the thought that she had thus forced herself upon his compassion. But not so did Mr. Halford receive it. He had just heard from his sister of Miss Gray's departure, and was sitting, pale and diɛcomposed, before his untouched breakfast, when the letter was brought to him. He read it, and the few words which accompanied it: "Do not think of me more harshly than you can help, because I cannot refrain, when leaving you for ever, from thanking you for all vour past kindness, in my mother's name." "Sophy, Sophy!" he exclaimed, "she belongs to us! Can you be ready in ten minutes? We must follow her and bring her back. Her mother, Amy Fulier, has given me a guardian's -right over her, and she cannot refuse to ratify her mother's appointment." His hand was on the bell-rone as he spoke. THE FOREST GLEANER. THE pictures of Mr. Dobson are popular on both sides of the Atlantic, and most deservedly. There is a sweet humanity about them which appeals to all hearts. The one we have engraved for the present number breathes of two natures-that of the woods and childhood. Like most of Dobson's pictures, it tells its own story. It is a child returning home with the bundle of firewood she has gleaned. She knows that her mother depends upon her for fuel, and she feels at once happy and important. With the usual instinct of chi dhood, the little wood-gleaner has gathered quite as much as she can carry, and we dare say she. will drop many a twig on her way home, and in stooping to pick them up drop more. The children of the poor, in all cases, have many privations and hardships to endure; but most certainly we feel more for the little ones who dwell in one of these loathsome pandemoniums called Tenement Houses, than we do for the children of the poor who have fresh air of the country, and roam thro' woods and Meadows. EVERARD ST. JOHN'S SIN. IF Lucy Ray had had the least shadow of love for Howard Leicester-which everybody knew she had not-it would have been no such seven days' wonder that she married him. Now it was. All who knew anything about her knew that she was not one to accept a man for her husband for mere ambitious motives; and, therefore, her marriage was a mystery which no one had as yet, fathomed. It had been asserted upon good authority that before answering Howard Leicester's proposals for her hand, Lucy had said to him: "Would you want me for your wife, if you knew I hated the very ground you trod?" and that he had answered: "Yes." This precious bit of gossip had leaked out, and been eagerly devoured by the curious ones; and now their eyes and ears were wide open for whatever other crumbs might happen to fall from their neighbors' table. People were not surprised at Howard's answer, for Lucy Ray, beautiful and brilliant as any queen, had intoxicated many riage. If he would, that man could have told her story; for he A year before at Newport, she and Everard St. John. It was not like St. John to spend many days at such a fashionable resort; it did not suit his tastes; and he was upon the point of leaving on the day of Lucy Ray's arrival; but one look at her face decided him. He made no more movement towards going. St. John meant to conquer her from the first. He meant to see her eyes droop and darken at his coming; to see her face change color at his words: in short, he meant to make her his in every thought and feeling, and, at the last, perhaps, his by right and name. It was undoubtedly an equal contest, beauty against beanty, wit against wit, and pride against pride; for whether Lucy Ray meant to win him as her husband or not, she did mean to bring him to her feet. But she bad never loved yet. Possibly she might come to love this man. He was so independent, so utterly indifferent to all the gay, dazzling ones around him, all save Lucy. Of course he had a purpose in all this, which she knew very well; but for all it was a pleasure to receive his attentions. How far he meant to go, she could not tell yet desperate flirtations were as common as sunshine, but by the flashes of anger that went over his face, which he illy tried to conceal, when Lucy smiled upon others, she judged that he was half in earnest at least. when they went to the saloons again; and for one blessed night she was content and happy. It was all over in a few hours. The next day brought a letter to Miss Ray, containing these, to Lucy, incomprehensible words: "I see the St. John betrothal ring upon your finger-see it, bim-and have been watching his actions. Is it wicked for me because I am upon his track, though unknown and unseen by to ruin his happiness now, by exposing a sin committed by him years ago, when he was young and wild, and which he may have bitterly repented of since? I care not. Vengeance is hand, to strike him to the heart. I have waited long, but he written upon my soul, and its keen knife is glittering in my shall feel my woman's arm at last. I would not spare him if I was hurled into torments the next instant for it. This enclosed picture is a likeness of his son, and-with no ring upon my finger-a curse upon him!-I am its mother-so help me heaven!" Lncy read it through, every word to the last; then she rang the bell of her room violently, and while waiting for the servant to answer the summons, penned these words, Come to me instantly." This she sent to St. John. She gave no sign of pain, save that every atom of color had left her face, and her eyes shone like coals of fire. In half an hour St. John stood before her. Lucy waited only until the door closed; then she took the picture, and withouta word held it before his faee. St. John staggered to the wall and would have fallen, had he not clutched hold of the sofa to steady himself. It was enough. Lucy snatched the ring from her finger, and with eyes of withering, blazing scorn, laid it upon the table, and motioned him to it. Not a muscle of her face moved from its stern rigidity while she was doing it; and then as calmly as though her heart was not breaking at every word, she said, "That is all. Good evening!" and moving grandly to the door, opened it, and St. John passed out from her presence. That was the end. One evening, at some soirée, he had not been able to claim her at all, or exchange a word with her. She had floated close beside him a dozen times; but at the end of each waltz or quad- The next day both left. Lucy went home, and became the rille, she whirled away again with another partner, giving him wife of Howard Leicester, for no other earthly reason than benot the slightest opportunity of approaching. It might be pur-cause she had heard St. John say once, "If there is any man in posely done, or it might not. St. John could not tell; but he the world that I hate, that man is Howard Leicester." It felt his teeth closing tightly, as he watched her swimming over would be double punishment to him, not only to love her himthe floor. How radiant she looked. Her face was brilliant, self, but to see her the wife of his most bitter foe; for Lucy her eyes flashing—now so close to her partner's face that her meant that he should see them, as well as hear of their marwarm breath must have swept his cheek-then away, the riage. She had no more pity for him than the woman whose spangles upon her dress glittering under the blaze of the glow-life he had so wronged and blighted. So it happened that Mrs. ing chandelier, and all the time so oblivious of him as though Howard Leicester wished to go to Italy, and did go, some six they had never met. months after Everard St. John. As the music stopped, St. John crossed the room to where she stood. His face was white and desperate. "Miss Ray, may I offer my arm for a promenade?" he said. For an instant Lucy's eyes opened at the subterfuge; then excusing herself, she took his arm, and they stepped into the garden. "You are used to flirting," he said, haughtily, as they commenced their walk. "What did you say?" Lucy asked, with a look of well-bred surprise. "No matter. You have spent a pleasant evening, I sup pose ?" "Certainly. Why not?" she answered, carelessly. He took hold of her wrist, sharply. If there be anything in the world that will make a woman reckless and wholly pitiless, then it is just such a blow as Lucy had received. She cared little what she did, so the man who had deceived her should suffer. The elixir of life was gonethe world was lost to her-what mattered it now? There was nothing more to win or love. In one of the picture galleries at Florence, they stumbled upon each other-or rather, St. John thought they did. There was little of accident in it, however. Lucy knew that he indulged in amateur painting at times, and it was easy to guess where he would be found. St. John and Leicester glared at each other in the most utter amazement for a second; Lucy bowed, and they passed on. It was the most cruel thing she could have done. St. John fairly writhed under the torture; 'Lucy Ray, are you flirting with me, as you have been flirt- but he would not have left the gallery before them, even if he ing with every one of your partners to-night ?" They had come in their walk to where the moonlight fell full upon St. John's face. Lucy saw that it was a terribly earnest one, and her heart gave a great bound. Then he loved her, after all! had had the power of rising from his easel, which he had not. "Slightly. We met once at Newport," she said, looking up into his face with a smile-the smile, however, intended for St. However, she answered steadily, "If I am, then the chances John's eyes-he was too far away to hear their words. "You are that we are even." know him too, I suppose, as you do not ask his name?" she "We are enemies," he said, grinding his teeth., 'Moncy. Shall we go "In a moment. Let us look at this painting. They moved on to a landscape which Lucy had pointed to, she standing so that she could see St. John's face. Their eyes met once; but that look was enough to make her heart cry out in very agony. He loved her as no other ever could, and-oh, worse than all!-she loved him, and Lot the man that stood beside her, and whose name she bore. JUDGE'S PISCUITS.-Having broken six eggs into a basin, whisk them well for five minutes; put in half a pound of powdered sugar, and whisk again for ten minutes. Add some carraway seeds (if liked) and half a pound of dry sifted flour, mixing all thoroughly with a wooden spoon. Drop the mixture on paper, each being about the size of a crown piece, and high in the middle. Sift sugar over them and bake them-if in a brick When they went from Florence, which was soon after, Lucy oven it will be better. Remove them from the paper while left a note for St. John, which said: "I intended to meet you here face to face with my husband, because, a week ago, I should have been ready and glad to put you upon the rack with my own hands. My anger vanished the day I looked into your worn, suffering face. I pity youfor the love of heaven, believe that I do; and that, though I could never, never be your wife with such a stain upon your soul, yet know that I gave to you that love which I can never give to another, because it can never be taken back from you; and-heaven forgive me!-I do not wish that it could. If it will be any comfort to you to know this, then I shall not be sorry that my pen has said it to you, and if it should tend in the slightest degree to make you stronger, and to help you to do your duty towards one whose name I do not know, then I will thank heaven upon my bended knees for it. By all your hopes of mercy hereafter, do not fail to make what reparation lies in your power now. Remember who has asked it of you. You and I must never meet again. I am going home to be a better woman." There was no signature, but it needed none. St. John shed such tears over it as only men in terrible sorrow can shed; and perhaps it saved him from a worse sin than the first, since the waters of the Arno had looked very inviting to him-more than any other place, since his chance meeting with Lucy. Afterwards, Lucy heard that Everard St. John had married a widow with one child. HOUSEHOLD RECEIPTS. LUNCH CAKE.-Rub half a pound of moist suger into two pounds of flour, make a hole in the middle of it, and put in a tablespoonful of good thick yeast (not bitter) warm half a pint of milk rather more than blood warm, but not hot enough to scald the yeast; mix it with the yeast and a little of the flour, about one-third part; when it has risen, which will be in about three-quarters of an hour, if the yeast is good, melt half a pound of butter in a little more milk; be careful it is not hot enough to scald the yeast; add one pound and a half of currauts, a little candied peel, and grated rind of lemon, and a teaspoonful of powdered allspice; mix altogether; buter your hoop or tin, put it in, and set it in a warm place to rise; when it has risen, bake it in a warm oven; when you think it is done, stick in a small twig of your whisk, and if it comes out dry, it is done; but if it is sticky, it is not sufficiently baked. The cake should be mixed up rather softer than bread dough. A few yolks of eggs mixed up with it will make it eat much better. IMITATION CRAB.-This makes a very nice relish for eating with bread and butter, either for breakfast or luncheon. The white meat of a roast or boiled fowl must be minced very fine with the liver so as to make about six tablespoonfuls in all. To this put two tablespoonfuls of pounded cheese, two moderate sized onions, four or five green chilies (or, if these cannot be procured, some cayenne pepper), chopped very small. Mix all these thoroughly together, and afterwards add one spoonful of anchovy, and one of Harvey's sauce, a large spoonful of mustard, two of mushroom catsup, black pepper and salt, and three spoonfuls of sweet oil. Well mix the whole. THE QUEEN'S BISCUITS.-Make a soft paste by mixing together thoroughly a pound and a half of flour, and an equal quantity of fine loaf sugar, the whites of twenty-four eggs, and the yolks of eighteen, and a small quantity of coriander seed beaten small. Place this paste on paper, cut it into pieces about two inches broad and four inches long, put them in a moderate oven, and when they begin to turn brown take them out, and put them on paper in a dry place." they are hot. KING'S BISCUITS.-Put half a pound of butter into a basin and turn it about well with a wooden spoon. Whisk six eggs well, add half a pound of powdered sugar, whisk another ten minutes, and then mix with the butter, after which stir in six ounces of currants, and an equal quantity of dried flour. After mixing these all well together, drop the mixture on paper, each about the size of a shilling, and bake in a quick oven, taking the biscuits off the paper while hot. MILLEFRUIT BISCUITS.A quarter of a pound of preserved orange-peel, and the same of preserved lemon-peel, six ounces of angelica, and the same of sweet almonds, and one ounce of batter. Cut up into pieces half an inch in length and a quarter in width. Make an icing with white of egg, sugar, and orange flower water; put the above ingredients into this; divide the mixture into cakes of any size preferred; put them on the baking-tin, upon which paper should have first been laid. Touch them here and there, by means of a hair-pencil, with a little cochineal, and bake them, but not in too hot an oven. ESSENCE OF NOSEGAY.-Flowers of benzoin, one drachm; essence of ambergris, two ounces; spirits of jasmine and extract of violets, of each one pint; spirits of cassia, roses, orange, and gilyflower, of each half a pint. orris root, one pound; essence of bergamot, quarter-ounce; oil VIOLET Powder.-1. Powdered starch, twenty-eight pounds; of rhodium, half-drachm. Mix and pass through a sieve.—2. Powdered starch scented with a little bergamot. STRENGTHENING BLANCMANGE.-Dissolve in a pint of new milk half an ounce of isinglass, strain it through a muslin sieve, put it again on the fire, with the rind of half a small lemon pared very thin, and two ounces of sugar, broken small; let it simmer gently until well flavored, then take out the lemonpeel, and stir the milk to the beaten yolk of three fresh eggs; pour the mixture back into the saucepan, and hold it over the fire, keeping it stirred until it begins to thicken; put it into a deep basin, and keep it moved with a spoon until it is nearly cold, then pour it into moulds which have been laid in water, and set it in a cool place till firm. This we can recommend for invalids, as well as for the table generally. TO REMOVE IRON MOULDS.-1. Rub the spot with a little powdered oxalic acid, or salts of lemon and warm water. Let it remain a few minutes, and well rinse in clear water.-2. Wash the spots with a strong solution of cream of tartar and water Repeat, if necessary, and dry in the sun. PERFUMED LINEN.-Perfumed linen is most agreeable to persons of both sexes, with whom perfumes do not disagree. The old-fashioned mode of communicating a pleasing perfume to linen was to place lavender flowers in the drawers and presses that contained it. The odor of lavender is, in the present day, considered vulgar. We shall therefore give directions for preparing "sweet ags " to perfume linen when it leaves the hands of the laundress. We would, however, strongly recommend that bed-linen never be perfumed; such a practice is extremely unwholesome, because it helps to impregnate the confined air of the bed-room with carbon and hydrogen and the result to the sleeper is headache, if nothing worse.-"Sweet bags" for linen may be composed, according to the taste of the person using them, of any mixtures of the following articles :-Flowers, dried and pounded; powdered cloves, mace, rutmeg, and cinnamon; leaves, dry and powdered, of mint, balm, dragonwort, southern-wood, ground ivy, laurel, hyssop, sweet marjoram, origanum, rosemary; wood, such as cassia, juniper, rhodium, sandal-wood and rosewood; roots of angelica, zedoary, orris and all the fragrant balsams, ambergris, musk and civet. These latter should be carefully used on linen. OMELET.-Separate the whites and yolks of three eggs, well beat the whites to a froth; one tablespoonful of flour beaten up with the yolks of eggs, a teaspoonful of milk and a tablespoonful of moist sugar, mixed altogether with the whites of eggs; have a frying-pan, on purpose, about the size of a meat plate, into which pour the batter (having first buttered the pan); fry to a nice brown; then slip it out of the pan, spread some jam on it and fold over; grate some sugar on the top. When served, the omelet should be quite hot, in shape a half oval. VEAL CAKE.—This is a pretty, tasty dish for supper or breakfast, and uses up any cold veal which you may not care to mince. Take away the brown outside of your cold roast veal, and cut the white meat into thin slices; have also a few thin slices of cold ham, and two hard-boiled eggs, which also slice, and two desert spoonfuls of finely chopped parsley. Take an earthenware mould, and lay veal, ham, eggs, and parsley in alternate layers, with a little pepper between each, and a sprinkling of lemon on the veal, When the mould seems full, fill up with If a proper shape be not at hand, the veal cake looks very pretty made in a plain pie-dish. When turned out, garnish with a few sprigs of fresh parsley. VIOLET PERFUME.-Drop twelve drops of genuine oil of rho-strong stock, and bake for half an hour. Turn out when cold. dium, on a lump of loaf sugar; grind this well in a glass mortar, and mix it thoroughly with three pounds of orris powder. This will, in its perfume, have a resemblance to a well-flavored violet. If you add more rhodium oil, a rose perfume, instead of a violet one, will be produced; the orris powder is a most agreeable perfume, and only requiring it to be raised by the addition of the above quantity of oil. Keep this perfume in the same manner as the others. That sold at druggists' shops is generally adulterated. TO TAKE OUT GREASE AND INK SPOTH.-Spirit of ammonia will take out spots of grease, ink, fruit stains, &c., on cloth, silk, muslin, or any other material, without injury to the color of the fabric. If can be purchased in small quantities at any chemist's. same manner. ANOTHER WAY.-Put the bones of the fish, with the bead and fins, into a stewpan, with about a pint of water; add pepper and salt to taste; one good-sized onion, a handful of sweetherbs if you like, and stew all slowly for about two hours. Then mince fine the clear meat of the fish, mixing it well with bread crumbs and cold, mashed potatoes, and a small quantity of fine chopped parsley; season with salt and pepper to taste, and it over lightly with white of egg, and strew with bread crumbs, make the whole into a cake, with an egg well beaten up. Brush and fry of a rich amber brown. Strain the gravy made from the bones, &c., and pour it over; stir gently for tea minutes or a quarter of an hour, carefully stirring it once or twice. Serve very hot, with garnish of parsley and lemon slices. FRECKLES AND SUNBURNS.-1. Bruise and then squeeze the juice out of the common chickweed, and to this juice add three times WET CLOTHES.-Handle a wet hat as lightly as possible. Wipe its quantity of soft water. Bathe the skin with this for five or ten minutes, and wash afterward with clean water night and it as dry as you can with a silk handkerchief, and when nearly morning.-2. Elder flowers treated and applied exactly in the dry use a soft brush. If the fur should stick together in any When the flowers are not to be bad, the dis- part, damp it lightly with a sponge dipped in beer or vinegar, tilled water from them (which may be procured from any drug- and then brush it till dry. Put the stick or stretcher into a gist) will answer the purpose.-3. Honey, one ounce, mixed damp hat, to keep it in proper shape. When a coat gets wet, with one pint of lukewarm water; when cold, it forms a good wipe it down the way of the nap with a sponge or silk handkerlotion. This is commonly called honey-wash.-4. Take carbon-chief. Do not put wet boots or shoes near the fire. ate of potass, twenty grains; milk of almonds, three ounces; oil of sassafras, three drops. Mix and apply two or three times a day. LIGHT TA BUNS -Take half a teaspoonful of tartaric acid, and the same quantity of bicarbonate of soda, and rub them well into a pound of flour, through a hair sieve, if leisure permit. Then work into the flour two ounces of butter, and add two ounces of crushed and sifted lump-sugar, also a quarter of a pound of currants or raisins, and (if liked) a few carraway seeds. Having mixed all these ingredients well together, make a hole in the middle and pour in half a pint of cold new milk; one egg, well beaten, mixed with the milk is a great improvement, though your bans will do without any. Mix quickly, and set your dough with a fork on baking tins. The buns will take about twenty minutes to bake. From these ingredients you ought to produce a dozen. GOOD CHILDREN'S CAKE.-Rub a quarter of a pound of butter, or good, fresh, clean beef dripping, into two pounds of flour; and half a pound of pounded sugar, one pound of currants, well washed and dried, half an ounce of carraway seeds, a quarter of an ounce of pudding-spice or allspice, and mix all thoroughly. Make warm a pint of new milk, but do not let it get hot; stir into it three tablespoonfuls of good yeast, and with this liquid make up your dough lightly, and knead it well. Line your cake tins with buttered paper, and put in the dough; let it remain in a warm place to rise for an hour and a quarter, or more, if necessary, and then bake in a well-heated oven. This quantity will make two moderately-sized cakes: thus divided, they will take from an hour and a half to two hours' baking. N.B. Let the paper inside your tins be about six inches higher than the top of the tin itself. FISH CAKE-Carefully remove the bones and skin from any fish that is left from dinner, and put it into warm water for a short time. After taking it out press it dry, and beat it in a mortar to a fine paste with an equal quantity of mashed potatoes'; season to taste. Then make up the mass into round, flat cakes, and fry them in butter or lard until they are of a fine golden brown color. Be sure they do not burn. Codfish is excellent, re-cooked after this fashion. HOW TO CLEAN GILT FRAMES -When the gilt frames of pictures or moulding of rooms have got specks of dirt upon them, they can be cleaned with the white of an egg, rubbed on with a camel's-hair pencil. FOR A COLD AND HOARSENESS. -Boil a middling-sized turnip, lay it in a common saucer, and pour on it three tablespoonfuls of molasses; the juice of the turnip is extracted, and forms a syrup which will be found very efficacious in removing hoarseness or curing a slight cold. ITALIAN LEMONADE-Pare and press two dozen lemons; pour the juice on the peels and let it remain on them all night; in the morning add two pounds of loaf-sugar, a quart of good sherry and three quarts of boiling water. Mix well, add a quart of boiling milk and strain it through a jellybag till clear. A STRING OF BEADS. A LITTLE OBSCURE. Official. "What profession?" stealing pigs and robbing hen-roosts. If he does not desist, we "Well, how much will you give ?" asked the postmaster. "Four sous is all that it is worth to me," said the comedian. "Well, take it then," replied the postmaster, "for I've read it, and it's only a love-letter." A SELL. A charming French actress, embarking with a rich accident, whereupon she cried out in despair," The diamonds of my monsieur from France, dropped a small box overboard, as if by child! Lost! lost! mon Dieu! mon Dien!" She was consoled as well as possible at the time by her wealthy admirer's making her a considerable reward, transferred to him. What was his astonisha costly present. Subsequently the box was fished up, and for a ment on finding it contained only dominoes! |