stare aghast, till Daisy ceases her passion quite suddenly, and comes running up to me, putting her arms round my neck, to say:

"Daisy sorry, Mamsie."

"Will you never do it again, Daisy?" "Never, never," says the child with extreme penitence.

Then I take her on my lap, and explain her sins to her at some length, but I have an uncomfortable consciousness that Janet knows best how to manage her, for if she happens to be present, she checks my Daisy with a sen

tence:

Eh, the wicked hussy! She'll be needing to have her whips the noo!"

November 25th.-This afternoon, I came upon Janet vainly trying to warm our poor ayan by the kitchen fire; the latter having caught cold, shivering, and crouching, with her hands outstretched to receive the welcome heat. Merciful powers! if she be cold in this fine autumn weather, how will she bear the snow and frost of our northern winters? I had always understood that people coming from hot countries bring with them a certain amount of caloric which holds them in good stead for some time. But the Mill Farm is fresh-like, certainly. Janet stood beside the ayah, stirring a tumbler of stiff toddy.

But the Indian woman shook her head. I fear that Janet's kindness and Janet's conversation were alike unintelligible to her.

November 30th.-I need scarcely have been jealous of my little Daisy's affections, after all. She dearly loves to come and nestle on my knee, when there is no one by to see us or listen to us, and I talk to her then in the fulness of my heart, with that curious strong sense of fellowship that the society of young children so often brings to those who are old and solitary.

working, and full of life and ambition. Would Daisy like to be a painter? I ask. But Daisy shakes her head with unhesitating denial. The child speaks little of her mother; usually, when appealed to on the subject, she repeats her stereotyped phrase: Mamma said Daisy was to be happy, and call you Mamsie," then, with a little laugh, her volatile thoughts depart to other regions, to roam in unknown phantasies.

One evening, as she sat, her bonnie soft head on my shoulder, and her arms tightly clasping a very old and broken doll that she had brought from India, I tried to tell her a really long story. It was somewhat difficult to me to tell it, and I felt absolutely nervous when I began, but after a while I progressed splendidly. My story was all about giants and fairies, ogres and dwarfs, and the many strange and wonderful things that children, I believe, delight in. was partly a reminiscence of the legends told to me in my early youth, partly a great imaginative effort of my own for the child's benefit. When I came to an end I anxiously awaited Daisy's commendation.

Shall I tell you a story?" asked that small person composedly, and thereupon she proceeded to give me a lengthy narrative which consisted entirely of the adventures of a broken doll, the pussy cat, and the kitchen table.

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That," said Daisy impressively, by way of summing up, "that, is a very nice. story indeed, Mamsie !''

Then, without further comment, she slipped off my knee, and ran joyously out of the room, banging the door loudly.

Half an hour later, hearing strange cries which apparently proceeded from the nursery, I went upstairs, and found the ayah vainly attempting to give Daisy her evening bath, while that unprincipled young person was racing round and round the room, in a state of complete nudity, clapping her hands above her head, and shouting, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"'

I vainly endeavored to address the ayah with seriousness; Daisy's mischievous expression overcame me, and I ignominiously smiled. I have of late been reading a most excellent treatise on Education. It contains an exhaustive chapter on sullenness, and another on deceit,

but Daisy is never sullen nor untruthful; it gives admirable rules on the treatment of greed and covetousness early developed in the infant mind, but Daisy is apparently an ascetic child, and requires no such cure. In fact, the book, which helps me but little in the management of my young charge, reminds me somewhat of those hand-books which give a traveller every opportunity of making a graceful repartee to an ambassador, but leave him in utter ignorance how to express himself to the waiter or the coachman.

December 14th.-Daisy looks pale; Janet says the "wee bit bairnie" does not thrive. Certainly, she has a poor appetite, and gets easily tired. I must write to her father at once.

December 22d.-I have been lying awake all night, thinking what I shall do for my Daisy. I will write to her father again and suggest that I should take her to the south. I can start at once. For her sake I would willingly leave this dear home. My Daisy resembles a sweet young plant, a creeper that has grown over my old associations and effaced and hidden them away from sight. She is a tender plant, more like an exotic than the mountain daisy, the gowan of our northern poets.

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March 1st. -It is long, long since I opened the pages of this diary. When last I wrote a few hurried words therein, and carelessly closed the page, I did not know, God help me, the trial that I was in store for me. Alas! we may not close down the pages of our lives, nor yet hold them open, at our own will. Now, in my grief, the tears fall thickly on the paper, and I cannot see to write.

And yet "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

We did all that could be done for the child, but the end came rapidly. Two doctors attended her; the parish doctor was unremitting in his efforts, and I telegraphed to my dear old friend Dr. Bryce, at Edinburgh, who set out at once without loss of time. Yet all their efforts, all their skill and science proved of no avail; nothing could have saved the child, they said. What her illness was, I scarcely know to this day; the medical men gave it a long name and a

close analysis. There is no doubt that. the seeds of it were sown before she left India. To me they signify but little, those technical details; it is enough to know that my Daisy could not be saved. She had no strength, the doctors said, to resist the slightest chill; no rallying power. She was not an or

dinary child, they said; oh no, she was not that, my Daisy !

The night before she died, she lay quite still in the flickering candle-light, her little pinched face whiter than the pillow. She clasped the old doll yet; she hugged it closely, though one of her tiny thin hands was folded within mine. Her eyes were wide open, fixed on my face with that look of serious self-possession they so often assumed; her voice had been husky of late; she was tired and spoke but little.

Janet stood, silently crying behind the door, wiping her the door, wiping her eyes with her apron, and wringing her hands from time to time. The poor ayah, who never left her place on the floor at the foot of Daisy's bed, sat rocking herself to and fro, gazing wistfully at her charge with the look of a faithful dog.

"Mamsie," said Daisy at last, and I bent my ear to listen. Her voice had become very weak, and strangely harsh and unlike itself.

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Mamsie, I want mamma; oh, Daisy does so want mamma !'"'

I nodded; I could not answer her. My tears dropped like rain on her dear little hand, on the dear little upturned face I passionately kissed.

Mamsie, poor Mamsie," said Daisy, feebly trying to stroke my cheek.

And those were her last words, for in the cold gray of morning twilight there was nothing but a dead white Daisy lying stretched and silent on the little bed, and a terrible pain surging and throbbing in my unresigned heart.

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The child's father arrived too late. He spent one afternoon at the Mill Farm. He went with me to the nursery, where Daisy had lived; he sat beside me on the shore, where Daisy had played; we stood together in the quiet kirkyard, where Daisy lay asleep, and he spoke to me of the child a little but chiefly and lingeringly of the wife he had loved so dearly. For Daisy was to

Mill Farm. It is the dearest place on earth to me, for now, added to the many associations of other years that crowd around me in my loneliness, there is a recollection of later days that clings very closely to my heart.

Often, as I sit in my favorite nook among the rocks, watching the thin line of waves receding upon the yellow shore, when the air is silent, and balmy with the scents of autumn, a strange awe and delight encompass me, and I seem to hear the light steps of tiny bare feet upon the wet sand, and the sound of a childish voice that whispers : "Mamsie !"-Temple Bar.

IN an article upon Taste in Dress" in the Nineteenth Century, January 1883, Mr. Watts says: 'In all matters where it is necessary to lift ideas out of an established groove and bring about reform, those are wanted who will speak with the bitterness of conviction and the weight of authority.

Unfortunately those who speak with "the bitterness of conviction" on the topic Mr. Watts so ably enlarges upon are generally men, and therefore wanting in the weight of authority; they speak theoretically, and in consequence are apt to exaggerate; or they point out defects without saying how to remedy them. No authority could outweigh that of Mr. Watts as far as the beautiful and the artistic view of the question goes; but there is the practical side to be considered, and that will always, in the end, carry the day, at least with the

masses.

What I propose to show is, how the practical may be united with the beautiful or, rather, that one is the natural outcome of the other. There is no doubt that tight-lacing is, as Mr. Watts says, the root of many evils. You see its ruinous effect in the sunken eye, the muddy complexion, the puffed features, and rounded back; you see it in every movement, even to the forced smile of the victim; all life and buoyancy seem to vanish from the doomed form; but I

think it does not follow that every woman who has what is called a small waist is laced tight. The stiff unyielding machine, crushing the ribs and destroying the fibre of the muscle,'' to which Mr. Watts alludes, is not, fortunately, what sensible women wear; and the well-made, dainty production of a good French "artiste, manufactured of lightest material and delicate whalebone, is no greater impediment to free breathing or movement, than the elastic Jersey recommended by him.

Supposing the Venus of Milo or that of Medici were to become flesh and blood, these slight stays would no doubt turn them into women with small waists, upon whom one of Mr. Worth's dresses would not look out of place.

The two greatest arguments against dispensing with stays (always supposing we do not adopt the Greek costume) are, first, the utter impossibility of appearing neat and tidy; and, second, the expense entailed by the additional but indispensable strength of the bodices, which would, however, not prevent them becoming shapeless and wearing out very quickly.

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If women would only allow commonsense to govern them, they would feel that for the inch or two they diminish the circumference of their waists by tightening themselves in, they become unattractive in so many other ways;

quite leaving on one side the hygienic part of the question, which, alas! the vain and foolish will never consider. There are few indeed, who, like the clever and beautiful Maréchale de Soubise, Louis the Fourteenth's faithful friend, will make the sacrifice of giving up all meat except chicken, and never wearing stays, for fear of injuring their health or their complexion.

Another absurd practice is that of tying the skirts so tight that walking becomes an agony; there is no doubt that many have thereby been debarred from healthful exercise for years. Much harm has also been done by the profuse use of perfumes, of which musk, patchouli, jasmine, etc., form the basis. These ingredients are depressing to the nervous system, acting upon it as poisons; just as they would, if given inwardly and at the right time, prove the most powerful medicines. Ladies quite forget the inconvenience and discomfort caused by this practice to their more sensitive neighbors in church, at the theatre, or at dinner; for mutton tasting of musk, or chicken à la patchouli, is not likely to increase the appetite. At the best of times the suggestion of the perfumer's shop is not a poetic one, and the faintest suspicion of violets, lavender, or

The new-mown hay

Gives a sweet and wholesome odor,

and are quite sufficient to remove any disagreeable smell that might cling to such textures as wool or lace.

Cosmetics and paints, too, are at present much used, especially in England. They are as fatal to health and beauty as they are misleading in effect. The blackened eye may look larger and the painted lip redder under the uncertain flare of the gas-lamp; but when seen at home in the broad and honest noonday sun, the eye is lustreless, the flaming carmine distorts the mouth, the powdered skin loses its transparency, and the soft brown hair which formerly enhanced the whiteness of the skin, now appears a lifeless growth of metallic yellow or mahogany red without light or shade in it. The very men who pretend to admire these artificial dolls, would hesitate to range their sisters among or choose their wives from their ranks, thus once more

verifying the old dictum, that a thing may look well in the shop window and yet not be adapted for home wear and tear.

Lady Coventry, the most lovely of the two beautiful Miss Gunnings, died at twenty-seven a cripple and in fearful sufferings, entirely owing to the use and abuse of cosmetics; but had she died yesterday, before the eyes of her fair imitators, I doubt whether it would deter them for a week from so silly and repulsive a practice.

Mr. Watts deserves our thanks for calling attention to the mistaken notion of attaching undue importance to the smallness of hands and feet; they ought always to be in proportion to the rest of the body, or they are ugly. The highheeled, pinching, pointed shoe has not even beauty to recommend it; if the shoe must be pointed, why not wear it long, thus obviating any harm to the foot or creating any impediment to the walk ?

There is so much character in a hand, that, even if somewhat enlarged by use, a little additional size will not detract from, its beauty. The open, generous palm meting out bread and wine to the poor, the young mother's protecting fingers as they steal round the crying infant, the firm and loving touch that smoothes the ruffled pillow, and gives comfort and courage to the sufferernone of these suggest the helpless and undersized hand so many appear to envy. Vandyck's much-admired hands are not small; he knew that, had he made them so, the heads would appear heavy; they are white, long, refined, but always large enough to cover the face entirely with them.

for

The great beauty of a small head is widely appreciated in England-too much so, almost, I should say ; hundreds of young girls squeeze and plait up their beautiful hair into the very smallest compass, till it is more like a pigtail than anything else, under the impression that ampler, softer coils would make the head look large. It is only false hair piled up in hard masses and in unnatural places that increases the size of the head. can always be disposed of in such a way as to obtain its full value and yet show the shape of the head. Look at the kneeling woman in the "Transfigura

Hair that grows

A small head does not always mean a small face; and when what the French call le masque is large, the hair ought not to be dragged away, but, on the contrary, allowed to encroach upon it. A person with a large nose will do well to wear much at the back of her head, so as to re-establish the balance. A long face is improved by something on the top of the head-a short one, by a small and flat headgear. The pretty fashion of uncovering the nape of the neck is only adapted to the young, and specially to those with small features; it shows that greatest beauty, the spring of the head from the neck, and all those boucles folles so often praised by Balzac and other French writers of the days of crops.

The dressing of the hair ought, if necessary, to be modified somewhat, so as to be in harmony with the attire. For instance, the Louis the Fifteenth, Louis the Sixteenth, and Directoire costumes so much worn now ill accord with the strictly classical bandeau parted on the forehead, or the small clump of plaits in the nape of the neck.

All beauty in this world is based on harmony-two separate things may be good, when together they appear incongruous. It is in this incongruity that the mistake of the present day seems to lie. Every woman, old and young, pretty or plain, no matter to what rank in society she may belong or what avocations she may follow, wears the same colors, the same shapes, and the same things the only check imposed upon her appears to be that of her pursestrings.

The effect of this system cannot conduce to comfort or beauty. The housemaid's shapeless and exaggerated crinoline or crinolette impedes her in her work and does not set off her cotton frock; but she wears it because her mistress does, for whom (though never really pretty) it may be almost a necessity, to help her to support the heavy pleats of silk or velvet on her skirt.

Small women are crushed and dwarfed by large patterns, besides which a design gains in beauty by frequent repetition. A bad color spoils everything, but a true color can be used in endless

Those will be well dressed who wear The the right thing at the right time. example ought to come from the educated and refined. We constantly hear French dressing extolled; the reason is that the Frenchwoman, being of a more positive turn of mind, is less prone to the effective and picturesque, and her appearance, therefore, will generally be in harmony with her surroundings. The bonne in spotless cap and apron going to the market; the grisette in sober-colored but well-made merino, the plain straw bonnet relieved by a touch of crimson; the grande dame walking to mass in her rich but simple black silk, trimmed with a few yards of Chantilly round neck and wrists-are all dressed in reference to the hour of the day and the errand they pursue. Here it is different: the neat muslin cap is replaced by the charwoman's greasy black bonnet-a soiled lilac flower, and crumpled blue strings, being the invariable accompaniments; tawdry black satin and a hat or bonnet profusely ornamented with light-colored feathers--not the freshest-meet the eye instead of the grisette's neat costume; and, should you chance to take a walk in the park one morning, you encounter figures of every hue and shape, clad in every texture from limpest cotton to canary satin, covered with lace, flounces, beads, and embroidery, regardless of expense, harmony, or fitness. It is not that many of these dresses are not very pretty and picturesque in themselves-for instance, that maroon velvet, trailing along in the dust and suggestive only of heat and discomfort this hot summer morning, would look beautiful and rich at a five o'clock tea on a January afternoon. In yonder red plush parasol there can be no redeeming point; it always must be an anomaly; but that slim girl in pink muslin with huge fur tippet on her shoulders would have done much better had she worn a warmer dress or a more appropriate covering. It is, of course, not easy to have clothes adapted to every occasion, especially if they are to