HE Exhibition and Sale of Dolls, for the benefit of the new G. F. S. Lodge in Norwich, held at the Victoria Hall on Wednesday and Thursday, the 15th and 16th of October last, was eminently successful. The days selected for the Exhibition were the central ones of the Norwich Musical Festival. On the previous Thursday all the dolls that had already arrived-for others continued to pour in up to the last day, in spite of the advertised request that all should be sent before October 4th-were exhibited at the Lodge to the ladies who acted as judges, and to the reporters of the four Norwich papers, whose graphic description, published in their issue of Saturday, 11th, added to the interest already felt in Norwich on the subject. The prizes were for G. F. S. Members only; but Cards of Merit were awarded to Associates and Ladies not belonging to the Society for such dolls as seemed worthy of the distinction.

During the whole of Thursday, the Lodge Committee, assisted by one or two friends, were busily engaged in ranging the hall and grouping the many hundred dolls, the result being picturesque and brilliant beyond the most sanguine expectations. One long table was entirely occupied by dolls in 'foreign costumes-Arab, Indian, Russian, Swiss, German, Alsatian, French, Italian, Spanish, Norwegian, Pyrenean, Breton, Welsh, and Scotch. Next came a large collection of baby dolls, some with nurses in attendance, and a number of children in knitted dresses. Further on was a table, one half of which was devoted to dolls' clothes and furniture; and the other half, prettily arranged with flowers, evergreens, silver bells, shells, and small cheap dolls, bore the

motto-

'Mary, Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.'

The pretty maids' sold rapidly, and the empty spaces had to be replenished again and again. Down the centre of the hall, on a very long table, were some of the prettiest objects of the Exhibition-a beautiful and very large wax Lady in Court dress; 'BoPeep and her Sheep' (a lovely group); 'Queen Anne,' and a lady in the dress of that period; another in a Court dress of George the Third's time; a bride, attended by six bridemaids, three in blue and three in rose colour; a lady in ball dress; another in evening dress; a child in the summer costume of

St. George's and St. Giles' Schools, London; a host of sailor-boys; a lawn-tennis player; the Old Woman in her Shoe; and others too numerous to mention. Among the most attractive contributions were: An Eton and Harrow match, the work of a G. F. S. Member; a sweep, with costume and brushes complete, dressed by a young Member whose father, himself a chimney-sweep, made all the brushes—a work of some difficulty in such a small size; a doll's linen chest in cedar-wood, made and given by a carpenter whose three daughters are Members, and filled by an Associate with every article of household linen in miniature, from sheets and towels down to frilled pillow-cases and d'oyleys; a servant-girl in her working clothes, with her trunk containing all her Sunday garments; and lastly, two beautiful dolls' beds in polished oak (half-testers), one with blue and one with crimson bed-furniture and bedding complete, the gift of a well-known builder and contractor in Norwich and his wife.

All the above exhibits were for sale, and by Friday morning very few remained on hand, and of those that were left some, at any rate, will, it is hoped, find their way to the Sale of Dolls in Kensington on the 15th, 16th, and 17th December, for the G. F. S. Chronic Sick and Incurable Fund, and some to the Birming ham Show in aid of the Lodges in that town.

In an inner room were arranged many beautiful old and curious dolls and other articles, sent for exhibition only. Among the curiosities to be seen in this room, perhaps the most remarkable was a set of babylinen sent by one of the German royalties to Queen Charlotte for the use of the infant Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV.

The sale was kept open from 11 to 8 o'clock on Wednesday, 15th, and from 11 to nearly 10 o'clock on Thursday, 16th, Thursday being the early-closing day in Norwich. When all expenses were paid, it was found, to the great satisfaction of the Committee, that a clear sum of 857. remained—a very material help to the expense of furnishing the new and much larger Lodge, of which they took possession on the 29th September.

The address of the Norwich G. F. S. Lodge and Clubroom for Young Women in Business is no longer 2 Duke Street, but St. Andrew's Street, Norwich.

The best thanks of the Committee are due to the friends in nearly every Diocese in England, and to the Edinburgh Branches of the Scotch G. F. S. for the kind help and sympathy received from them.

N a frail and gloomy shelter
A workman toiled all day;

The darkening shadows warned him

To take his homeward way,

But still he lingered, decking
A little Christmas Tree,
For the only Son of his Master
A birthday gift to be.

He worked in careful gladness
(For he loved that little Child),
He gave no heed to the shadows,
Or the rising night-wind wild.
He hung some gifts upon it,

Which pleased him passing well;
On some he was gazing sadly,
When lo! a solemn knell

Warned him the time was coming,

He could no more delay;
Then through the gathering darkness
He took his homeward way.

From that frail and gloomy shelter
Stepped bravely through the night :
Far ahead his Master's palace

Shone like a beacon light.

He thought of his Master's welcome,
And as he thought he smiled,
And more carefully he carried

His gift for the Master's Child.

But as he nears the portal

He falls upon his knee,
For a gleam of golden radiance

Smites on his Christmas Tree.
It looks all brown and withered,

The gifts so poor and mean,
And those he had thought most worthy
Can hardly now be seen.

He bows his head in anguish,
His tears fall thick and fast:
Is this the end of his toiling-
His first, his best, his last?

He sees it all unworthy

All he had thought so fair, And now—but a voice is calling, And he must enter there.

Sadly he bears his offering

With faltering steps and slow; Through the shining courts he passes, His head bowed down with woe.

And kneeling before the Master,
This only can he say :--
'Good Master, from Thy Presence
Oh turn me not away!

'Through working hours I laboured,
I sought to please Thy Son;
And now-now I see how worthless

Is the work that I have done!'

Trembling, he waits in silence

The Master's words of blame;
But, like solemn music swelling,
The Child breathes out his name:
'Look up, thou faithful servant !

My Father speaks by me;
All thy work He has accepted,
See now thy Christmas Tree!'
Awe-struck, the servant listens;

To the throne he lifts his eyes;
On the golden step above him

He sees-ah, glad surprise!

He sees his Christmas offering,
No longer poor and mean;
From each little branch and leaflet
Shines forth a glorious sheen.

The tears he had shed so sadly

Out in the darksome night, Like stars on his tree are gleaming,

And twinkling clear and bright.

He turns his glad eyes from it
To the Holy Child Divine;
In happy love' he whispers,
'Lord, 'tis Thy work, not mine!"

K

'For thence-a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail.'

R. BROWNING.

So

EEP me, my God: my boat is so small, and Thy ocean so wide!' So prays, they say, the Breton mariner on putting out to sea. prayed one day in 'London town' a British maiden; the shrine her own bedside in a dainty little chamber, her boat a pile of manuscript paper. No literal ocean stretched before her; only the quiet chirping of some sparrows from a neighbouring roof and the deadened roar of distant traffic broke the silence of the few minutes while she knelt with hands tightly clasping the paper packet.

The sudden peal of a bell just outside the room meant a warning that the carriage was at the door. The lady of the house was not inclined to drive that day; she had placed her carriage at the sole disposal of her young guest. 'To No.-, Piccadilly,' was the direction the footman received, and the packet and its owner were conveyed thither.

'Mr. George Palmer is within,' said the footman, on returning from delivering a note at the door of No. ; and the subject of the note sat down, as requested, to wait patiently in a business-like room filled with papers, where three or four men were silently at work. In an inner room the newly-brought note was opened; it began, 'This is to introduce to you Miss Blanche Stanmore,' and continued to describe Miss Blanche's mission, together with a sort of recommendation to mercy. Inwardly trembling, Miss Blanche waited, on an uncomfortable high stool, clasping her packet. Often before had she made ventures with her lesser manuscripts, but never until this day had she sought to come face to face with a publisher; never before had she launched a boat' so heavily freighted.

'Mr. Palmer will be happy to see you-will you walk this way, please?'

A narrow passage led to the great publisher's little private den, and there, with the manuscript between them, the pair were left sitting tête-à-tête; the small, slight figure of the girl-authoress, with dark curling hair, anxious eyes, and shy constraint, some daffodils fastened amongst the folds of her black lace fichu, opposite the great publisher, who, however, contrary to her expectation of a fierce, awe-inspiring personage, was a young, grave man, who seemed scarcely to

know what to say to her, and keeping his eyes bent on the title-page of the MS. under discussion appeared quite as much frightened of his visitor as his visitor

could be of him.

'In three weeks' time' the final answer was promised to be sent. Blanche left her home address-a country place in Jersey; and on her way home through the Park gave herself up to a day-dream of high hopes.

'Extraordinary child!' was the not over-encouraging comment, which was all the sympathy she received from her hostess on relating her afternoon's mission.

The eagerly-looked-for letter came after long suspense. It laid her daring hopes low. It was a polite, but decided, rejection. We find the work gracefully written, and we regret we are unable to make you an offer for its publication.'

It is a bright day in September, when Blanche, receiving her share of the day's post, and marking among the letters the handwriting for which she has looked, hastens to a garden-seat to learn its contents alone. The writing which excites her is her own. The postmark is 'London.' In her anxiety to secure an early answer she has sent a stamped and directed envelope the last time the MS. was despatched. She lingers before she brings herself to read this new verdict; it is a fearfully hopeful sign that the letter has arrived without the ordinary accompanimentthe returned MS. Vain hope! this time it proves to be neither 'yes' nor 'no,' but simply a letter from another source.

'I might have remembered!' sighs Blanche, as she sees that it is an answer from the little pantomine girl, who has lately been assigned to her charge, for a monthly letter by the "Theatrical Mission.'

'I was surprize but pleased to have a letter from you,' says the crude, childish writing. 'I shall be happy to here from you every month, if it is not to much trouble. The leaves you sent smeal beautiful. I should very much like to see the beautiful place ware you live. Me and Evangeline take care of the children. I am eleven years old. Evangeline is my sister. Mother's dead since a year. Father as got no work not now. The baby as got a coff. That is all I have to say at present from your Affection Friend, 'MISS SUSAN BRADLEY.'

Regularly every month letters passed between 'Les Rosiers,' the beautiful island home, and the

'Father,' said little Susie, 'I have got a lady as lives out in Jersey, and she is going to write me a letter every month.'

'And what good do you reckon that will do you, little lass?' asked her father, a strong, sturdy man, with weary lines across his brow, idly smoking a pipe.

"That is what I say,' chimed in querulously a pale fair-haired girl of nineteen, busily engaged in mending. "I don't know what use rich ladies at a distance can be to us poor people: it's not likely that they know much about us. But this here lady always sends a stamped envelope for the answer, so it does not matter, I suppose, if Susie likes it.'

Susie looked slightly puzzled, but in defence said, 'She said as how she would like to be my friend. She has summat to do with the gentleman as has the Reading-rooms for us of the theatres. My lady has sent me these flowers--they come in a box by the post.'

Susie produced a saucer filled with feathery-fronded moss fresh from the woods, some starry yellow field | flowers, and a spray of scarlet hedge-berries. They were a wonderful other-world sight in contrast with the surroundings of the crowded close attic. The hard petulance on Evangeline's pretty face softened a little as she looked on them. But the man turned away with a quick movement: he lay down the pipe and sat in silence for the next few minutes, his face covered with his two hands in a dejected, despairing attitude.

'I don't know how we can go on like this,' he muttered presently, with a heavy groan. Eight hours again this day have I been tramping here and there looking for work and it's always the same in the end—I come home with no better prospect than when I set out. I'm at times afeard that we'll have to give up, Evangeline.'

There were two promises which Giles Bradley was often sorely tempted to break: one he had promised his wife before she died-that he would not let Evangeline, the fantastic name she had chosen for their first child, continue the stage life now she was a grown girl. Both parents had agreed that the theatres were no place for a girl of her age: they had taken her away when she was seventeen. But just now, in particular, that meant a terrible loss of money. The other vow was made some time before his wife's death, and signed solemnly-the pledge to abstain from what had begun to prove a curse to him.

'Father has got no work, and, oh, dear lady, it does

'I am sure,' she wrote once, 'I am sure, dear lady, I have taken Jesus to be my Saviour and Master.' 'Please, father, help me to read my lady's letterEvangeline is too busy,' appealed one day Susie, who was less of a decipherer than a writer. When Giles had reached the last half of the letter he read, ‘I am so sorry again that your father cannot find work. It must be very disappointing. It is so hard to wait. Will you tell me exactly what sort of work he wants? I might perhaps be able to help through friends in London. At any rate there is one way in which we can all help to bring the work. You remember Who said, "If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven." "Where two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them." So there is a promise for you and your father, and Evangeline and me, if we all join together every morning and every night to pray that if He sees it to be well, He will send work soon. Do not forget to ask your father and Evangeline.'

Giles Bradley read that part twice, and when he gave the letter back to the child said, with a strange sound in his voice, 'I'll try. There can be no harm in trying. Mind you don't forget, little lass.'

Once more he set himself to do battle with his strong temptations and to seek on with patience. He could never quite forget the nights he used to go with his wife to a Mission-hall, opened by the Vicar of the great, crowded, poor parish: he had gone at first because she had asked him, and afterwards because he wanted to know more for himself about One who had atoned for sin. He had wished to follow this Master, but since then life had become so full of difficulties, and they had borne him down.

So the prayers of three met-one at Les Rosiers, two in Imperial Court, Covent Garden. Evangeline was not among them-she was too tired to pray, she said.

The posts continued to bring back unwelcome rolls of manuscript paper to Les Rosiers, with the same succession of publisher's or editor's letters. Still Blanche persevered, and five lines from a poem of Robert Browning's rang again and again in her heart until they became, as it were, a motto by which to work:

'I see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive! What time, what circuit first,
I ask not.

In some good time-His good time, I shall arrive.
He guides me and the birds-in His good time.'