from over the sea, and Mother says to me" How shall we stop her? There was no other way whatever. I had to marry Mary Ellen.' He laughed merrily at the thought. Penillion inn and the wonderful soup. had motored him forty miles to taste it.

Cobley remembered the The Countess of Pwllheli

John Honorius cast his eye over the menu. 'How is your pudding?' he asked gravely. 'I made it myself, sir,' said the little cook.

Right. Then the pudding will do-also the soup and the sirloin, but the rest is off.'

The little Welshman uttered no complaint. He stood at culinary attention whilst the General of the Table gave the orders for the attack.

This must be a Christmas Eve dinner and you must surpass yourself.'

The little cook bowed.

There is a fine cod-fish in that bass. In olden time it was

the sammon, King of fish,

That filled with good cheer the Christmas dish.

Seasons are altered and I had rather an English cod than a Dutch salmon. You will find all you want here. Oysters, sausages, almonds, nuts, apples and Christmas pies in the cardboard box on the rack. Carry them carefully. How many diners on board? ' About fifteen or so.'

They all dine with us, you know. Champagne for dinner, and I mix the punch afterwards.'

The dinner was a great success. Holly and mistletoe hung in festoons about the car, and the crowning moment was when John Honorius carried in the Boar's Head followed by the cook in his native costume and the steward in cap and bells. Cobley gained great praise for starting The Boar's Head in hand bring I,' which was sung with wild enthusiasm. And when the pudding had been duly baptised in brandy and fire they all crowded round and eagerly watched John Honorius mixing the punch in a huge bowl and babbling eagerly of the ceremony.

'To-night, gentlemen,' he said with grace, dignity, and solemn purpose, 'I shall give you "Punch." Here in my hand is a bottle of arrack made in India from rice and the sap of many palms and kept for more than half a century waiting for this moment. A pagan liquor turned to Christian uses. To this we add sugar,

spice, lemon, water. But note that there be but five ingredients. Punch, indeed, is the visible representative of the mystery of five. Punch must be four and one added, as you may read in "Yi Ching," or the "Book of Changes," which was published twelve centuries before the first of our Christmas Eves. And when you brew Punch, remember any one element may replace another-so that there be not more than five, for if the ancient quinary constitution of your mixture is absent you may have an intoxicating beverage but it is not Punch, and it has been said that your five senses and five wits cannot be hampered by the Punch of five elements, but that I think may only be true if you deny yourself more than five glasses.'

And as they drew slowly out of Crewe station the punch was brewed and ladled out, and John Honorius pulled his fiddle out of its case, and sitting on the centre table in the dining-car trolled out to an easy lilting tune :

Holly and Ivy made a great party

Who should have the mastery

In lands where they go.

Then spake Holly: I am friske and jolly,

I will have the mastery

In lands where they go.'

Everyone caught the refrain and they raised the roof of the dining-car.

'This is altogether against the rules,' said the guard, who was going his rounds.

"There are no rules on Christmas Eve,' shouted Father Christmas. 'I am your Managing Director to-night, my good man. Mix our friend a glass of punch.'

Cobley, who presided over the punch, mixed a jorum for the guard and another for himself, and they clinked their glasses and wished each other a Merry Christmas. And when the guard had finished his punch and the last notes of the Holly Carol had died away he himself burst out in a fine baritone

God rest you merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay!

When they came to the refrain

O tidings of comfort and joy!—

the notes of it reached the engine-driver and he and the stoker joined in as they stared out into the night. And now one offered 'Good King Wenceslas,' and another remembered this jovial anthem, and another that, and the punch went round merrily and

there was no one who had not joy in his heart and song on his lips. And as they toiled up the heights of Shap, the lonely signalman leaning out into the frosty night to listen for the village cocksFor as he did in part believe,

They crow all night on Christmas Eve

heard instead the strains of Auld Lang Syne' coming with glorious abandon from the dining-car of the slowly ascending train.

* That is better than cock-crowing,' said the signalman as he shut his window and went back to his little fire. That makes a fellow feel better inside.'

When all was over and they went jolting along the corridor back to their compartments everyone agreed that it had been a Christmas Eve worthy of the best traditions. As the little Welshman said to the steward when they got to the washing up: 'Rhagorol iawn! Magnificent! still it is better much that Christmas comes but once a year.'

It was sunrise when Cobley woke up in his corner and opposite to him sat John Honorius, a grave little man dressed once more in his homely grey suit. He pulled down the window and pointed

to the east.

'Do you see that?' he said quietly to Cobley, who rubbed his eyes and looked out. The same star that the Wise Men saw and were wise enough to follow. Wonderful, is it not? Just under the hill is Grample Castle. We have a three-mile drive.' The train slowed up.

'It almost makes me feel,' said Cobley gazing reverently at the beautiful star,' that something stupendous is going to happen.' 'Very likely. Very likely,' said John Honorius genially as he put his head out of the window. But here is our station. Why, I declare she has driven down to meet us.' He drew his head back into the carriage beaming with delight. 'Jolly good of her I call it. But I rather thought she would.'

'Thought who would?' asked Cobley puzzled.

'Why, the lady who is going to play aunt to your uncle,' said John Honorius.

And as Everard Cobley stepped out on to the little wayside platform the first to wish him a Merry Christmas was Henrietta Fulshaw.

WHAT CAME OF A BEGGING LETTER:
THE ADA LEWIS HOME.

BY THE RIGHT HON. SIR ALGERNON WEST, G.C.B.

'If you ask at all, ask enough.' It is a principle of begging which has helped more than one pleader of a good cause to the end he hardly dared hope for. The story of the founding of the first of the famous Rowton Houses has been made familiar to readers of the CORNHILL MAGAZINE by Sir Richard Farrant. He had had many conversations with Lord Rowton as to the possibilities of providing a particular kind of lodging house for men, and one day put the gist of the matter to Lord Rowton in a single sentence. If a site could be found, the cost of the building would be between £20,000 and £30,000. I should not mind that,' said Lord Rowton. 'Will you find all the money?' asked Sir Richard. 'Yes,' said Lord Rowton. That was ten years ago, and since then thousands have blessed the name of Rowton as having provided cleanness, comfort and decency in place of the filthy refuges which, for homeless and hungry men, used to be the only alternative to the cold hospitality of the open street. Not only that; for there is the practical point to be added that Rowton Houses, Limited, pays a dividend of four per cent. on its capital.

To the value of the principle of asking much, if asking at all, I am able to add striking testimony of my own. For years past it has been plainly evident that if ever there were a need for such institutions as Rowton Houses for men, there was a more abundant need for similar houses for women. Discussion on the subject in the London County Council, however, has led to little; the eternal want of pence that vexes public men' has prevented the progress which money would have made possible. Yet the need has been and still remains insistent and terrible; how insistent, a quotation from a single report from an independent investigator will suffice to show. The following is a description of a common lodging house actually in existence to-day :

'The common lodging house in Street is at the top of Lane. The street door opens straight into a passage, and on the other side is a large long room, with a coke fire at the end. This room is known as the "kitchen." It contains no furniture

VOL. XXXV. NO. 199, N.S.

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except a small bench running round the room and a long trestle table. A basement below contains wash basins, with cold water, and no sort of towels. Upstairs, the stairway leads directly into the middle of a rather low-ceilinged room, which is connected by an ordinary sized doorway into another room, which is again connected in the same way to one beyond. In this last room alone are there windows and in the middle room only is there one small gas jet. These three rooms are filled with beds, placed about three feet apart in line, the head and foot of the beds joining. The bedding consists of a hard mattress and pillows, coarse, rather ragged and extremely dirty blankets and sheets, the sheets being mostly strips of stuff. The floor above is exactly similar. During the two nights I stayed there the windows were never opened, and the want of ventilation and light, and the smell of dirty humanity, made the atmosphere almost intolerable. Of course I have no evidence that there is no attempt to clean the beds, but from the terribly verminous condition of them, I imagine they are simply left night after night. Most of the women who frequent the place are horribly dirty and verminous, and there is no attempt at washing. The absolute lack of any sort of privacy has probably much to do with this. The street door is left open all night, and I think beds may be obtained at any time. I, myself, went in as late as 3.30 A.M. The charge is sixpence per night. The women, when they come in, usually stay some time in the "kitchen," where they mostly have some quarrelling, and a great deal of filthy language is used. No sort of meals or food can be bought in the house. The house contains women of all ages, the greater bulk of the older women are street-traders or work at Covent Garden or Spitalfields. The mass of the younger ones -it was told me by one of the girls-were on the streets.'

It is not surprising that reports of this kind, obtained as the result of personal experience, have led to anxious consideration and discussion at public meetings. In particular there was a National Conference on Lodging House Accommodation held in the Guildhall in May, 1911, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor and the Duchess of Marlborough, at which the want of decent accommodation for single women in London was painfully proved by speaker after speaker. Mrs. Higgs, who has nobly devoted her life towards the improvement of the condition of poor women, urged the crying need for a Rowton House, and others after her told us how for girls to fall into the immoral lodging house, inevitably meant ruin. Yet for the homeless industrial woman, the factory