The Girls Own Paper, Vol. VIII, No. 354, October 9, 1886 | Page 9

milk with
the gelatine in it; whisk until it is all frothy. If the gelatine does not
entirely dissolve in cold milk, it must be melted over the fire before
being added to the jam and other ingredients.
Vegetable marrow soup is made like potiron.
Pounded Meat Cutlets in Italian Paste.--Take half pound of cold
mutton, all lean, three ounces of cooked ham, one small shalot; chop
and pound all together; add pepper and salt, one ounce of butter, and
three tablespoonfuls of gravy. For the paste, one yolk of egg, three
tablespoonfuls of cold water, with six ounces of dried flour; knead well
to strong paste, roll out very thin, divide into six, put some of the meat
in each, form into six cutlets; fry in boiling fat, and serve with sauce in
a tureen or plain with fried parsley round.
Macaroni with Tomato Sauce.--Boil two ounces of macaroni in water,
with a lump of butter, and a little salt. When nearly done, strain off the
water; add three tablespoonfuls of milk, and a little (one ounce)
Parmesan or other grated cheese and pepper to taste; stir until it is
rather thick. Then dish it up with a little hot tomato sauce in the centre.
Semolina Soup.--Take a pint and a half of liquor from boiled meat, or
stock from bones in which vegetables have been boiled. Add two
ounces of semolina, and season to taste; if needed, a very small
teaspoonful of Liebig extract, or a small piece of glaze can be added.
Spanish Soufflé.--Cut two sponge cakes in slices. Spread apricot or
other jam on them. Pile them on a dish, squeeze the juice of a lemon
over them. Whip three teaspoonfuls of cream up with the white of one
egg to a froth; put it over the cakes; blanch and chop four almonds; put
them in the oven to colour, then sprinkle over the whip, and serve.

A DREAM OF QUEEN'S GARDENS.[1]
A STORY FOR GIRLS.--IN TWO PARTS.
BY DANIEL DORMER, Author of "Out of the Mists."

PART I.
A PRETTY QUEEN.
"Any letter for me this morning, Brightie?"
Hazel is leaning rather perilously over the banisters, trying to catch a
glimpse of the old woman coming slowly up the stairs far below.
"Yes--one. Don't come for it, I'm coming up. And pray, child, don't
hang over those rickety rails like that."
Miss Bright, or "Brightie," as Hazel Deane had grown affectionately to
call her, is a heavy, strongly-made woman of sixty-three years. She
finds the stairs in this house in Union-square, where she and Hazel
lodge, rather trying; they are many and steep, so she pauses half-way to
recover breath. Looking up she sees Hazel, a white, dark-eyed face, and
a form so slender that even those unsafe rails could hardly give way
under so slight a weight. "More than ever like one of my Cape jasmine
stars," thinks old Brightie. She has always mentally compared the girl
to one of those pure, white stars, which she used so specially to love,
shining on their invisible stems, amidst the dark green leaf-sprays at her
sister's home. Oh, how the poor, lonely old woman's heart had ached
for that country home of her younger days, as she sat wearily at her
business of plain sewing day after day in her attic in Union-square!
And Hazel, looking down, saw her one friend in the world. A ray of
sunlight streamed in through the narrow staircase window on to Miss
Bright. It makes the black cap which covers her whole head, with
strings flying back over her shoulders, look very rusty. It makes her old

alpaca gown, patched and repatched, and the little black silk apron that
she wears, look more than ever shiny. It strikes upon the large,
old-fashioned white pearl buttons down the front of her bodice, and
upon the glasses of her spectacles, till she looks like some strange,
black creature staring all over with big, round eyes. To Hazel's
affectionate mind, however, there is nothing in the least ludicrous in the
sight. She only notes the panting breath, and says, with a touch of
impatience in her anxiety--
"Why will you persist in toiling up and down those horrid stairs,
instead of sending me, Brightie? It is really very unkind of you."
When Brightie has delivered up Hazel's envelope, with its scrawled
direction, she retires into her own room, next door, and shuts herself in.
She is filled with an unwonted excitement, for she holds a second letter
in her hand, and it is her own. The rarest thing it is for her to have a
letter, and the post-mark is "Firdorf," the very same beautiful country
place for which she had pined; there she and Janie, her only sister, had
lived together, and Janie