flowers in the desert.

beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every day of our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the fact. and this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.

we do not, however, draw the reader’s attention to one of the striking aspects of the contrast—such as is presented by the hippopotamus and the gazelle, or the pug with the “bashed” nose and the italian greyhound. it is to one of the more delicate phases that we would point—to that phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the two qualities is seen progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not only overborne but overwhelmed by beauty.

for this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that might compare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fair earth—on the riviera, or among the brazilian wilds, or, for that matter, in fairyland itself.

it is a garden—a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that is arranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens the gardener a genius. among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis and wallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are intertwined, on rustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and the graceful virginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of the miniature garden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but the bright blue sky is visible, save where one little opening in the foliage reveals the prospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans of the deep and small fry of the shallows, of every shape and size, disport themselves in the blaze of a summer sun.

beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observer be extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, and nearly all around is ugliness supreme! for this is a garden on the roof of an old house; the grand river is the thames, alive with the shipping of its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forest of rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane and vain efforts of man to cope with smoke; where wild beasts—in the form of cats—hold their nightly revels, imitating the yells of agonised infants, filling the dreams of sleepers with ideas of internal thunder or combustion, and driving the sleepless mad!

susy—our susy—is the cause of this miracle of beauty in the midst of misery; this glowing gem in a setting of ugliness. it is her modest little head that has bent over the boxes of earth, which constitute her landed property; her pretty little fingers which have trained the stems and watered the roots and cherished the flowers until the barren house-top has been made to blossom like the rose. and love, as usual, has done it all—love to that very ugly old woman, chimney-pot liz, who sits on the rustic chair in the midst of the garden enjoying it all.

for liz has been a mother to that motherless bairn from her earliest years. she has guarded, fed, and clothed her from infancy; taught her from god’s book the old, old story of redeeming love, and led her to the feet of jesus. it would be strange indeed if susy did not love the ugly old woman, until at last she came to regard the wrinkles as veritable lines of beauty; the nut-cracker nose and chin as emblems of persistent goodness; the solitary wobbling tooth as a sign of unconquerable courage; and the dark eyes—well, it required no effort of imagination to change the character of the old woman’s eyes, for they had always been good, kindly, expressive eyes, and were at that date as bright and lively as when she was sweet sixteen.

but chimney-pot liz was poor—desperately poor, else she had not been there, for if heaven was around and within her, assuredly something very like pandemonium was underneath her, and it not unfrequently appeared as if the evil spirits below were surging to and fro in a fierce endeavour to burst up the whole place, and hurl the old woman with her garden into the river.

evil spirits indeed formed the dread foundation of the old woman’s abode; for, although her own court was to some extent free from the curse, this particular pile of building, of which the garden formed the apex, had a grog-shop, opening on another court, for its foundation-stone. from that sink of iniquity, literal and unmitigated—though not unadulterated—spirits of evil rose like horrid fumes from the pit, and maddened the human spirits overhead. these, descending to the foundation-den, soaked themselves in the material spirit and carried it up, until the whole tenement seemed to reek and reel under its malign influence.

but, strange to say, the riot did not rise as high as the garden on the roof—only the echoes reached that little paradise.

now it is a curious almost unaccountable fact, which no one would ever guess, that a teapot was the cause of this—at least a secondary cause—for a teapot was the chief instrument in checking, if not turning, the tide of evil. yes, chimney-pot liz held her castle in the very midst of the enemy, almost single-handed, with no visible weapon of offence or defence but a teapot! we say visible, because liz did indeed possess other and very powerful weapons which were not quite so obvious—such as, the word of god in her memory, the love of god in her heart, and the spirit of god in her soul.

to the outside world, however, the teapot was her weapon and shield.

we have read of such a weapon before, somewhere in the glorious annals of city missions, but just now we are concerned only with the teapot of our own liz of chimney-pot notoriety.

seated, as we have said, in a rustic chair, gazing through the foliage at the busy thames, and plying her knitting needles briskly, while the sun seemed to lick up and clear away the fogs and smoke of the great city, chimney-pot liz enjoyed her thoughts until a loud clatter announced that susy had knocked over the watering-pot.

“oh! granny” (thus she styled her), “i’m so sorry! so stupid of me! luckily there’s no water in it.”

“never mind, dear,” said the old woman in a soft voice, and with a smile which for a moment exposed the waste of gums in which the solitary fang stood, “i’ve got no nerves—never had any, and hope i never may have. by the way, that reminds me—is the tea done, susy?”

“yes, not a particle left,” replied the girl, rising from her floral labours and thereby showing that her graceful figure matched well with her pretty young face. it was a fair face, with golden hair divided in the middle and laid smooth over her white brow, not sticking confusedly out from it like the tangled scrub on a neglected common, or the frontal locks of a highland bull.

“that’s bad, susy,” remarked old liz, pushing the fang about with her tongue for a few seconds. “you see, i had made up my mind to go down to-night and have a chat with mrs rampy, and i wouldn’t like to visit her without my teapot. the dear old woman is so fond of a cup of tea, and she don’t often get it good, poor thing. no, i shouldn’t like to go without my teapot, it would disappoint her, you know—though i’ve no doubt she would be glad to see me even empty-handed.”

“i should just think she would!” said susy with a laugh, as she stooped to arrange some of the fastenings of her garden, “i should just think she would. indeed, i doubt if that dear old woman would be alive now but for you, granny.”

the girl emphasised the “dear” laughingly, for mrs rampy was one of those middle-aged females of the destitute class whose hearts have been so steeled against their kind by suffering and drink as to render them callous to most influences. the proverbial “soft spot” in mrs rampy’s heart was not reached until an assault had been made on it by chimney-pot liz with her teapot. even then it seemed as if the softness of the spot were only of the gutta-percha type.

“perhaps not, perhaps not my dear,” returned old liz, with that pleased little smile with which she was wont to recognise a philanthropic success a smile which always had the effect of subduing the tooth, and rendering the plain face almost beautiful.

although bordering on the lowest state of destitution—and that is a remarkably low state in london!—old liz had an air of refinement about her tones, words, and manner which was very different from that of the poor people around her. this was not altogether, though partly, due to her christianity. the fact is, the old woman had “seen better days.” for fifty years she had been nurse in an amiable and wealthy family, the numerous children of which seemed to have been born to bloom for a few years in the rugged garden of this world, and then be transplanted to the better land. only the youngest son survived. he entered the army and went to india—that deadly maelstrom which has swallowed up so much of british youth and blood and beauty! when the old couple became bankrupt and died, the old nurse found herself alone and almost destitute in the world.

it is not our purpose to detail here the sad steps by which she descended to the very bottom of the social ladder, taking along with her susan, her adopted daughter and the child of a deceased fellow-servant. we merely tell thus much to account for her position and her partial refinement—both of which conditions she shared with susan.

“now then,” said the latter, “i must go, granny. stickle and screw are not the men to overlook faults. if i’m a single minute late i shall have to pay for it.”

“and quite right, susy, quite right. why should stickle and screw lose a minute of their people’s work? their people would be angry enough if they were to be paid a penny short of their wages! besides, the firm employs over two hundred hands, and if every one of these was to be late a minute there would be two hundred minutes gone—nigh four hours, isn’t it? you should be able to count that right off, susy, havin’ been so long at the board-school.”

“i don’t dispute it, granny,” said the girl with a light laugh, as she stood in front of a triangular bit of looking-glass tying on her poor but neatly made hat. “and i am usually three or four minutes before my time, but stickle and screw are hard on us in other ways, so different from samson and son, where lily hewat goes. now, i’m off. i’ll be sure to be back by half-past nine or soon after.”

as the girl spoke, footsteps were heard ascending the creaky wooden stair. another moment and tommy splint entering with a theatrical air, announced—

“a wisitor!”

he was closely followed by sam blake, who no sooner beheld susy than he seemed to become paralysed, for he stood gazing at her as if in eager but helpless amazement.

susy was a good deal surprised at this, but feeling that if she were to wait for the clearing up of the mystery she would infallibly be late in reaching the shop of the exacting stickle and screw, she swept lightly past the seaman with a short laugh, and ran down-stairs.

without a word of explanation sam sprang after her, but, although smart enough on the shrouds and ladders of shipboard, he failed to accommodate himself to the stairs of rookeries, and went down, as he afterwards expressed it, “by the run,” coming to an anchor at the bottom in a sitting posture. of course the lithe and active susy escaped him, and also escaped being too late by only half a minute.

“never mind, she’ll be back again between nine and ten o’clock, unless they keep her late,” said old liz, after sam had explained who he was, and found that susy was indeed his daughter, and chimney-pot liz the nurse who had tended his wife to her dying day, and afterwards adopted his child.

“i never was took aback so in all my life,” said the seaman, sitting down beside the old woman, and drawing a sigh so long that it might have been likened to a moderate breeze. “she’s the born image o’ what her dear mother was when i first met her. my susy! well, it’s not every poor seaman as comes off a long voyage an’ finds that he’s fallen heir to a property like that!”

“you may well be proud of her,” said old liz, “and you’ll be prouder yet when you come to know her.”

“i know it, and i’m proud to shake your hand, mother, an’ thankee kindly for takin’ such care o’ my helpless lassie. you say she’ll be home about ten?”

“yes, if she’s not kep’ late. she always comes home about that time. meanwhile you’ll have something to eat. tommy, boy, fetch out the loaf and the cheese and the teapot. you know where to find ’em. tommy’s an orphan, cap’n blake, that i’ve lately taken in hand. he’s a good boy is tommy, but rather wild.”

“wot can you expect of a horphing?” said the boy with a grin, for he had overheard the latter remark, though it was intended only for the visitor’s ear. “but i say, granny, there ain’t no cheese here, ’cept a bit o’ rind that even a mouse would scorn to look at.”

“never mind, bring out the loaf, tommy.”

“an’ there ain’t no use,” continued the boy, “o’ bringin’ out the teapot, ’cause there ain’t a grain o’ tea nowheres.”

“oh! i forgot,” returned old liz, slightly confused; “i’ve just run out o’ tea, cap’n blake, an’ i haven’t a copper at present to buy any, but—”

“never mind that old girl; and i ain’t quite captain yet, though trendin’ in that direction. you come out along wi’ me, tommy. i’ll soon putt these matters to rights.”

old liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, for her impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremely willing little friend. they returned in quarter of an hour.

“there you are,” said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from a basket carried by tommy; “a big loaf, pound o’ butter, ditto tea, three pound o’ sugar, six eggs, hunk o’ cheese, paper o’ salt—forgot the pepper; never mind.”

“you’ve bin an’ forgot the sassengers too—but here they are,” said tommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket with a look of glee, and laying them on the table.

chimney-pot liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded her head approvingly, for she felt that sam blake understood the right thing to do and did it.

soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while the air was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume of roses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in the garden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking—done in the attic which opened on the garden—was accomplished by sam assisted by tommy.

“well, you air a trump,” said the latter to the former as he sat down, greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old liz presided like a humble duchess.

we need hardly say that the conversation was animated, and that it bore largely on the life-history of the absent susy.

“you’re quite sure that she’ll be here by ten?” asked the excited father for the fiftieth time that afternoon.

“yes, i’m sure of it—unless she’s kep’ late,” answered liz.

but susy did not return at the usual hour, so her impatient father was forced to conclude that she had been “kep’ late”—too late. in his anxiety he resolved to sally forth under the guidance of tommy splint to inquire for the missing susy at the well-known establishment of stickle and screw.

let us anticipate him in that quest. at the usual hour that night the employés of stickle and screw left work and took their several ways home ward. susy had the company of her friend lily hewat as far as chancery lane. beyond that point she had to go alone. being summer-time, the days were long, and susy was one of those strong-hearted and strong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.

she had just passed over london bridge and turned into a labyrinth of small streets on the surrey side of the river, when a drunken man met her in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass. the man seized her by the arm. susy tried to free herself. in the struggle that ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on the kerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible. seeing this, the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her, and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance on the scene of a lowland scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd’s plaid—a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braes of yarrow.