animals, so that it sometimes seems to our Continental neighbours as if we, as a nation, had no real women left, but only chimpanzees. There are, however, slight stirrings of a movement among the true "ladies" of England, those who stand more or less aloof from the "smart set,"—a movement indicative of "drawing the line somewhere." It is possible that there may yet be a revival of "Home" and its various lost graces and dignities. We may even hear of doors that will not open to millionaires simply because they are millionaires. Only the other day a very great lady said to her sister in my hearing: "No, I shall not 'present' my two girls at all. Society is perfectly demoralised, and I would rather the children remained out of it, so far as London is concerned. They are much happier in the country than in town, and much healthier, and I want to keep them so. Besides, they love their home!"
Herein is the saving grace of life,—to love one's home. Love of home implies lovable people dwelling in the charmed circle,—tender hearts, quick to respond to every word of love, every whisper of confidence, every caress. The homeless man is the restless and unhappy man, for ever seeking what he cannot find. The homeless woman is still more to be pitied, being entirely and hopelessly out of her natural element. And the marked tendency which exists nowadays to avoid home life is wholly mischievous. Women complain that home is "dull," "quiet," "monotonous," "lonely," and blame it for all sorts of evils which exist only in themselves. If a woman cannot be a few hours alone without finding her house "dull," her mind
