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Perhaps the first, easiest, and on the whole, least durable of girls' friendships is formed at school. Not such a school as we go to at twelve, where we have class competitions, good-conduct marks, and fines for talking, but such a school as we go to at sixteen, to "finish," when individual emancipated life is so near that we begin to realise it, and dimly feel that the friends we now make may form part of it.

Very little will patch up a so-called friendship at school; a room mate, especially if you have only one, who is not utterly uncongenial, is almost sure to become a great friend--the girl who is equal with you in your favourite lesson, the girl who comes from your county or town, or whose "people" know your "people." Every schoolgirl must be able to think of a dozen other reasons why such and such girls selected each other as friends.

Well, do these friendships last? In nine cases out of ten they do not, though by means of fitful correspondence they may drag on a feeble existence for years. The bond of union which school supplies being once broken, Lucy and Kate find new interests quite unconnected with each other, which may be difficult to explain on paper, and the opportunities of meeting may be few.

Besides, Kate, who was "quite the nicest girl at school," does not seem so exceptional when brought among Lucy's relations. They think her a little free and easy, or too particular and strait-laced. She is poor, and mamma is afraid of "the boys" falling in love with her; or rich, and may stay "only one week," the seeming significance of which sets the family back up, and she is not asked again.

There are a hundred trifles which part school friends, whose affection has been of short, rapid growth, and which must therefore wither in a new atmosphere, unless its roots have struck deep down into the hearts of both.

So the letters become shorter and fewer, till there comes so long a pause that neither can remember who wrote last, and each, of course, feels that the other is to blame for the silence.

"If Kate really cares about me she will answer my last letter," says Lucy.

"If Lucy wants to drop the correspondence, I'm sure I shan't force her to keep it up," says Kate.

So the letter is never written, and the friends part; and though I am a great admirer of the virtue of constancy, I still hold that there are cases in which it is a mere mockery, the empty husk which we had much better fling away when the kernel is gone.

But girls' friendships are often made by propinquity, neighbourhood, adjacent homes, and constant meetings in the ordinary round of life.

The average girl, especially if living in the country, has not usually a very large circle of acquaintances from which to choose her friends . Even if her mother's visiting list is long, each household will not include a girl of her own age with whom she could be intimate, and many will live at a distance to make frequent intercourse out of the question.

Yes, your circle will narrow to some five or six, perhaps even three or four, girls, and you will naturally see most of the one living nearest to you.

You meet in your strolls, if you live in the country, you continually "drop in" to tea and tennis at each other's houses. If you live in a town, you drop in just before or just after your round of more formal visits, and you get to know each others' daily lives, daily interests, pleasures, and difficulties very thoroughly, and this interweaving of the day-to-day existence forms many a friendship.

You get accustomed to each other; the trivial incidents of the hour, perhaps its gossip, which have a transient interest for the one, interests the other no less. Your friend knows just what work you are doing, just what book you are reading. You have a great deal of time for talking, and by degrees each knows almost everything about the life of the other, for the lives are short, and at this period neither profound nor intricate.

Now, if you are really fitted to be friends to one another, this intimacy may be a very good beginning; you know each other thoroughly, and the mutual affection, sympathy, and help I spoke of in a former paper are much more possible when there is such perfect acquaintance. At the same time there are features in such a friendship which tell very much against the idea of its long continuance.

To begin with, such frequent meetings must often exhaust the materials for conversation. Girls do not usually "take in" to such large extent that they can be continually "giving out" with interest to their hearers. Do you not sometimes find that you have nothing more to say to your friend since you saw her yesterday? You have had one short, stupid letter from a school companion, you have tried your hand at making orange fritters and failed, and cook says you must try something easier; you have read a little more of the book you discursed yesterday, and done a little more of the painting, and when these subjects are disposed of conversation flags.

You begin to find each other just a little, a very little dull, and it is really a relief to meet a slighter acquaintance to whom you can tell the whole history of the painting, or the last tennis party for the first time.

I do not believe that "familiarity breeds contempt" between people who are worth knowing and loving, but I do think that girls are all the better for having certain chambers in their hearts, into which even the special "intimate" may not enter; and for being by herself at times, instead of continually hunting up a companion, for hours which would otherwise be solitary. Girls don't think enough, and how can they if they are constantly in the company of those who think no more, and so seldom by themselves.

You would become closer friends if you took time apart to progress individually, each in the direction her character or opportunities point out.

There may be something, too, of undue influence of two opposite characters or tastes when both are young and pliable, but of this I do not now speak.

And what is the end of the ordinary friendship of neighbourhood? One of the girls leaves the place and gets elsewhere a new set of the little social interests that bound them together. They are not worth writing about, though they might have taken hours to talk them over, and having less and less in common, her friends drift apart through lack of a strong tie to bind them together, though, perhaps, they never quite drop.

A third and somewhat higher class of friendship is that formed over association in work, or some deep common interest.

This will occur when girls meet to study some subject of real interest to both, not for the mere sake of "doing something" after their school life has closed, but for the earnest use to which they intend to put their requirements.

It may be art in one of its branches, or music, which, indeed, is art, too. One of the most delightful of friendships I ever heard of was cemented over the task of acquiring the "accomplishment of verse."

Or two girls may throw themselves heart and soul into benevolent Christian work, not, as I said before, for the mere sake of "doing something," but because they really long to help their fellow-creatures physically, morally, spiritually, for Christ's sake. Meeting in this way, and fitted by natural character to be friends, they will probably become so, and, unless some quarrel arise, caused by earnest difference of opinion, will, I think, remain so longer than any I have mentioned before.

And now I come to speak of what I must consider the most perfect method on which a friendship can be formed. I mean the elective friendship which depends on no accident of association or neighbourhood, and is, to my mind, the most satisfying of all.

We cannot say what drew us to our friend. We met her for a few days at a country house, or were introduced to her casually at a dinner-party. Nothing in ordinary circumstances would have been more likely than to part and meet no more. But we did not part; something had united us--we felt we must see more of each other.

This attracting something lends a strange charm to friendship, and, whether the two are alike or unlike, it matters little--they are sure to be helpers and sympathisers, because, it seems to me, and I say it with all reverence, this something which we cannot define is a God-given bond of union. The two are meant to be friends--meant to act beneficially upon each other; and, perhaps, because they cannot understand it or reason over it, the tie proves stronger than they or anyone can break.

They may be thrown together in any of the ways I have suggested, but with a difference; then neighbourhood, association, was the primary element in the formation of the friendship; now it is secondary to the elective attraction. Both feel that their souls would have come together in whatever circumstances they had met.

In conclusion, let me add one word about the bond of union which the love of Christ makes. If that is in any friendship you need not fear its dissolution. If few girls begin their youthful friendships with such a tie, can they not, will they not strengthen their union with it when they see how it can bless and sanctify such union with friendship the most perfect we can know on earth?

THE SHEPHERD'S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

JACK'S SMOCK FROCK.

"Is it nearly finished, mother?" asked Charlie.

The "it" was a smock made of very coarse linen, over which Mrs. Shelley and another little pair of hands had been toiling hard every afternoon for the last fortnight.

"Yes, if Fairy would only sit still and help me, we might finish it before supper. Just call her, Willie, I can't think what the child is doing; she is in her own room," replied Mrs. Shelley, who is now a comely woman of six or seven and thirty, and has apparently had but few sorrows, as not a wrinkle marks her smooth forehead, nor has a single grey hair yet made its appearance among her bright brown locks.

"Well, whether it is finished or not, Jack will never wear it, I am sure, so I hope I shall have it handed over to me," said Charlie.

"Nonsense, Charlie, pray don't say anything of the kind before Jack. Your father will insist on his wearing it, and as Fairy has made a great deal of it, I hope we shall persuade him to put it on to-morrow," said Mrs. Shelley, rather anxiously, for she was by no means so sure as she professed to be that Jack would condescend to wear a smock.

"I know he won't, mother; but what has Fairy got in her hand? Oh, my goodness me, what is that fine thing, Fairy?" asked Charlie, as, in answer to Willie's repeated shouts, Fairy made her appearance.

She was a tall, slight child, straight as a dart, still rather fragile in appearance, but with a healthy pink in her cheeks that did credit to Sussex air and living. Her hair was long, and floated about in the summer breeze in great waves of gold, the long silky tresses reaching below her waist. In striking contrast to this golden hair and fair pink and white complexion were her great brown eyes, with their long, dark lashes and delicately, though firmly, pencilled eyebrows. The rest of her features were nothing out of the common way, but her fair hair and dark eyes and brilliant complexion would at once have attracted attention, if, young as she was, she had not already been one of those people who can't come into a room without making their presence felt. The name little Jack--no longer little, by the way--had chosen for her years ago suited her exactly. Lightly as a fairy she tripped and flitted about, bright as a sunbeam, as though no such thing as care or sorrow existed in the world. Dainty in all her ways, neat and trim in her dress, with tiny hands and feet, a better name than Fairy could not have been given her. She was dressed in a pink print, simply yet well-made, and altogether the child looked out of keeping with her surroundings, particularly with her foster brother, Charlie, in his corduroys and his swill-pail by his side.

"You dreadful boy, take that horrid pail away before I come a step further," cried Fairy, pinching her little nose with her delicate white taper fingers.

"All right, but do show us that fine thing you have in your hand first," said Charlie.

"No, no, no; go to your pigs first, you'll spoil my lovely present for Jack if you come near me," said Fairy, hiding her hands behind her, and running backwards to avoid any chance of a collision with Charlie and his pail as he prepared to obey her commands.

"What is it, Fairy?" asked Mrs. Shelley, as Charlie moved off, looking up with curiosity from her work.

"It is a shaving-case I have been making for Jack out of that quilt of mine you said I might have, mother," replied Fairy, holding out an elaborate shaving-case, beautifully quilted in blue satin.

"A shaving-case? But, my dear Fairy, Jack does not shave. How could you cut that lovely thing up in this way?" said Mrs. Shelley.

"A shaving-case! What is the use of it if he did shave?" asked Willie, who was of a practical turn of mind.

"The use of it! Why, to keep his shaving-cloths in, of course. Mr. Leslie has one something like this, only not half so pretty," said Fairy, eyeing her handiwork with admiration.

"It is much too good for Jack," said Charlie, who had come back from his pigs.

"Nothing is too good for Jack, is it, mother?" asked Fairy, with an imperceptible nod at Willie.

"It is very unsuitable, Fairy, and I think it is a pity you cut up that quilt for it; but come and help me to finish this smock, you idle child, do."

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