It was at a place called “Norman’s Cross” that their Philippe had been confined—somewhere not far from the eastern coast of England. About seven thousand prisoners of war, chiefly Frenchmen, were there kept under close surveillance. The prison and the barracks were built on high land, healthy enough—yes, certainly, as to that, the farmer said—with plenty of fresh air. And the prisoners were guarded more by sentinels in all directions, than by fortifications, walls, moats, or dungeons. “Not like Bitche!” interjected Roy. Well, no, certainly—Monsieur spoke correctly. The place—Norman’s Cross, and the old farmer made a funny sound of these two words—was not precisely like Bitche. As to arrangements, Philippe had had no fault to find with the food provided. It was good of its kind; and cooks were chosen from among the French prisoners by themselves, being paid for their work of cooking by the English Government. Also, when Philippe fell ill, he found the hospital well managed. A school for prisoners was kept going; and several billiard-tables as well as other amusements were provided. But, ah, the poor Philippe, he had been unhappy in captivity! Was it not natural? Had not Monsieur himself experienced the same? He had longed to be free—to return to his own country once more. And though on the whole the prisoners had been fairly well treated, at all events in that particular place, yet of course there had been cases of roughness and of harsh treatment. Moreover, there was much to make a prisoner sad—the desperate gaming, the perpetual duelling, among his fellow-prisoners were of themselves sufficient.[1] So, after more than a year of captivity, always more and more hopeless, with no token of the war drawing to a close, he had at last resolved to make his escape. And, through great dangers, privations, difficulties, he had actually succeeded. Where was Philippe now? Ah—pour cela—he had rejoined his regiment, and was again at his old occupation. Fighting, fighting—who could say for how long? Perhaps to be again taken prisoner, and once again to be at Norman’s Cross! Who could foretell? (_To be continued._) FOOTNOTES: [1] All this from a Frenchman’s account. OUR LILY GARDEN. PRACTICAL AIDS TO THE CULTURE OF LILIES. BY CHARLES PETERS. [Illustration: _Lilium Brownii._] Japan is the home of lily culture. Not only are the Japanese Islands rich in native lilies, but their inhabitants, imbued with a love of flowers, which to our Western minds is almost incomprehensible, have introduced into their country all the prominent plants of Eastern Asia. And with a knowledge which we possess in but a small degree, they have modified and beautified both their own plants and those that they have introduced from foreign countries. The culture of the lily in Japan has reached a high stage of development, and most of our best varieties of lilies owe their origin to Japanese gardeners.