Lucy could not help laughing. “Don’t say ‘Women won’t do what men can’t do,’” she answered. “Don’t you know it is a favourite masculine reflection on feminine inferiority that all the great cooks are men! If that be so, then men are also likely to be the best average cooks. If they are so hard pressed for work, why do not some of them turn towards work which is crying for workers, and in which we always hear they could excel? A cook with a wage of eighteen or twenty pounds a year, and a thoroughly good home provided, is far better off than the earner of a weekly wage of a pound.” “Oh, well,” said Tom, “I can well believe that. But why can’t women stick to cooking themselves? It’s women’s work.” “Not if they can’t do it so well as we hear men can,” persisted Lucy. “Well, you see, it would seem a come-down for a man,” Tom candidly confessed. “A clerkship—domestic service; they have a different sound.” “Just so,” said Lucy, “and that being the man’s standpoint, the girls have naturally adopted it too. What reason is there in such a standpoint? On the face of it, which work is the more honourable—securing and maintaining the comfort of homes, or entering figures in a ledger and addressing envelopes? Which sphere gives the more scope for individual talent and character? And until this perverted standpoint is changed, all our present miseries will continue and increase. I have got my share, and you are finding yours. What is your housemate, Mr. Hinton, going to do?” “He’s one of the lucky ones!” said Tom. “His married sister and her husband are coming into London, and they mean to let him have their spare room.” A sudden idea flashed upon Lucy’s mind. (_To be continued._) ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. STUDY AND STUDIO. T. R. A. M. A.—We think you must be confusing two poems. The lines— “O Mother Ida! many-fountained Ida, Dear Mother Ida, hearken ere I die!” recur frequently in “Œnone,” a poem by Tennyson; they may have been confused by someone with the extract from Macaulay’s “Horatius,” which you quote— “O Tiber, Father Tiber, To whom the Romans pray,” or may, of course, be foolishly introduced into a parody upon the “Lay” in question. DAFFODIL (Portugal).—Thank you very much for your interesting letter from Oporto. We like to hear about your life. Your information is published elsewhere. BLUEBELL.—The extract you give is from Lord Tennyson’s poem “Crossing the Bar.” You will find it in the last volume of his works, and it begins thus— “Sunset, and evening star, And one clear call for me.” AGATHA.—We are pleased to have your letter from the Sea-Bathing Hospital and hope you will soon be stronger. As for your quotation from Longfellow— “We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before,”