I now come to the last and saddest sight of all,-the wards of the "Worn out,"—those who can no longer work and are sent into those rooms there to stay till they are carried out. One cannot enter this part of the house without awe, it is like crossing the borders of the unseen world, and for a time loosens one's hold of this life. Some seem to have already passed over the threshold and have that farseeing look peculiar to the dying, from whose eyes the veil may be removed, as though the things invisible to us were partially revealed to them.

Here at least was visiting wanted; the sun was streaming in with oppressive heat on the beds where the " worn out" lay half-unconscious, as they must lie hour after hour cut off from all human interest; the only change to them, an empty bed when one of their number dies and is taken away to the dead house, the rest awaiting their turn which will come to some in a few days, to others not for a year or so.

An old man who was dying of cancer faintly asked me to read "anything to take him to GOD." I chose a chapter of S. John's Gospel, and saw the half-glazed eyes slowly brighten as the glorious words brought back the struggling soul now almost escaped from its prison, the suffering dwelling so soon to fall asunder and decay. Never did he betray the agony from his fearful complaint, save by his painfullydrawn rattling breath. He had been lying there for years patiently looking forward to the release that death would bring, without murmuring or dread. One may well stand humbled in the presence of these dying paupers.

There were several women in the female worn-out ward, or one might say, remnants of women. The room was very still and deathlike. One woman was literally a breathing corpse. She was paralysed and had lain thus for a fortnight; except for the heavy-laboured breath, the sole sign of life, only the shell remained. I sat down to read between her and a deaf woman, wondering if the sound would reach either.

Here let me observe, that unless you have good lungs and distinct articulation the reading may give more pain than pleasure in these wards the echo is so strong. I tried at first to read to one person quietly, but my voice went ringing down the room in a manner that startled me, and I saw some six or eight heads raised from their pillows straining to catch the words, of which the sound only reached them; not liking to distress them I raised my voice, but it was no

slight effort. Not a word escaped their ears, the silence was unbroken, except by a sharp outcry of pain from one poor creature that thrilled through me now and then; always repressed by her neighbours with a stern, "Be quiet, she's reading." I went to her afterwards while she was still wailing; she raised a distorted ghastly face all swathed in bandages, looking more like one of Michael Angelo's lost souls than anything human. She told me she had suffered for six years, and the other women when not irritated by her constant moaning expressed great pity for her, saying it would be a mercy when she was taken.

There is now little left for me to describe; enough has been said to give a fair notion of some of the wards, and though I could speak at greater length and find it in my heart to relate many things of the inmates, the limits of the reader's patience must be observed, and it is only to those who have learnt to care for the poor, that such stories can be interesting. I have sufficiently shown what, in spite of an indefatigable chaplain, who constantly visits them, in spite of weekly services supplied to them, still remains to be done, what an educated lady may effect—not by reading only, but by introducing a new element into their lives; what the mere contact with persons of more refinement, whose ways and ideas are different from theirs, may do for them. And a lady will receive more than she can give while with them she will be repaid not only by gratitude and love, but real benefit and improvement, obtained by acquiring wider sympathies with her fellow creatures, wider knowledge of their thoughts and lives, without which no education can be considered worthy of the name.

There are many difficulties to contend with besides ignorance, indifference, and vice in this work; there is one very hard to get over especially, the outcast feeling among them, as strongly felt by the innocent as by the guilty-perhaps more so by the former; the few (very few, alas!) who are brought down by the faults of others, or from being misjudged, suffer more (if in a different way) than the vicious and hardened. It may be easy to estimate the actual outward injury done to a man by false accusations; the moral injury inflicted in most cases very few know. The man may have the consciousness of innocence at first, he may be cleared from all imputation in the sight of his fellows afterwards, but the scar remains; he can never be quite what he was before the aggression; the mere fact of having been accused, that it has been supposed he could do the evil, will destroy some self-respect, and the doubt will arise and torment him as to whether something in

his character of which he was unaware, some disposition to the wrong may not have given grounds to his neighbour's suspicions. And all this leaves a stain on the soul, never to be effaced till all hearts are revealed.

I have left untouched all description of the children's ward where are little things under three years old, happy and rosy-(the babies are sick, and the mortality amongst them very great)—and the arrangements of the house generally, for I have only been through it once, when the matron explained much of the systematic treatment observed. Everything appeared well conducted; the food was good; scrupulous care taken to preserve cleanliness in the persons, dress, and rooms of the paupers, and though both master and matron were firm disciplinarians, the latter watches over their health anxiously, with a keen eye to perceive any signs of illness or over-fatigue, when many little indulgences are granted, and she appears to have won both respect and liking from them. All letters and papers are allowed them without delay.

But there is no need for further particulars'; let those who will, those who can, whether in ease or trouble, go and see for themselves, and do their part in the work. I do not say it will make them happier if in distress, probably not, if their trouble is great and real.

I am aware that visiting the poor and witnessing sorrows worse than your own is often prescribed as a means of alleviating private grief. Some slight mitigation there may be in the act of relieving poverty and wretchedness, where it is possible to do so; (very often it is not) but it is hardly to be credited that any true man or woman can receive much comfort from such selfish comparison, can be made happier by knowing that others are suffering even more than themselves.

For the daily-awaking increasing sense of all the accumulated misery in the world can only be depressing; far from lightening or removing the individual trouble, it will only add to and over-lay it-weighing down the spirit till it seems as though whichever way you look the earth is full of darkness and cruel habitations, while you, one atom in the confused mass of struggling suffering humanity, are powerless to stem the evil; that with your whole life and the lives of many expended, there are still thousands whose cry will fall to the ground seemingly unheard, perishing daily in want and misery, and worse, in their sins. It needs all faith, all hope, to refrain from pondering over this world's problem; faith, in the inscrutable wisdom that for some

good purpose suffers all this to be, and to recognize that there may be necessity for so awful a state of things, to remember the redeeming love which is the only and sufficient answer to all questions; full enough to quiet and satisfy all hearts. But it can be no comfort in affliction to see how the poor suffer. Yet this appeal I write to those who are in trouble, not only to the careless ones of the earth, but to all who, weighed down with grief too hard to bear, sit mourning amidst the ruins of the past, to rise up and turn to those who toil yet more heavily, not to lessen their own care, by selfish gladness that it is less than that of others, but to learn that it is better to bear CHRIST's burden than their own; better to suffer in the person of His poor than for themselves if the lamentation be greater, willing, like S. Paul, to spend and be spent for their LORD's service.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

ANGELS are gathering them up,

Moments that pass from our sight,

Moments of gladness and sorrow,
Moments of darkness and light.

Angels are gathering them up;
Sins that have faded away,
Sins that were sweet, that were bitter,
Sins of each night and each day.

Angels are gathering them up,

Words that were idle and vain,
Short words that ne'er can be spoken,
Never, oh, never again.

Oh, angels, bearing our misdeeds

Up to the sapphire throne;

Oh, holy watchers, in pity
Speak not of misdeeds alone.

Speak, too, of bitter temptations,

Tell of our wrestlings in prayer ;
Tell of our struggles and anguish,
Tell of our almost despair.

Plead, then, the Blood softly dropping

From JESU's spear-pierced side!

E. L. C.

Speak of the thorn-crown, the death cry,
The Cross-of CHRIST crucified!

Oh, angels, up through the night-air
Hear we the sound of your wings,
Bearing the past year's sad record
From us, to the King of kings.
Lay down the sin-stained pages
Under the quick dropping Blood,
Shall we not find them all glorious,
Washed in that still flowing Flood!

M. K.

REGENT ROSALIND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF AGGESDEN VICARAGE," ETC.

CHAPTER XIV.

"You must come in this evening and see how our peaches are getting on," Mr. Browne was saying some eleven hours later, shaking hands with William Bickerstaffe in the vestry where he, as churchwarden, had been counting the offertory money, and the younger man was waiting to give his grandfather an arm home.

It was a warm friendly handshake that gave the owner's daughter to the man of her choice, without a shadow of grudging at his personal loss; and William Bickerstaffe returned it, recognising this grace and the greatness of the gift, with a feeling of unutterable relief that, however rashly, he was thus freed from all fear of finding himself the husband of Maud Thornton.

He went down with his aunt to the Sunday School that afternoon, but though his old friend Rex was in his place, Rose was so late that she did not come in till after prayers: suddenly at dinner that day had flashed on her the memory of Reuben Jones, her promise through Mr. Brockerton to visit and take him some dainty and a book; she had forgotten it two whole days, and on Friday had had perfect leisure, and how many dainties had then still been standing about the larder! now, when released, she ran out and gathered two peaches, got Martha to pack up some meat and pudding, seized on "How Charley helped his Mother," and hurried, spite of the heat, down to George Street.