with the world at their feet so far as gaiety
and admiration go, give up all that others
count pleasure, for the sake of doing good
among the poor and sick; men, officers of
high rank, young and rich—the not
typical "guardsmen" of certain novelists—
devote days of each week and hours of each
day to the good of the institution. Mrs.
Gladstone herself finds time, in all her press
of business and the hurry of a London life,
to go frequently among the poor
convalescents and see personally that things are
right with them. Nothing can be kinder,
sweeter, or more tender, than her manner to
them: unless it be the manner of the hard-
headed men of the world—doctors, men of
business, officers who have served in
the Crimea and seen many a hard day's
fight and gone through many a rough
campaign — who form the backbone of her
visiting committee. And the very profession
of these last, with the subtle sense of
discipline it brings, prevents all weakness
and sentimentality, all fluidity and want of
body and firmness. The organisation of
these Homes is marvellously free from weakness,
and yet the one pervading spirit is that
of tenderness and love.

When we were ushered into the women's
sitting-room, we found Mrs. Gladstone there,
sitting in the midst of them and reading
aloud—a pleasure which all the poor appreciate
highly, as they appreciate music and
singing. The evening before, she was playing
Bonny Dundee on the piano, which is
at some little distance from the men's room;
when they caught the air and took it up, and
sang the words to it as she played.

Among the most interesting details of
the establishment are the letters which
the convalescents or their friends write
to Mrs. Gladstone or to the Lady
Super-intendent, when they get home. Some,
however, go and tender their thanks in
person at the London Hospital, where the
Woodford Convalescent Home Committee
assembles every Monday to meet the
London Hospital Committee, and hear what
new cases they have to propose. The
majority write, poorly or pleasantly, according
to their ability — the children's little
scrawls being chiefly sweet and childish
effusions of love and gratitude and happy
memories. One of the best letters among
the whole list open to us was from a
husband, a cabinet-maker, who wrote to
thank the lady for her care of his wife; a
manly, sensible letter, with a true, honest-
hearted ring in it. And one was an
exceedingly graphic description from a Scripture
reader, of how she had taken a gipsy
girl and an idiot boy — half mad as well as
idiotic—to London on a terrible foggy
Wednesday in November; how they were lost in
the fog, and how the idiot boy persisted that
he knew the way, and led them on and on,
"only ten minutes further," " ten minutes
further," till they had tramped for miles, to
the little untamed gipsy girl's bewilderment,
and the Scripture reader's dismay. At last,
however, the poor idiot's instinct justified
itself, and they struck on his home as he
had promised they should.

Some of the cases axe very interesting,
and some quite dramatic. One woman was
ill of " fright." She had seen a neighbour
drop dead at her feet, and was
consequently very ill for a time. One man
was brought in who had left the hospital
too soon, to see his wife, who was dying.
He got out of bed to see her die, and the
shock was too much for him in his enfeebled
state. So he was brought to the quiet
comfort of the Woodford Home, and in
time recovered. A paper-hanger, aged
thirty-one, with a wife and child, came
in from St. Thomas's Hospital, where he
had been five weeks, laid up with a broken
leg: got from a ruffian who kicked him
because he tried to defend a woman whom
the brute was ill-treating. One was a
young soldier twenty-eight years of age,
who was bitten on the face by a snake
in the jungle in India. His guide lost his
way, so he and his comrades had to sleep
in the jungle. When he woke he found
his face was bleeding. He has undergone
seven operations already, and has to undergo
at least one more, and is mutilated and
disfigured for life. One woman was
partially paralysed, and had no serviceable
backbone. Supported by irons, she would
double completely up, and spring in and
out wildly, like a broken watch-spring.

Some governesses have even found their
way here, and here have become convalescent.
As I went through the room many were
lying on the couches and chairs asleep with
that deep, sweet sleep of convalescence
which nothing disturbs; more were sitting
by the fire in the queer blank way of uneducated
people; a few nice boys were turning
over picture books; they all looked happy
and contented, and as if on the way to mend,
if not already mended. In the women's
place a little child, " Johnny," gives life
and character to the room, and is invaluable
to the invalids. He and the cat do almost
as much good as the beef and fresh air.
Some cases are painfully suggestive of
the pinching poverty which has brought
all this ill health about; but many of the