rushing by us out of doors, and who answered
as he ran to the question, "What are you in
such a hurry for?" with the one luscious word,
"Pudden!" Beyond the dining-room we found
a room supplied with newspapers, bagatelle-
board, chess and draughts, dominoes, and other
games. Also another room, in which the
committee of the club was about to have a business
meeting.

Then, on we travelled to the rooms where we
found poor women at work with their needles,
and saw how they managed the shirt making.
We turned aside then, to the empty storeroom
of the blankets that are all away doing their
winter duty upon poor men's beds, and heard
how a beginning had just been made in this
room of a provision for the lending to the sick
poor, of all manner of medical and surgical
comforts that are usually beyond their reach.
Such provision is a good suggestion of Dr.
Wright's, and is the newest addition to the
long list of good thoughts that have become
good deeds through the unremitting energy
of Mr. Gregory. The store of medical
comforts looks to enrichment, less by money-
help than by gifts of the needed articles
themselves. In many a well-to-do family, where
some one of its members has recovered from an
illness during which some sort of mechanical
appliances have aided the recovery or eased the
pain—in many a house, too, where the need of
such an aid has ended with the life it failed to
save, and where it is hard to keep, harder to
sell, the visible remainder of the sufferings on
earth of a beloved one who is at rest for ever
—what could one wish better than to place
such things where they would be continually
useful, and again and again contribute to the
health and comfort of the poor? We saw also
a long and hungry file waiting with jugs to be
filled at the soup kitchen, and saw in the
kitchen itself school children, who would otherwise
have been all but dinnerless, sitting with
lumps of bread and ample basins of hot soup
before them. Is that bad political or
educational economy? If so, so be it. In a district
where there come to the schools children who
cannot learn for very hunger, where a child has
brought for its dinner two raw potatoes and
asked leave to have them cooked at the school
stove, we say only, God bless the soup kitchen
that opens its doors to the hungry among those
poor little scholars!

THE PAINTER AND POURTALÈS.

TRUE, it was a humble garret,
Looking on a strip of sky,
O'er the roofs of Paris city,
O'er its domes and columns high.

To the painter, 'twas a palace,
Richly furnish'd by his art,
Fancy realis'd the fortune
From whose gifts he stood apart.

But success comes often slowly,
And he wasted day by day;
Yet he kept a stainless conscience,
Dream'd, and toil'd, and hop'd alway.

Now there was a time approaching,
When to painters old and young,
For their works, the Palais Royal,
Wide its ample portals flung.

He too—he will make his venture,
Wrestle for a golden prize;
At the thought his pulse throbs faster,
Eager flash his earnest eyes.

But whence draw his inspiration?
His good angel prompts him now—
He will visit his dead mother,
By her grave will make his vow.

Then he buys a simple flowret,
'Tis the flower she lov'd the best
In her life—the purple heartsease,
With its regal velvet nest.

Now the cemetery nearing,
See, two figures fix his gaze,
Like him on a pious errand
Bound to visit Père la Chaise.

Clad they are in humble mourning;
On the old man's cheek a scar,
On his breast a modest ribbon,
Marks a hero from the war.

Silver-grey the long locks falling
On each side the temples pale,
Mild the sightless eyes, beseeching
Pity for the limbs that fail.

Scarce the bending girl beside him
Hath her sixteen summers seen,
Shy the timid looks and gesture,
Slight the arm on which to lean.

Darkly clear the brown complexion,
Pure the face as any saint,
All too thin the young cheek's oval,
On the lips a blush-rose faint.

But the dark eyes beam soft splendour,
Like two stars by mist o'erspread,
And a weight of raven tresses
Crown-like, wreath the drooping head.

And the young man marks her efforts,
Her dear charge to shield from harm,
Glancing too with tearful pleasure
At the chaplet on her arm.

Through the solemn crowded silence,
He behind them follows slow,
Up the broad walks, cypress-border'd,
As with painful steps they go.

Now their paths diverge. He reaches
That mute sign, the plain black cross
Hung with chaplets of immortelles,
Which records his love and loss.

Then he plants the purple flowers,
Reverent kneels awhile to pray;
Whispers, "Give the boon I seek for,
Give it ere the close of day."

Then the vision comes before him
(Only faded, never lost)
Of the old man and the maiden
Who his path so late had crost.