trees waved and bowed their heads lovingly
and soothingly.

"'It is not until we are sick that we know
the value, that we feel the necessity, of these
things,' she began again. 'This I may venture
to say for us both. We had been cradled
in luxury and elegancies, surrounded by every
thing that the most lavish expenditure could
bestow. We gave them all up without a
sigh. So much unhappiness had attended
this unblest profusion, that it seemed almost
a relief—something like an emancipation—
to have done with it, and be restored at
once to simplicity and nature. Whilst our
health and spirits lasted, we both of us took
a pleasure in defying superfluity, in being
easy and content upon a pallet bed, and with
a crust of bread and a glass of water; but,
oh! when sickness comes—deadly sickness!
The fever, and the languor, and, above all,
the frightful susceptibility to external influences.
When upon the hard bed you
cannot sleep, though sleep is life to the
exhausted frame. When the coarse food
you cannot touch—though your body is sinking
for want of nourishment—when the aching
limbs get sore with the rugged unyieldingness
of that on which they lie—when you languish,
and sicken for fresh air, and are shut up in a
little close room in some back street—when
you want medicine and care, and can command
no services at all—or of the lowest and most
inefficient description—then—O then! we
feel what it is to want—then we feel what it
is to have such an asylum prepared for us as
this. Poor thing! she was not so fortunate
as I have been.'"

Here, the broken man who had until now sat
listening in what might almost be called a sullen
attention, suddenly lifted up his head, looked
round the room where he sat, and through
the large cheerful window upon the branches
of the trees and the blue unclouded sky; and,
suddenly, even his heart seemed reached.

He arose from his chair, he sat down again,
he looked conscious, uneasy, abashed. It was
so long since he had felt or expressed any
grateful or amiable sentiment, that he was
almost ashamed of what he now experienced,
as if it had been a weakness.

"Pray have the kindness to go on," he said,
at last.

"It was some days before I learned much
more of the history of my poor young invalid,
but one day when I came to see her, I found
a very respectable-looking woman, though
evidently not belonging to the higher class,
sitting with her. She was a person whose
appearance would have been almost repulsive
from the deep injuries her face had received
—burned when a child, I believe—if it had
not been for the sense and goodness that pervaded
her expression. Her eyes were singularly
intelligent, sweet, and kind.

"I found she was the wife of the baker—
she, who had once been nursery maid in your
family. The only friend the poor young
creature seemed to have left in the world,
and the only person from whom she could
bear, as it afterwards appeared, to receive an
obligation. This excellent person it was, who
advanced the guinea a-week, which the laws
of the institution required should be contributed
by a patient.

"When she took her leave I followed her,
to inquire further particulars about my
patient. She then told me, that the sister
had died about three years before, leaving a
heavy debt to be discharged by the one
remaining; consisting of her funeral expenses,
which were considerable, though everything
was conducted with all the simplicity compatible
with decency; and of the charges of
the medical man who had attended her: a
low unprincipled person, who had sent in an
enormous bill, which there were no means
of checking, and which, nevertheless, the high-spirited
sister resolved to pay. But the first
thing she did, was to insure her own life for a
certain sum, so as to guard against the
burden under which she herself laboured,
being in its turn imposed upon others.

"'So, madam,' said the good Mrs. Lacy,
with simplicity, 'you must not think that the
guinea a-week is anything more than an
advance on our part—there will be money
enough to repay us—or my dear Miss Ella
would never, never have taken it. She would
die in the street first, she has such a noble
spirit of her own. She told me to provide for
her sister's debts,—she had made an arrangement
with a publisher to be a regular contributor
to a certain periodical,—she had likewise
produced a few rather popular novels.
To effect this she had indeed laboured night
and day,—the day with her pupils, half the
night with her pen. She was strong, but
human nature could not support this long;
and yet labour as she did, she proceeded
slowly in clearing away the debt. I cannot
quite account for that,' said Mrs. Lacy, 'she
dressed plainly, she allowed herself in no
expense, she made no savings, she paid the
debt very slowly by small instalments, yet
she worked herself into a decline. There
seemed to be some hidden, insatiable call for
money.'" . . . .

If the lady who was recounting all this, had
looked at her listener at that moment, she
would have been moved, little as she liked
him. A wild horror took possession of his
countenance—his lips became livid—his cheek
ghastly—he muttered a few inarticulate words
between his teeth. But she was occupied
with her own reflections, and noticed him not.

"This could not go on for ever," said the
lady, presently. "She was obliged to throw
up her situation; soon afterwards the possibility
of writing left her; and she was brought
here, where I found her."

"And that it was—that it was, then!"