"What are you doing here?" cried I,
without a moment's hesitation, "you very
very wicked old dog?"

My beloved preceptor, perceiving at once
that further deception would be worse than
useless, made a virtue of confiding in the
bosom of friendship.

"She's there," he remarked in a solemn
voice, just dipped in melancholy; "that's her
beautiful shadow there upon the first-floor
blind: she's brushing her adorable back
hair."

"The young person seems to me to be
going to bed," observed I, drily; the remark
conveyed a reproach upon Mr. Segment's
conduct as a spectator, but his principles (I
suppose) were far too high to be reached
by it.

"She is going to bed," replied he sadly;
"it will be very soon over now: she puts a
little unnecessary kalydor upon her lovely
cheeks, and then——"

"Good gracious, Segment," cried I,
interrupting him indignantly, "do you mean to
say that you come here every night?"

"Every night, my friend," rejoined he,
quietly, "since that fourteenth of August
when we came upon her sketching on the
heathery hill-top like a startled fawn. Ruth,
Ruth, thou daughter of a kindly race, be
pitiful to me as thy name implies! I think
she is now going to put her ringlets into
paper: her sect, strict as it is, has not the
cruelty to forbid the sweet girl to wear
ringlets. The candle is on the mantelpiece
tonight, so that we shall scarcely see her dainty
fingers—exquisite gaolers—imprisoning her
locks in their separate tiny cells; when it's
on the table behind her—but I need not
speak to you of the effect of light when a
solid body intervenes directly. . . . . What
am I saying? Solid body? She's a fairy,
she's a spirit, she's an angel—she's going now
to put on her bewitching but perfectly plain
and Quaker-like night-cap."

The Shadow did in truth appear to be
fixing something of that final nature upon its
head; the next instant, however, the
Substance threw up the window, and in a very
masculine voice indeed, roared out: "What
the Devil are you two fellows lurking there
about? You'll have as good a thrashing as
ever you had in your life if you don't move
off."

Away started the discomfited Segment—
like a tangent—at these dreadful sounds;
away I started in pursuit as fast as laughter
would permit me.

"What a very hoarse voice Ruth has,"
I panted, as I came up with the fugitive,
"and don't you think, for a Quakeress, that
her language is a little strong?"

The fact was that Aberdovelly Cottage
was at that moment tenanted by the newly
arrived Reading party—the enchanting Ruth
having vacated it the preceding day—while
the individual whose retiring arrangements
poor Segment had been taking so great an
interest in, was no other than the Oxford
coach himself.

          ONE OTHER HOSPITAL FOR
                        CHILDREN.

WHO that has seen has not grieved to
see a sick child in the house of Poverty?
Say, it is loved by tender-hearted parents.
Then many a holy sacrifice, of which the
rich know nothing, they must make before
they can fulfil in its behalf, the simplest
offices of love. The father must go forth to
his day's labour, or the house-roof tumbles
over all; the mother, too often, must go
forth also to her day's labour, or deny to the
whole household a part of its daily
sustenance. The many little wants of childhood
multiplied by sickness, press in vain upon the
mother's aching heart. The little luxuries
that are the best of medicine, even the luxury
of a frequent loving word and loving touch,
are seldom to be had. The little one lies
on its bed (if it has a bed) lonely by day, and
at night overcrowded with the bed-fellows
who have no other resting-place than by its
side. I do not draw on fancy, but on
recollection, when I speak about this thing. Years
of my life have been spent, day after day, by
the sick-beds of children. I have made friendships
with them on their little pallets, sometimes
visiting at their own poor homes, fifty
in a day; and now and then keeping a night-
long watch by one of them. I know too well
what a vain struggle of love it is when
mothers, living by the toil of their bodies,
after hard labour by day, deny themselves
their sleep by night;—fathers do that only
when death is near. There is a refinement
in poor women that is seldom to be found
among poor men, which often shines with
a pure lustre by the sick-bed of a child. It
is very beautiful and very pitiful; it prompts
to perform so much, those who can really
achieve so little. Little, I mean in man's
eyes; much, we know, in God's: little to
raise the body from the sick-bed, much to
increase health in the soul.

Again, there is a marked character about
all sickness of a child; it rises and falls with
a rapid tide. Fatal disease runs its course
often with a rapidity unknown among adults;
a trifling matter noticeable in the morning,
may become serious if not observed and
attended to before the noon, deadly if left
unnoticed until night. Every child's physician
knows, that in case of any serious disorder,—
and a light disorder may by an unexpected
turn, by unwise treatment or neglect,
suddenly grow formidable,—in case of serious
disorder no child is perfectly assured of
complete medical help, who is not seen by a
skilled observer three times in the twenty-
four hours. That is the truth. But it is
requisite to put it out of sight, for it is
utterly impossible that any medical