happy wife, as she thought over the plan on which she had determined. Come what may, I will know where he goes. He shall find I am equal to him yet.'

Two days after, Sir Francis Lester, his wife, and mother, were seated at the well-lighted dinner-table. There was no other guest-a rare circumstance, for a visitor was ever welcome to break the dull tedium of a family tête-à-tête. Alas for those homes in which such is the case! Silently and formally sat Lady Lester at the head of her husband's table. How cheerless it was in its cold grandeur! with the servants gliding stealthily about, and the three who owned this solemn state exchanging a few words of freezing civility, and then relapsing into silence. When the servants had retired, Sir Francis uttered a few remarks in his usual toneperhaps a little kinder than ordinary-to his wife; but she made no effort to reply, and he turned to his mother. They talked a while, and then the elder Lady Lester rose to retire.

Emily's pale cheek grew a shade whiter as she said, 'Before we leave, I have a word to say to my husband.' Sir Francis lifted his eyes, and his mother observed sharply, Perhaps I had better retire?'

'As you will,' Lady Lester replied with a sneering emphasis. Oh how different from sweet Emily Stratford of old! But it might be an unpleasant novelty to Sir Francis to hear his wife without his mother's presence!'

What is all this?' coldly said the husband. Merely, Sir Francis, that what you refused to tell me, I have learned. I know where, and how, you pass the evenings in which your wife is not worthy to share your society; I know also where you spent last night. A noble thing, a very noble thing for Sir Francis Lester to be squandering his own-ay, and his wife's-fortune in a gaming-house!'

Sir Francis started from the table. It is false!' he said, while the blue veins rose like knots on his forehead. 'It is true,' Emily answered. 'I know it.' 'May I ask how?'

'By the evidence of one who saw you enter the house.' 'And shall I tell you, Francis, how that evidence was gained?' said his mother in the calm biting tone she well knew how to use. I now see why Lady Lester gave yesterday and to-day two such long audiences to her father's old servant, and why she needed his assistance so much-to be a spy upon her husband!'

Sir Francis clenched his hands involuntarily, and looking fixedly at his wife, said, in a tone so low and suppressed that it became almost a whisper, Emily Lester, is this true?'

Much as Lady Lester had erred, she was not yet so far advanced in the ways of wrong as to veil that error by a falsehood; she answered steadily, though a deep blush spread itself over her face and neck, Yes it is!'

Her husband, to Emily's great surprise, did not answer a syllable. His head was bent, and his features immovable. He offered no justification, uttered no reproaches, and his silence irritated her beyond all bounds. Amidst violent bursts of sobbing, she poured out a torrent of recriminations: all her forced calmness had departed, and she upbraided Sir Francis with the bitterness of an injured wife.

'I have endured too long-I will endure no more,' she cried. You trust me not, and therefore you cannot love me. I will go to one who does both-my kind, dear father. I will leave you-we must part.'

We will part,' said Sir Francis in a tone of freezing coldness, that went like an ice-bolt to Emily's heart. Her husband rose up, walked slowly and firmly to the door, but when he reached it, he staggered, and felt about for the handle, like one who was blind. In another minute the hall door closed, and he was gone.

Emily sat as he had left her, but her tears flowed no longer: she was as still and white as a marble statue. The mother-in-law stormed, sneered, reviled; but she might as well have talked to the dead. At last she went away. When the servants entered to remove the

dessert, they found their mistress still in her seat, halfleaning on the table, but perfectly insensible.

Eunice Wolferstan was roused from the contemplation of her own reverses to soothe the unfortunate Emily. For two days, during which her delirium lasted, no news of Sir Francis came to his wife. His supposed guilt became as nothing compared to the fear lest he should take her wild words in earnest, and that they should part. But this fear soon became an agonizing certainty. In a letter to Emily's father, Sir Francis declared his intention to return no more to the home his wife occupied; that all her own fortune, and a portion of his, should be settled upon her, but that henceforth they must be separated. In vain the poor old father, his natural anger subdued by witnessing the agony of his child, pleaded for her. Sir Francis was resolute. That his wife should have dared to discover what he chose to conceal, was a deep offence in his eyes; but that she should have set a servant to watch himno power on earth would have made the haughty Sir Francis Lester forgive that.

The desolate wife prayed her cousin to try her power to soften his obstinate will; for Sir Francis had ever respected the high but gentle spirit of Eunice. She went, strong in her woman's influence: her words touched even him, as she could see by the changing of his countenance. He bore more from her than from any one; for man will sometimes bow to the sway of a high-souled, pure-minded woman, when he will not listen to his brother man. Eunice pleaded Emily's sorrow-her love; but all failed to move Sir Francis. Then she spoke of the child; and at the mention of his boy, she saw the very lips of Sir Francis quiver.

You will take him away from her? Poor Emily's heart will break to lose both husband and child.'

'Mrs Wolferstan, I wish to be just to myself-not cruel to her. I would not take the child from his mother, though it is hard to part with my boy.' And the father's voice trembled, until, erring as she thought him, Eunice felt compassion for the stern, unyielding, yet broken-hearted man.

'Oh,' she thought, had poor Emily only known how to guide this lofty spirit.'

Sir Francis continued, 'When Lady Lester and I are parted, I could wish the world to know as little about the fact as possible. You can say incompatibility of temper was the cause, or anything you will; but let there be no shadow cast on her fair fame-or mine.' Emily need fear none,' answered Eunice. • And

you

Sir Francis drew up his tall figure proudly- Nor I neither, Mrs Wolferstan. To a wife who insults her husband by mean suspicions, no explanations are due. But I owe it to myself to say, and I wish you to know also, that Emily was deceived; that I never stooped to a vice so detestable as gambling; and that the nights I spent in torture amidst scenes I loathe, were devoted to the attempt to save from ruin a friend whom I loved as a brother. Now judge me as you will.'

Eunice could only mourn that the little cloud which had risen between the husband and wife had so darkened the vision of both. But it was past now: no peace-making could restore the alienated love. Once only did Sir Francis and his wife meet: it was on the signing of the deed of settlement. A cold bend of salutation was all that passed between the two who had once loved so fondly. Sir Francis preserved his old reserve and calmness of manner; Emily strove to maintain equal composure, and the excitement of her mind gave her strength. Sir Francis placed his signature on the fatal parchment, and then her father led Emily to the table. She gave one wild imploring look at her husband-but his face seemed passionless: there was no hope. She took the pen, wrote her name, her fingers, her whole frame, grew rigid, and without a sigh or moan she fainted at his feet.

It was over: Sir Francis went abroad: and the young wife, widowed by her own deed, was left alone. But

for the babe who remained to cling round her neck, and look at her with eyes like those of the husband whom she had lost, Emily's reason would have left her. The magnificent house was closed; and she took up her abode in the home from which she had been taken a beautiful and happy bride. Thither the loving care of Eunice followed her still; and Emily gradually became calmer, and wiser, and better, under the guidance of her cousin. Eunice's own path was far from smooth. In her first high-hearted fearlessness of poverty, her very ignorance had made her courageous. Now she came to experience how bitter are those trifling but gnawing cares that those who have known the comfort of easy circumstances feel so keenly; how wearying is the constant struggle to spin a sovereign into the longest thread of gold-wire possible. The grim ogre, poverty, whom the brave heart of Eunice had at first repulsed so cheerfully and boldly, had his revenge by all sorts of sly assaults. But in time she bore them better, and felt them less; and it was a balm to all sorrow to know how much she was loved, ay, and reverenced too, as a good and virtuous wife, whose price is above rubies,' ought to be by her husband. And day by day were their hearts knitted together. She, in loving obedience, yielded willingly, and therefore most sweetly, bending her mind to his in all good things; and he guiding and protecting her, as the stronger should the weaker, in a union in which neither ought to strive for the pre-eminence, unless it be the pre-eminence of love.

For two years only was Eunice fated to know the soreness of altered fortunes. Conscience overtook the brother whose sin had caused so much pain: he died, and restored all to the master whom he had defrauded. The master was a just man, and dealt equally well with Henry Wolferstan; so that fortune again smiled upon him. He left the small house where Eunice had learned the hard lesson of poverty, and returned to the same pleasant home where he had brought his bride.

There, after four years had passed over her head, let us look at Eunice, now in the summer of womanhood, wifehood, motherhood. It was high summer too on the earth; and through the French windows of the room where Eunice sat, came the perfume of roses from the garden. Bees hummed among the leaves of the mulberry-tree, luring sweet Lily from her A B C to her favourite seat under its boughs. The child looked wistfully towards her little cousin, Sidney Lester, who was sporting among the flowers, and all her mother's words failed to attract her attention, until the lesson was happily broken in upon by a visitor. Lily scampered away the unannounced guest entered-and Eunice looked upon the face of Sir Francis Lester!

She had never seen him since the day of the signing of the deed; and time, travel, it might be suffering, had changed him much. He looked now like a man whose prime was past; his hair was turning gray, and he had lost much of his stately carriage. When he spoke, too, there was a softness in his voice that it had not before; perhaps it was at the gentleness, even to tears, which Eunice evinced at seeing him so unexpectedly.

He said he had come on urgent business to England; he should soon return to Italy, and would not go without seeing Mrs Wolferstan. After a while he asked after his boy; and then Emily's name was on her husband's lips. As he spoke, he turned his head away, and looked out of the window, but immediately started back, saying, I understood-I heard that Lady Lester was in the country?'

'She and Sidney returned to-day, but I feared to tell you they were here,' answered Eunice softly.

'Is that my boy? I must see him;' and the father's eyes eagerly returned to where Sidney stood on the garden seat, supporting himself by one rosy arm thrown round his mother's neck, as he pulled the mulberryleaves within his reach. Emily sat still-not the brilliant Emily of yore, but calm, thoughtful, subdued: even the light of a mother's love could not altogether remove the soft sadness from her face. How little she

'An old acquaintance; that is, a stranger,' hurriedly said Mrs Wolferstan, so new in the art of stratagem, that Emily at once guessed the fact. She trembled violently, and sat down; but when Eunice took Sidney's hand to lead him away, the mother interposed.

'Not so, Eunice; you cannot deceive me,' she said firmly. I see it all; and no one but myself shall take Sidney to his father, and my husband.' She lifted the boy in her arms, suffered Eunice to open the door, went in, and closed it after her.

For a whole half-hour, which seemed a day in length, did Eunice sit without, waiting for the result of that interview on which joy or misery, life or death, seemed to hang. She heard no sound; all was still. She hardly dared to hope; she could not even think; only her affectionate heart lifted up a wordless aspiration, too indistinct to be even a prayer.

At last the child's voice within called loudly and fearfully, Aunt Eunie-Aunt Eunie; come!' Eunice went trembling. Emily had fainted; but she lay in her husband's arms; her colourless face rested on his shoulder, and heavy tears were falling on that poor pale face from the stern eyes of Sir Francis Lester.

They were reconciled! Love had triumphed over pride, wrath, obstinacy; and the husband and wife were again reunited with an affection passing that even of bride and bridegroom, for it had been tried in the furnace of suffering, and had come out the pure gold of love-patient, long-enduring love.

In the home to which Sir Francis once more brought his loving and now worthily-beloved wife there was no more coldness, no dull weariness, no estrangement. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for the married pair that the mother of Sir Francis could no longer dissever the bonds that closed again and for ever: she slept beneath a marble monument, as frigid, and stately, and hollow as she herself in life had been.

Perfect bliss is never known in this world; yet if there can be a heaven upon earth, it is that of a happy home, where love-not girlhood's romantic ideal, but strong, deep, all-hallowing, household love is the sunshine that pervades everything within its charmed circle of union. With this blessed sunshine resting upon them, let us take our last look at the Two Homes.

VISIT TO THE HOSPITAL FOR CONSUMPTION. AMONG the noble monuments to the generosity of British charity, and to the expansiveness of its sympathy, there is not one which possesses more interest at the present moment than the Hospital for Consumption and Diseases of the Chest, recently opened in the vicinity of London. It is situated west from the metropolis, in the high road from Brompton to Fulham; and those who have a leisure hour to spare, will be well repaid for their time in inspecting the admirable internal arrangements of this institution. To others who are at a distance, I may be permitted to submit the following sketch of a visit recently made to it.

The locality in which it has been decided to erect this hospital is widely celebrated for its mild atmosphere, and has long been the resort of the consumptive, forbidden by circumstances, or the severity of their disease, to seek the genial air of the south. It is situated upon an open site, a little withdrawn from the highway, and commands from its summit, and from the windows

of the patients' wards, a very fair prospect, extending for some distance in the direction of Kensington and its vicinity. It is surrounded by a space of ground now being laid out as a garden, and intended for the exercise and amusement of such patients as are able to endure the exposure to open air: in fine weather, the invalids appear to take much pleasure in it. The structure itself rather resembles an Elizabethan palace than an hospital: it is built of red brick, relieved by copings and architectural ornaments of white sandstone. There is a profusion of these uncouth monstrosities in the shape of anomalous and unheard-of brutes, and hideous gaping heads, and grinning faces of every degree of deformity, which appear to form essential characters of that style of building; and which, if they serve no other end, are some of them ugly enough to provoke a smile upon the face of the most wo-begone tenant of the building. If there be any lovers of natural history among the patients, these ornaments are well calculated to throw an entirely new light upon their minds as to the relative proportions of the heads and bodies of animals: for the honour of the science, one cannot help hoping there really are no such half-starved lions and unicorns, and no such hybrid monsters in all creation, as are portrayed there. But this by the way. At present, from a deficiency of funds, the centre and right wing of the hospital is all that is yet completed; but when that difficulty is removed-I trust it will not long remain one-the building will form an elegant addition to the architectural ornaments of the metropolis, and will assume its proper rank as one of the 'lions' of London. Some idea of the character of the building may be formed from the fact, that the cost of the present portion of it has considerably exceeded thirteen thousand pounds, which does not include another large sum for its fitting up internally. But we have been long enough outside; let us enter. On entering, a remarkable sensation of warmth is experienced, which can be compared only to that of entering a thoroughly wellwarmed and ventilated sitting-room. This feeling is in striking contrast with that commonly felt upon entering the chilly, ill-ventilated hall of other hospitals; and the total absence of the indefinable, close, disagreeable odour of a large medical institution, is particularly worthy of remark. Only those who will remember the irritable lungs of the consumptive, will appreciate this apparently trivial circumstance at its proper value. A handsome stone staircase, enriched with a fine-painted window, a gift from one of the governors, and illustrated with appropriate subjects, faces the entrance, and is the main communication between the male and female wards, which are upon different storeys of the building. I was first conducted to the basement, whither I would be accompanied by my reader,

One of the most interesting features of this hospital is the system of ventilation, which has been submitted to the care of the great thermal philosopher, Dr Arnott. The apparatus is on the basement floor, and is under the care of an engineer, who, according to the circumstances of the weather, and external temperature, is able, by a simple arrangement, to regulate the heat and supply of air to the remotest end of the entire structure. The air-engine room is a good-sized vault, at the opposite side of which the visitor will see a beam in motion, which, if he be anything of a mechanic, will forcibly remind him of some of the earlier forms of the steamengine beam. It is of wood, having a segment of a circle at either end connected to the cord which moves the pistons, of which there is one at each end. These rise and fall alternately, in a long wooden chest, about seven feet in depth by fourteen in length, and about a yard in diameter. This chest is partly in the vault, and the farthest side of it is shut out of the vault by a wooden partition, which completely cuts off all communication between the hither and further divisions of the room. Thus three parts of the chest are in the vault on this side, and the remaining fourth opens into another room: through a door in

the partition we enter into the other portion of the vault, and there we can form a clear conception of the object of this apparatus. This is a small room, and forms, in fact, the air-chamber of the ventilating machinery. In the side of the chest which looks into this room there are four large apertures, protected by a light grating of iron-wire, against which flaps of India-rubber cloth inside the chest are heard to strike at each motion of the piston, while in the intervals air is felt to rush rapidly through the uplifted flaps into the interior of the chest. Connected with this side of the chest is a subsidiary air receptacle, which appears to be a reservoir for the reception of any extra pressure of air in the apparatus. At the extremity of this room is an unglazed window, protected by wooden cross-bars, and having a shutter adapted to it in such a manner as to regulate the amount of air admitted to the air-chest by a very simple method-the shutter consisting of three hinged flaps, which can be laid back in succession, or brought forward to exclude a certain portion of air, if the supply be too abundant. The interior of the chest contains a set of double bellows, which are worked by the pistons, and expel the air into a common channel, which conveys it away. At present, the machinery is moved by hand-power, but a small steam-engine is being erected for this purpose. It is to work night and day without intermission. Returning to the other division of the vault, we observe at one side a recess, which contains the stoves. The heating apparatus is simple, and will be readily understood. It consists of two large Arnott stoves, which are surrounded by cases containing water, the whole being bricked in to economise the heat. Immediately above the stoves is a large reservoir of water, from the bottom of which two pipes proceed, and are connected to the water-cases surrounding the stoves. The water in the reservoir becomes heated by the circulation of the water through these pipes, the cold current descending by one, and the heated current ascending by the other. The air, after leaving the bellows, is conveyed by pipes through the cistern, and is thus exposed to the heat of the water; from hence it proceeds into a channel which conveys it throughout the hospital. During its passage through the reservoir, it acquires that degree of temperature which becomes requisite for the comfort of the patients, and which is regulated by simply supplying the stoves with more or less air for their consumption, the heat rising or falling accordingly. The sensation of the air, as it quits this apparatus, is most agreeable; it has none of the desiccating, mordant character of hot air in general; but it has a warm and balmy feel, which is quite a luxury on a cold day. There is a little recess in the wall, which forms a part of the hot-air channel, and is entered by a small door, in which I would recommend any one who has been made cold and peevish by a keen north-easter to stand for a few minutes, and he will find both temper and temperature to be rapidly restored to their equilibrium. Such is the anatomy of the very excellent lungs of the Consumptive Hospital. It is curious that what we may designate its digestive organs are the next in order, so that we proceed hence into the kitchen.

Much ingenuity has been exercised in this department also; and, totally apart from its gastronomic attractiveness, the kitchen has charms for the machinist of no common order. A very large fireplace, with its auxiliary ovens and hot closets, occupies one side of the room; near it is a variety of apparatus intended for steaming joints, &c. Four large saucepans for fish, vegetables, &c. occupy a small bench, and are connected with the steam-pipe by four stopcocks, by means of which the steam, when requisite, can be turned on to each. At another side of the kitchen is an arrangement of soup caldrons, labelled with the enticing announcements, 'Beef-tea,' 'Mutton-broth,' 'Arrowroot,' 'Coffee,' 'Chocolate,' 'Hot Milk,' &c. The contents of these are boiled by jets of steam being blown into each, which is both an economical and a very advantageous method. Two water-pipes, on swivel-joints, supply each caldron

with water when requisite. The kitchen culinary apparatus is supplied with steam from a small self-feeding steam-boiler, which, with its furnace, forms one side of the adjoining scullery. At one corner of the kitchen is the provision loft, a kind of well, up which the provisions are wound to the respective wards. On the whole, this kitchen, though not a very large one, is among the most complete of its kind, and is really a very brilliant and formidable affair, more particularly when at full work; and at that time its steaming caldrons, roaring fires, and bubbling pots, are calculated to impress the visitor's mind strongly with the idea that he is rather in some busy manufactory than simply in a mortal kitchen. I felt more than half-inclined to think it no bad thing, after all, to be an in-patient here; and I am free to confess that the bountifully-stored larder beyond did not form one of the least elements in this impression. The remainder of the basement is occupied by the outpatient department, the dispensary, physicians' rooms, &c. From hence up stairs.

The ground-floor is arranged into a number of moderate-sized wards, each distinguished by its appropriate title. This plan appears to me much preferable to the ordinary method of arranging the wards of an hospital into long, dreary, gaunt rooms, where dozens of beds form the eternal melancholy perspective, and where two or three deaths are certain to occur every week. Here each ward contains but five or six inmates, who may live in each other's society perhaps for months, unterrified by the forced contemplation of the frequent visits of the Great Destroyer, and who can congregate round the fireside, and thus, with some measure of success, beguile away the long and dull hours of their confinement. The female wards are upon this floor. A day-room, in which the stronger patients sit, where they read, and write, and chat, forms one portion of the extremity of the wing, and the pretty temporary chapel has been formed in a corresponding room at the other end. Between these two extremities is a long passage, well warmed by the ventilating apparatus, and forming an excellent in-door promenade. A corresponding one is upon the upper floor. Here the patients take that degree of exercise which is so beneficial for them, and without a risk of a cold draught, or of the thousand accidents of surly English weather. These passages are lighted with the gas apparatus invented by Professor Faraday-a word or two on the principle of which will exhibit to us another feature in the admirable ventilating arrangements of the hospital. To the casual observer, the Faraday gas-light presents, in the appearance of its mechanism, nothing striking: it is a handsome, massive-looking, pendant light, but apparently nothing more. The light burns in a small semi-globe of glass, which is surrounded by one of larger dimensions, on the top of which is placed a piece of talc, surmounted by a thin copper plate. The arrangement is such, that the air to feed the flame enters in the centre of the inner glass, then passes over its upper margin, and not being able to escape at the top, by reason of the copper plate which closes the mouth of the outer globe, it is turned down, and is drawn away by a tube which opens internally all round the bottom of the outer glass shade. The foul air is thus carried away out of the globe, and is conveyed by this tube up the central column into an air-shaft, which is conducted to the roof, and there discharges its contents. The principle, in short, is just that of the down-draught stoves seen in many of our tradesmen's shops: the tube forms an inverted air-siphon. To set the current in motion, a small central burner, which heats the column, is first lighted; afterwards the heat from the gas flame gives the air an ascendancy generally sufficient to perpetuate the up-current while the gas is a-light. By this ingenious contrivance, the foul air from the gas-light is completely cut off from escaping into the building; and by a power which operates, so to speak, upon itself, it is compelled to cast itself out of the hospital altogether. Along one of the sides of these passages run skirting

boards, in which slits are cut at the top and bottom. If the hand is held over these apertures, a constant, soft, and warm stream of air is felt to pour out from them. A similar skirting forms part of the sides of every ward, and of every room on the ground and upper floor. These apertures are in connection with the hot-air channel from the apparatus first described, which, in fact, runs along and ramifies throughout the entire building. Each ward or room is supplied with one or more regulators, in the shape of a movable slide, which must be raised or depressed if the amount of air poured out requires alteration. We have seen the entrance of air into the hospital; we have just noticed its distribution; and if we enter into any one of the wards, we shall witness its mode of exit from the structure. Each room in the building is provided with that simple, but immensely useful invention, the balance-valve chimney ventilator. By its means there is a constant change of the air of the wards, and indeed of the air generally; the warm, fresh air enters at the floor, fulfils its office, and escapes by these valves at the ceiling. Thus a supply of pleasant fresh air is constantly insured to the inmates.

A good library, containing upwards of two hundred volumes of an instructive and entertaining character, is open for the use of the patients. The number of wards at present occupied is twelve; the number of patients sixty; but there is room for a larger number in the building as it at present stands, a contracted state of funds being the only obstacle.

In conclusion, cannot end my visit to the Hospital for Consumption without offering my humble congratulations upon the skill, nor less upon the benevolent humanity, which has opened to the outcast from other hospitals a refuge so noble and so promising of relief to the unhappy victim of pulmonary phthisis. Sixty thousand annually fall under the swoop of this mysterious disease; yet I cannot conceal from myself the hope that, under the increased facilities here offered for its examination, and now known for its detection in an early stage, the day is at hand-and may it come quickly!-when the mystery will be solved, and the disease surrender itself to the superior laws of medical science.

WILLIAM GARDINER THE BOTANIST. IN a recent number we presented a short, and, we hope, not uninteresting account of the late James Crowther, a self-taught naturalist, who lived and died in a humble situation in Manchester. We have pleasure in now making known a person equally ardent in his admiration of the works of nature, and whose whole life may be said to have been a protracted effort to realise, amidst the most untoward circumstances, a mastery of botanical science.

William Gardiner was born of humble parents in Dundee, where he now resides, and his youth was spent in the privations which are the lot of no small portion of the labouring population. Like most Scotch boys, he got some schooling; but the sum and substance of his education was only rudimentary instruction in reading and writing. Yet, with the assistance which these valuable instruments confer, and with an indomitable spirit of perseverance, what may not be achieved? From his earliest years, William manifested an extraordinary love for flowers, and this finally attained the character of an unconquerable passion. In the midst of poverty and neglect, the sight of a flower inspired cheerful thoughts: it was impossible to feel unhappy while nature spread such a banquet of beauty and innocence around! How a boy reared within the sphere of a busy manufacturing town should have had the inclination or opportunity to cultivate a taste for botanical pursuits, might well seem surprising, did we not know that such things are far from uncommon in the lives of men of genius, and that to the enthusiastic mind all impossibilities disappear.

In 1819, when about ten years of age, he was appren