possession with which the doctor passed amongst them on his way to the consulting-room. The crowd never disconcerted him. They would all be attended to in their turn, the poorest equally with the wealthiest; but they must bide their time, be it that day, or the next, or the next following. Any other arrangement would have become disarrangement, entailing distress and even misery on some. In this great practice Dr. Simpson had the assistance of several clever young surgeons, all of them devoted servants of the Lord, and all of them engaged in some good and useful work in the very "slums" of the city for His sake. Amongst these was the Professor's now distinguished nephew, Dr. Alex. Simpson, who has just been appointed to succeed his uncle in the Chair of Midwifery in Edinburgh University.

To these reminiscences of this "beloved physician" it may be permitted me to add a few lines touching his end.

There is now before me a letter of Sir James Simpson's to Dr. Jacob Bigelow, an eminent American physician, published in the form of a pamphlet. It appears to have been the last of his productions that issued from the press, being dated April, 1870, only the month preceding his death. It is a calm and manly defence of himself in reply to an attack of the American physician concerning the place in respect of time to be assigned respectively to the introduction of chloroform as an anaesthetic-Sir James's great discovery -and of sulphuric ether for inhalation in medicine. The pamphlet is entitled, "The History of Modern Anæsthetics." Suffice to say of it that Sir James does not claim precedence for his discovery, but he avails himself of the opportunity for defending its usefulness against the slighting way in which his opponent had spoken of it. I refer to the pamphlet for the purpose of quoting its closing paragraph, which will be read now with touching interest. "I am very sorry," says the lamented author, " to have taken up so much of your time and my time with such a petty discussion as the present. It has extended to too great a length; but I am a sad invalid just now, and quite unable to write with the force and brevity required. With many of our profession in America I have the honour of being personally acquainted, and regard their friendship so very highly that I shall not regret this attempt-my last perhaps at professional writing as altogether useless on my part if it tend to fix my name and memory only in their love and esteem." When he wrote these words he knew death might come at any time, but he spoke of it without fear. His still beaming countenance indicated a soul "in perfect peace." His faith was simple as that of a little child. As the end drew near, his minister, the Rev. Mr. Philip, the successor of Dr. Guthrie, quoted the passage, "Whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish," and Sir James repeated twice

with strong emphasis the words "Whosoever" and "shall not perish." When in the still nearer prospect of death, he said to his friend, Professor Duns, "It has happily come to this: I am a sinner needing a Saviour, and Jesus is the Saviour I need." And his dying eye kindled when once they spoke" of the body of our humiliation being fashioned like unto Christ's body of glory." All this was in beautiful keeping with the lines he had written at Geneva some three years before :

"Oft 'mid this world's ceaseless strife,
When flesh and spirit fail me,

I stop and think of another life,
Where ills can ne'er assail me ;

When my wearied arm shall cease its fight,
My heart shall cease its sorrow,

And this dark night change for the light
Of an everlasting morrow.

"Then shall be mine, through grace Divine,
A rest that knows no ending,
Which my soul's eye would fain descry,
Though still with clay 'tis blending.
And, Saviour dear, while I tarry here,
Where a Father's love has found me,
Oh, let me feel, through woe and weal,
Thy guardian arm around me."

It is amongst the inscrutable mysteries of things that such a man as Sir James Simpson should have been taken away in the midst of his usefulness from a world that seemed to need him so much. We can scarcely help calling his decease premature, for he was only between fifty and sixty years of age. We do not wonder that all Edinburgh mourned for him, and that the greater part of the city turned out to look upon his coffin as it was drawn beneath a cenotaph to its burial-place. We do not wonder that loving fingers entwined wreaths of flowers and laid them on the bier, and that loving hands brought others of choicest variety to cast into the tomb. We are sure that throughout the United Kingdom there were many moist eyes when the sad news circulated that Sir James Simpson was no more. How delightful is the "sure and certain hope" that that "no more" applies only to this world! No more here, for ever there-where "the inhabitants shall no more say, ‘I am sick,'" and where the physician's skill shall never, therefore, be called into exercise for the healing of disease. But who can tell what exalted functions such men shall be commissioned to discharge in that "realm and home of life"? The grave is itself a great mystery, and it covers a greater; but "the day shall declare it." J. B. FRENCH.

P.S.-Since writing the above it has been announced that Lady Simpson has already followed her beloved husband to the tomb. This sad circumstance will increase the sympathy and ensure the

prayers of Christian friends for the dear lads-I believe three in number-who have been bereft in so short a time of both father and mother.

J. B. F.

HESTER GOLDERING'S SACRIFICE.

BY MAGGIE SYMINGTON.

CHAPTER XVII.-THE CALM BROKEN.

"I KNOW not which to praise most," Mr. Deverel exclaimed, “this glorious morning, this lovely scenery, or your kindness in trusting yourself to me. I suppose I must make much of this golden opportunity for enjoyment; I heard Sir William this morning allude to your speedy departure."

"Yes; we leave Craigdallie upon the day after to-morrow," I answered.

"And Lord Haig's Castle in the Highlands will be delivered over to the gloom of a long, cold, and merciless winter?"

66

"Our departure will not hasten the coming of that," I laughingly replied; nor will it harm Lord Haig when it does come; he has promised to spend Christmas at Crowland, so Craigdallie will be deserted."

"Lucky fellow!" he ejaculated-apostrophising Lord Haig, I

suppose.

We had been sailing along, oh! so lazily, the slight wind there was hardly sufficing to fill the sails. As the sun rose higher that slight wind failed us, the canvas flapped the mast, the waters were like glass, in which the fleecy cloudlets, the mountain peaks, and the variegated autumnal tints of the trees were all mirrored. Mr. Deverel reefed the sails and took to the oars.

Once more the lazy calm stole over me, the dipping of the oars into the molten gold of the waters sounded as a soothing lullaby. I had a vague idea that time was passing, and that so much of it was already gone that I ought to suggest a return to the Castle, when a sudden movement of my companion thoroughly aroused me.

He drew in the oars which he had been plying with most unnecessary vigour, and fixed his eyes upon my face while the perspiration stood upon his white brow in large globules.

"I know I have an unfortunate habit of blundering head-foremost into whatever I have a desire to accomplish, therefore I must trust to your charity for forgiveness."

What did he mean? What did he desire to accomplish now, that

he should preface it so strangely? Just then I wished we were on shore, or that the boat would spring a leak, or that a sudden storm would arise "like a giant in its wrath," or that something else would occur to divert him from his earnest contemplation of my face; I could not keep my colour from rising, and I knew it was extremely foolish for it to do so.

He bent forward, resting upon the oars.

"Do you think that, under any circumstances, the welcome to Crowland promised Lord Haig might be extended to me?"

"Lord Haig's invitation to Crowland was given by mamma." "Yes, I know; what I want you to tell me is, what my own chances are in that quarter. I know, in spite of the pains and expense my dear father has bestowed upon my education, I am but a blundering fellow after all, and what cannot be carried by storm I seldom effect; I am afraid my roughness may have disgusted Lady Trevor."

My dear little Heartsease, would you believe it? my heart actually throbbed in sympathy with the despondency of his tones. Certainly there could be nothing more foreign to his nature than finesse of any description. I knew, of course, that mamma was not disgusted with him; but I knew also that there are many reasons to prevent her ever receiving him as a guest at Crowland, the reasons we once talked over that made it likely after our return to England that our paths would never cross those of the Deverels again. This thought prevented me from extending the least bit of hope to him with regard to mamma. I did not wish him to see that I sympathised with or understood his difficulties in the smallest degree, so I laughed a little wickedly.

"You would not have me invite you?"

He flashed a glance at me, then his countenance fell.

"I suppose that would not be according to les convenances of this narrow, narrow world; but only tell me that you have a desire to do so, and I will move heaven and earth to gain permission to visit Crowland."

I do not know why I should show any false shame because he has compelled me to feel that the interest he has in me is of no trivial description, nor why I should fear to acknowledge the warm admiration his conduct altogether has inspired me with; only I wished then he had not chosen such a place in which to compel such acknowledgment from me, for there was no escape from his burning glance, no avoidance of the eyes that I felt were searching my very heart, face to face, with only a narrow space between, and the glare of the unshaded sunlight upon us. My voice faltered in reply, though I strove to render it as steady and indifferent as possible.

"I should like to know what you would think of the beautiful home Pansie and I are so proud of."

Even that tiny bit of encouragement was too much for him. The boat lurched under the sudden movement he made, and I, Pansie, like the foolish creature I am, felt a sudden fear in the unusually excited frame of mind in which I was, and clutched hold of him. He drew me to him with a quick, passionate embrace; even now it appears to me nothing less than a miracle that the boat was not upset, and we both consigned to a romantic and watery grave, in which case I should never have been able to write this, and you would not have known what you will know when you read it.

"Is it possible I may teach you to love me, Violet?"

I surely need no further instruction, Pansie. I have thoroughly learned that lesson, and nothing can ever cause me to unlearn it, though I much fear what papa and mamma will say when they know what I am chronicling here, for the decision you and I came to upon that first evening of our arrival at Crowland again recurs to my mind.

I did not tell him all this so plainly as I have recorded it here, but I said enough to convey to him the assurance that his many noble qualities are not so entirely unappreciated as he supposes.

He has been rash and precipitate, I know; it is all a wild, bewildering dream. I can almost count the number of times I have met him, and yet it seems as impossible to recall the past as it is to imagine the future without reference to him. My heart is yearning for a kiss from your lips, little Heartsease, for the clasp of your hand, and to hear your dear voice confirm my own suppo→ sition that this and this only is true love.

CHAPTER XVIII.-WRITTEN BY PANSIE.

We are back again at Crowland, and here am I sitting in our own boudoir, striving with pen in hand to recal the incidents of our departure from Scotland.

Crowland looks quite homely after the medieval splendour of Craigdallie, but it is my home, my own darling home.

Mamma seems fatigued after her journey, but otherwise she is much better for our trip to Scotland.

And Violet is engaged, really betrothed to the river god. I own I am astonished, though very much delighted, for I liked Hugh Deverel from the first moment that I saw him, and am so thankful that he and not Mr. De l'Orme has had the good fortune to win my dear Violet's heart. I was very much afraid at one time that the latter suitor would be successful, but his departure from Craig