before, in the hush of closing day, with death so familiar a thought to
each. Sergeant Murphy leads in prayer with true Methodist fervor, and
the hymn,

"Sweet hour of prayer, sweet hour of prayer,
That calls me from a world of care,"

concludes the short service.

After their tea, the ladies meet in the chapel, to teach in the evening
school held for an hour four times a week. It serves to interest the men
in useful study. A large library in one corner of the chapel furnishes,
too, stores of knowledge and amusement in works of history, travel, and
fiction.

On going back again to the wards, I am glad to find that Carney's wife
has come in the evening train. She was startled by the last news from
him. It is well that she is here: if anything can save his life, it will
be her presence. The poor woman is worn out by anxiety and a two days'
journey. The chaplain must be found to write a permit for her entrance
into the "Home" provided by the Sanitary Commission for the
accommodation of those coming to see their friends in the hospital. The
good-natured orderly, Frank Hall, conducts her out to the comfortable
house.

The lurid gas flickers in the chilly breeze, for never are the windows
allowed to be closed by day or night, in sunshine or storm. It does
sometimes seem as if a circulation of air a little less like a hurricane
from an iceberg might conduce more to the health and comfort of the
inmates; but then this is one of Dr. Vanderkeift's pet points of
practice, and woe betide any one who dares to shut out a breath of the
exhilarating element. Most of the men are stilled in merciful slumbers,
more or less peaceful or unquiet. One shout from a sleeper of "We'll
whip them yet, boys!" tells that Colby is fighting over in a dream his
last battle, while from others come groans only audible in hours of
unconsciousness. In wakeful uneasiness, others sigh for sleep, and are
at length lulled to rest by soothing words or rhymes, not unfrequently
by the childish melodies of Mother Goose. And so the day's privilege of
duty ends with gratitude, and a healthful weariness that vanishes before
the next morning.

DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

Slow, slow! toll it low,
As the sea-waves break and flow;
With the same dull, slumberous motion
As his ancient mother, Ocean,
Rocked him on, through storm and calm,
From the iceberg to the palm:
So his drowsy ears may deem
That the