strength to invalids, however, and they get sad under it. There is but little to interest minds weakened by long disease. No pleasant suites of rooms to walk through; no book-shelves to look over, or books of plates, to beguile the time hanging so heavily; no seats out doors to sit upon and chat; no daily mail to stir one's blood, when the announcement is, that the " mail is open."
But here comes Typhoid, tall beyond any woman I ever saw. An Indian head and hair, and a fine set of teeth. She has a brown veil tied under her chin, and a shawl thrown about her person. We always welcome Typhoid. She comes with an earnest message this time. One of the party who arrived from the East, that bitter cold week, has been there sick ever since ; no one has taken particular care of kim, and now the Doctor pronounces his disease, which is Congestion of the Lungs, so she said, incurable. Could I go over and see him? To be sure I would if possible. The hood is drawn on, the dressing gown exchanged for the dark print like yours, my shawl twisted tightly, by the zealous boy, around me, and with him for a body-guard, we start out.
