"That's how we came to be here," said the old gentleman, smiling sadly at his wife, "and we've seen some strange changes since; living in houses where people died of fevers; in old houses; in new houses that ought to be knocked down by Act of Parliament, they're so bad; in houses where the people's been extravagant, and gone to ruin. But there, it does for us while we're here." He looked at his wife on this, and the old lady placed her thin veiny hand on his arm, telling, by that one action, of trust, love, and faith in her old companion over a very stony path; and I left them together trying very hard to close the front door, the old man's last words being-- "It sticks so, on account of the wood warping, and that great crack"-- the said crack being one from the first to the second-floor. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. MY FRIEND IN HOSPITAL. I was more successful during the next few days, and had a list of four houses for Mr Ross to see, one of which he selected for his brother. For my part I was very busy, having many people to see, and being on one occasion in Hammersmith, where the omnibus driver had told me he lived, I made a point of finding his house in a very humble street, and after rather a distant reception from his wife, the poor creature opened her heart to me, and told me that she was in trouble: her husband had had an accident, been kicked by one of his horses, and was in the hospital very ill. I said what I could by way of comforting the poor thing, and on leaving said that I would go and see him, when the woman's face flushed with joy. "You will, ma'am," she cried. "To be sure I will," I said quietly, and I left her seeming the happier for my few words of sympathy and hope. The next day I was on my way up Gower Street, the long dull, and dreary, where the cabs roll echoing along, and in the silent night the echoes sound like the rumbling in some huge water-pipe. Up Gower Street, where the dismal grinding of the organ sharpens every nerve, and sends the horrors throbbing through every vein and artery--music no longer, but a loud, long wail, sobbing in the windows, and beating for entrance at the doors; up Gower Street, where the dwellers grow hardened to sad sights-- where they know the brougham of the great physician or surgeon--the cab conveying the out-patient, or that which bears the in-patient to his couch of suffering; where the face of the pale student who has not yet ceased to shudder at the sufferings of his fellow-man is as familiar as that of the reckless or studious one to whom a groan or heart-wrung agonised cry is part of the profession; where weeping relations--poor, common people, who have left their dear ones in the great hall, or perhaps been to spend an hour by their bedsides--are but everyday sights such as may be seen near each great hospital.