“No one thinks of the poor fellow who died here this morning,” pointing to the bed directly back of the spot where our merry group is gathered. “Died here! To-day? Who? When?” “Just about a couple of hours ago. A man you never saw; only brought in a few days since.” Could it be possible that here, where we had all been so full of mirth and gayety, but a few hours since, on this very spot, on this Christmas Eve, too, a soul had passed from earth--from its vigil here--to keep the Festival--where? None knew, and none can ever know, till the Awful Day, when “the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.” There was a special sadness about this death. I found, upon inquiry, that the case had not been considered a serious one; that the man had even spoken of being at home on New Year’s Day; that the ladies had brought him a drink that morning, which they had prepared for him; and scarcely half an hour later, the wardmaster, in passing, had been struck by his appearance, went up to him, and found him quite dead. Apparently he had died calmly and without struggle; this seemed more probable from the fact that those in the nearest beds, even, had no idea of it; but there was a loneliness about that passing which I could not forget. Had he felt the dark cloud coming ere he entered into its shadow? Had he longed to speak--to call--and had no power? Had he yearned to send one last message--one parting word of love--to those far-away dear ones? We may not know; and if a tear moistened those bright greens, as they lay almost upon the spot where he so late had been, was it not a type of earth, and of the constant mingling of earthly joy and sorrow, from which we may never escape long as we linger here? “Sorrow and gladness together go wending; Evil and good come in quick interchange; Fair and foul fortune forever are blending; Sunshine and cloud have the skies for their range.” I have dropped my work, and am dwelling sadly on these thoughts, when I see one or two start up, and rush over to James. What is it? They are lifting him from his chair, and placing him upon his bed. Ah! it is one of those terrible fits; and see, four men are holding him down. Here comes the doctor; let us move away all this work, and keep him quiet. Is it our fault? Have we tired him by our noise, and thus brought it on? Oh no! the doctor is consoling; he does not at all attribute it to us; he has them often, only he must be kept quite still; and goodbye to all hopes of his Christmas dinner in the dining-room to-morrow. The usual remedies are applied, but it is a severe attack, and leaves him utterly prostrated.