But how can I describe your reception? Talk of Jenny Lind at Castle Garden,--that was a fashionable splurge. Talk of the reception of a returning congressman,--that gives the Mayor and Aldermen a chance to ride in barouches, make speeches, and dine at the expense of the corporation. Your reception in Michael O'Flaherty's yard is more hearty, grateful and earnest, than any of the fashionable welcomes. It comes from their very hearts, and would be just as warm if they knew you had come to bid them a final farewell. Suppose some rich old curmudgeon had given them a few dollars, with which they had purchased the things you have given them. Would they rush out to welcome him? would they clean up the cabin? would the children's eyes sparkle with gratitude and love? No, oh no! It is not the mended stockings, the bowl of oat-meal, or the picture which has so touched them, but it is the gentle, loving spirit in which you have visited them. The poor and lowly are strangely and wonderfully susceptible to such treatment. A bright woman, residing in a small city in the state of New York, who was a true follower of Christ, for, like him, she went about doing good, happened to go into an Irish neighborhood where the measles were raging, during October. She showed herself an angel of mercy, though her health was so delicate that she could do nothing more than to ride over in her carriage, and distribute gruel, soup, and good counsel. After the election in November, it came to be known that about fifteen Irish voters, from the neighborhood where Mrs. M---- had acted the good Samaritan, had put in Republican votes, whereat the Democratic managers of the ward were exceeding wroth. The delinquents were visited and labored with. "What made you go and vote for that--nigger candidate?" At first they refused to divulge. But, at length, it came out that the candidate's wife, Mrs. M--, had helped their families through the measles. And although their Mrs. M----- was not, in fact, the wife of the candidate, was not even acquainted with him, it was enough for those grateful Irishmen that the name was the same. A TRUE LOVE STORY. For years I have advised idle young ladies, who were longing for something to do, to look up poor, unhappy families, and minister to their hungry bodies and hungry hearts. I could give you a great many interesting cases, but one is such a pleasant little love story, I must tell it to you. With the exception of the names, the story is a true one. Twenty years ago I was practising my profession in a western city. Among my patients was a Miss Dinsmore, a lady of nearly thirty years. Her case was what she called the dumps. I thought it indigestion and general debility. After two weeks, she began to ride out again, and seemed to be doing well enough, when one day she astonished me by exclaiming, "Oh! I wish I was dead!" After some hesitation, she told me that she was perfectly disgusted with life, etc., etc.