The evening was spent cheerfully at Doctor Macgregor’s. The American clock upon the doctor’s chimney-piece deceived his guests, if not the doctor, who was at once good-natured, amiable, and uncommonly fond of anecdote, and, like a true Scotchman, professed an immense deal of veneration of, and attachment to, his whisky-toddy. “The day,” he used to say, “is for manual labour, the evening for comfort and sociality; but, alas! in my case, night and day are the same--I may be called at any hour; therefore, the longer you favour me with your company, my friends, the better I shall like it, you may depend.” We now perceived that the clock was under the powerful influence of the doctor’s “treatment;” nevertheless, common sense induced us all to rise and leave, and after a hearty shaking of hands, and no end of good wishes, we parted. On arriving at the second door, which opened upon one of the grand avenues of sick and wounded, we retired in a silent and mournful procession--except the groans of the sufferers, nothing was heard but the friction of our boots upon the stone floor, already worn into a kind of groove between the rows of beds upon which lay the sick and wounded, caused by the constant passing and repassing of the doctors, Sisters of Mercy, orderlies, and other officials in attendance upon the patients. As we turned the angle of the long corridor to the right, we perceived, at a great distance, a faint light flying from bed to bed, like a will-o’-the-wisp flickering in a meadow on a summer’s eve, which at last rested upon one spot; or as a bee sporting from flower to flower, till it at length lights upon a delicious floral banquet, which the insect determines not to leave till it has extracted the last drop of honey from the devoted pistil. But, alas! as we approached, we perceived our mistake. A group in the shape of a _silhouette_ unfolded its outline in light shade. As we came nearer and nearer, the picture burst upon us. A dying soldier was half reclining upon his bed. Life, you could observe, was fast bidding him adieu; Death, that implacable deity, was anxiously waiting for his soul to convey it to its eternal destination. But stop! near him was a guardian angel, sitting at the foot of his bed, and most devotedly engaged pencilling down his last wishes to be despatched to his homely friends or relations. A watch and a few more trinkets were consigned to the care of the writer; a lighted lamp was held by another person, and threw a painful yellowish _coloris_ over that mournful picture, which a Rembrandt alone could have traced, but which everybody, as long as the world lasts, would have understood, felt, and admired. It was then near two o’clock in the morning. [Illustration: MISS. NIGHTINGALE AND THE DYING SOLDIER.]