completely to her mind, she was soon installed in her new office. Sister Agnes had made many friends amongst her patients at St Bernard’s, and many of them and their relatives came to see her at her new home, and sought her advice in their troubles and difficulties. Her great experience and ability enabled her to penetrate to the bottom of many a little mystery. She often wondered how she could so long have been cognisant of the things that took place and had not sooner rebelled. Often a husband or wife who was a patient at the old place would write home, and the letters would be brought to her for her opinion. A poor carman at the docks one day brought her a letter which his wife had sent him the previous day. The poor man did not know what to make of it. His wife had gone to the hospital merely on account of loss of appetite and strength, and the doctors, after “overhauling her like a barge as was in dry dock,” as he expressed it, had come to the conclusion that she had a tumour “somewhere internal,” and if she did not have it taken out she would soon die. “In course, Mum,” said he, “the doctors ought to know best; but my belief all along is they be nothing but practisin’ on her.” Then he gave the Sister the letter his wife had sent him; which was expressed in Mrs. Stubbins’ forcible vernacular. The dialect of a denizen of the London slums abounds in idioms, which were intelligible enough to Sister Agnes from long acquaintance, but she could not help smiling as she read the poor woman’s epistle. “ST BERNARD’S HOSPITAL, _16th July_. “DEAR JACK,—