the sidewalk.

"Come, get in," said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door. "I
was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk about
our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies' visiting
committee."

Edith shook her head, saying, "It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I am
overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work."

"Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with you."

Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and took
a seat by her side.

"I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital," said the lady as
the carriage rolled on. "I'm going there now, and want to show you how
admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is to poor
suffering children."

"It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children," returned
Edith, "that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so
much of it."

"The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that
suffering," answered her friend. "I have come away from the hospital
many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and
talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep for
expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we are
trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our nature
in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer to us,
it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there is
peace--peace that passeth understanding."

They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. "We have now,"
resumed the lady, "nearly forty children under treatment--poor
little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care or
intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets or
miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out their
lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their poor worn
bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who has been in the
hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When she was brought here
from one of the vilest places in the city, taken away from a drunken
mother, she was the saddest-looking child I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated,
covered with vermin and pitiable to behold, I could hardly help crying
when I saw her brought in. Now, though still unable to leave her
bed, she has as bright and happy a face as you ever saw. The care and
tenderness received since she cam