I'll be bound that some of
us will make them like sweetness. If Miss Dearsley were to read
'Rizpah,' or 'Big Tom,' or any other story of pathos or self-sacrifice,
she would do the men good. Why, if I had the chance, I'd bring off my
friend Tom Gale, and let him make them laugh till they cried by reading
about Mr. Peggotty of Great Yarmouth and the lobster; or Mrs. Gummidge
and the drown-ded old-'un."

Mrs. Walton had been very quiet. She turned to the staid and taciturn
Mrs. Hellier and asked, "How do you find your readings suit at your
mission-room?"

"They please the women, and I suppose they would please men. Our people
are quite happy when we have a good reader. I'm a failure, because I
always begin to cry at the critical points; but Lena has no feelings at
all, and she can keep the room hushed for a whole hour."

Mrs. Walton smiled placidly.

"You see, Mr. Blair, there may be something in Mr. Ferrier's idea after
all. I believe that sweet, simple stories, or poetry, or pictures, would
please the men. See how pleased that Great Grimsby man was with the
girl's picture-book that you gave him. I'm almost converted. Besides,
now I remember it, I heard a gentleman who had been public orator at
Cambridge make a crowd of East-End people cry by reading 'Enoch
Arden'--of all the incredible things in the world."

"Thank you, madam; and when I have got that hospital for you, I shall
insist on having one room for pleasure, and pleasure alone; and I'll
take good care my patients are not disturbed in any way. Fullerton is
already on our side, so you and I will take Blair in hand, and curb that
unruly scepticism of his. He is a most unblushing, scoffing sceptic, is
he not, madam?"

Blair shook his jolly sides and rose, muttering something about a
fahscinating young puppy;--whereby it may be perceived that he was
thinking of mocking Tom. The night was splendid, and when a sharp air of
wind set all the smacks gliding, our voyagers had once more an
experience that is one of the most memorable for those to whom it comes
seldom. The seaman tramps smartly; cocks an eye at the topsail, swings
round, and rolls back till he is abreast of the wheel; then _da capo_,
and so on all night. But the reflective landsman gathers many sheaves
for the harvest of the soul. Happy is he if he learns to know what the
dense seaman's life is like.

There are nights when the joy of living will not let one sleep. Do I not
know them?

Ferrier held