children out of the window with a boat; Mr. C. (the Vicar) never thought it could come near his place, and he was at the other end of the parish, helping at the flooded cottages, when the lock burst and the bank gave way."

I cannot say that I heard this with any feeling that it might concern us. I sent the boy away; the little bustle of his leaving the room disturbed my poor patient, and she moved her hands about with a helpless kind of distracted restlessness; at length she talked, incoherently at first, but soon with a meaning—and Oh, what a sad one- 'Bring a light, oh! oh!"

"What, my dearest Bessie, what can I do for you? there is a light."

"Oh, oh! let the needles be threaded for me-I can't see.”

I gave her more air, and wetted her face with spirits; her hands seemed feebly to imitate the motion of drawing out a thread. "Oh dear, this thunder, it distracts me-can't they let me rest-is'nt it Sunday ?"

Louder and louder yet came the ceaseless peals, if those can be called peals which never stopped for an instant. I now also distinguised a peculiar washing and sobbing gurgle, like the rushing in of waves.

Still it no more frightened me to think that it might come up to the house, than it need have done if we had been endowed with wings; there was enough occupation and anxiety in the room to occupy all my attention.

"No rest, no rest!" moaned Bessie; "when will it be Sunday? open the window-oh! I can't breathe."

I rushed to the window, for she gasped fearfully for breath, and the air seemed each moment to get more still and more op pressive. One instant served to pull aside the curtain, the next showed me a rushing, surging sea between us and the hills, and then a wide expanse that had been fields laid under more tranquil water, with tree tops and cottage roofs appearing here and there. I carried my terrified eyes nearer-still nearer, nearer-all was water. Water in the yard, and straw eddying about on it; water in the garden, bubbling and singing through the wooden palings; water washing against the kitchen casements; water dashing off the thatch from the beehives; all was water-leaden grey, and heavy as the leaden clouds above, excepting where the dull, red moon was rising from behind the hills, and there her broken reflection had made a lurid pathway.

There was nothing to be done that I knew of, but the thought of how Bessie was to be moved if the water came up to the first floor turned me cold. The young boy came back; he had put on dry clothes. "There is two feet of water in the kitchen," he whispered, "but I'm going to wade to the rise, it's only a

hundred yards off; you're not afraid to be left? you won't try to get away, Miss T.? The water gets calmer every minute."

"I shall stay of course," I answered; and indeed Bessie occupied me fully. I could not cease for a moment to give her air with the fan, neither could I conceal from myself that her pulse was fast failing. I drew aside the curtain, and sat looking over, and wishing that the fog had continued that I might not have known the danger. Perhaps two hours might have passed thus ; Bessie's restlessness was gradually subsiding, but, alas! her pulse sunk also. The candle began to burn low; I thought I would see if I could procure another, for the water without appeared now to be quite calm, and I believed it was materially subsided.

I opened the bedroom door, and what was my horror to find, that so far from sinking, the water had gradually risen till it was within three steps of the top of the stairs!

I

Then I was indeed at my wit's end. I woke the mother, and her despair was terrible to see; not about her husband or her sons, whose lives I supposed must surely be in some peril; not about herself, or about Bessie's present state, but only what would become of her darling if she had to be moved. Oh, with that cruel cough of her's, she knew the night air would kill her. could not tell, but I dreaded that death would visit that chamber yet sooner than the water, for the poor patient's speech was now very faint and rambling, and her breathing was fitful and distressed. The moon all this night was even fearfully bright, and when at two o'clock our candle went out, it lighted up the bed and its occupant with a distinctness that was quite dazzling.

About four o'clock I heard the dipping of oars, and the father and the young brother whom I had sent away made an entrance by the window.

I have since thought that shortly after this the spirit of Bessie must have passed away. It wanted but a few minutes to four when they entered. She was very tranquil after her restlessness, and I heard her sigh deeply several times. We believed she slept; but the morn had returned and we could not see her face distinctly. For two long anxious hours we sat beside her, and no one moved or spoke, excepting to cast a glance at the now silent waters. At length day dawned, and as the first cold ray lighted up the altered landscape, I laid my hand upon her cheek and found it cold.

I will not dwell upon the misery and grief of that morning. Shortly afterwards the living and the dead were got safely out at the window. Strangely sad it was to me afterwards to know that the wearied frame of her who had so sorely longed for rest and quiet in life was not to have it even after death; for three

times her body was moved from house to house, as the flood followed it, before it was finally deposited in the grave.

This simple record of her life and death has not been written without the consent of her parents. It is now left to those whom it may most concern, to know it and lay it to heart. She died in the flower of her age, and in the pursuit of her calling. If there be remedies for the ills under which she suffered, under which so many suffer still, some effort should surely be made to apply them.

ORRIS.

[We have the authority of "Orris" for saying that, all the facts and incidents mentioned in this narrative, which in the slightest degree bear upon dressmaking, are perfectly true; as also the death of poor Elizabeth, and the surgeon's assurance that she died entirely from over-exertion.-ED.]

OUR SISTERS OF CHARITY.

OUR Sisters of Charity

Thus far had I written, dear reader, in commencement of a paper for your Magazine, when a friend— not very politely-peeped over my shoulder and read the above words.

"Our sisters of charity!" was the surprised exclamation which followed. Why, you are not a

Catholic, are you?"

"I hope I am; I profess to be one."
"I thought you professed to be a Protestant."
"So I do."

"What! both ?"

"Yes; while I desire earnestly to contend for the faith once delivered to the saints, and therefore protest against the errors of Romanism, I also firmly believe in 'One Catholic and Apostolic Church;' that Church which is the body of Christ; the fulness of Him that filleth all in all,' Eph. i. 22."

"Oh, I understand now. But to return to your strange title; who, and where, are your Sisters of

Charity? I always imagined that they formed a peculiar and distinctive feature of the Romish Church."

"In name, perhaps, but not in reality; and my intention in choosing this subject was to show that we have as noble and energetic a band of labourers on our side as the Romanists have on theirs."

"I shall be glad if you can prove it; but I am rather doubtful. Our sisterhoods are so few in number, and so unpopular amongst us, that I hardly think they will bear the comparison. Do you begin with Miss Sellon's establishment?"

"No, indeed; I have no wish to include that in my list. Its principles of action are more allied with Popery than Protestantism. The first I would mention are our Ministers' Wives."

"Ministers' wives! I should never have thought of

them."

"Very likely not; but you will allow that, in very many instances at least, they merit our esteem and approbation. A great deal is said in the present day in praise of the hard-working Clergy;' and I may perhaps be permitted to put in a word in commendation of their hard-working wives; for I am sure they frequently do almost, if not quite as much good in the parish, as their husbands. I know something of them, and can speak from experience. In the life of Edward Bickersteth, which is lying beside me, and which I have just been reading, this remark occurs at the 215th page :- For thirty-six years the great object of his beloved wife was to assist him in carrying on the good work which the Lord afterwards laid upon him; and he often gratefully acknowledged that he could not have gone through it without her help.' Now such a testimony as this could be borne by hundreds, nay thousands, of devoted Clergymen." Well, Rome endeavours to set forth the advantages of celibacy in her priests, but you appear to claim them in favour of matrimony."

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And with good reason, I think. Consider, what an additional staff of labourers-and an efficient one, too-we thus gain for the cause of truth. Thank God for our Ministers' wives! I know that some sentimental young ladies, and some weak-minded young Clergymen, frequently talk in a very mystical way, about the 'superior sanctity of an unmarried state;'

"But holier, as it seems to me, than one of single life

Is the gracious Christian mother, and the godly Christian wife.

There are fountains in a woman's heart, of holiest joy and bliss,

Which a husband's love alone unseals, and an infant's blessed kiss ;

And more to wife and mother than to maid unwed is given Of the griefs and cares which sift the soul and make it fit for heaven.'

"Our Sisters of Charity then, you think, should all be wives and mothers?"

"I don't think any such thing. You know very well what I mean. I am simply proving to you that if the home-responsibilities of married life lessen, in some measure, a woman's opportunities of general usefulness, they at the same time fit her in a peculiar and pre-eminent manner for her ministrations in the cottages of the poor. How much greater is the influence, and how much closer is the sympathy, which a wife and mother will have with other wives and mothers! But I must pass on.

"In conjunction with our Ministers' wives are our zealous and persevering District Visitors. It is impossible to calculate the good-physical, moral, and spiritual-which they have been the means of effecting in many a crowded and neglected neighbourhood. In the homes of the poor-at the bedside of the dying in the adult or infant school-among the most degraded of our population-they are doing a quiet but mighty work.