is placed bodily in a pair of sticks and glued fast. Our top and bottom are now united by glue, with the aid of a screw-press. Then the square lead-charged sticks thus formed are framed and placed in a machine, which takes off all the uneven ends, and leaves them as smooth as glass; then the square bars are sent through a little machine, which, with a hiss and a snap, sends them out at the other end perfectly round. Onward we go to the polishing department, where we see whole troops of round smooth pencils french-polished by machinery. Then their ends require a second trimming; so they go to the guillotine, where a razor-edged knife takes a thin chip off each, when the ends are finished.

And here we must remark that, as every fresh cut requires a new edge, a most ingenious screw arrangement causes the carriage which bears the pencil in the act of being cut to travel onward exactly to the extent of one diameter of the pencil, thus causing a portion of the edge unblunted by contact with wood and lead to be brought to bear. Finished, but not named, the pencils of both qualities have yet to have the address of the firm imprinted on them; so a little moisture is applied, then a small slip of gold-leaf for quality No. 1, and a gold-powder for class No. 2. No. I passes into a little gas-heated letterpress: one pull of the lever, and out it comes with "Wolf & Sons stamped on it in letters of gold. No. 2 is caused to run through a printingmachine at the rate of twelve dozen pencils in threeand-a-half minutes, the maker's name being stamped on each.

Lastly, we pass through a room where a number of deft fingers are employed in sorting and neatly packing the newly-produced pencils for despatch to the trade. In this department we find a goodly store of indiarubber mounted in cedar holders. We are informed that 70,000 slabs or cakes of rubber weigh a ton, and that a few tons are very quickly consumed to meet trade

demands. We pass out cautiously between the cedarlogs, as night has fallen on us and on busy London, whilst we have been travelling onward from stage to stage, and floor to floor, in company with the master hand of the pencil-makers.-The Quiver.

CHAPTER XL.

A CITY OF REFUGE.

WE crossed Putney Bridge one bright spring day, and drove up through the quaint old High Street of Putney. The lilacs were beginning to flower in the gardens and behind the mossy old walls. When we had climbed the hill, we came out upon a. great yellow gorsy common, where all the air was sweet with the peach-scent of the blossom. The lovely yellow flame was bursting from one bush and another, and blazing against the dull purple-green of the furze.

We had not very far to go. The carriage turned down a green lane, whose trees and hedges did not hide glimpses of other lights and other blossoming commons in the distance; and when we stopped, it was at a white lodge, of which the gate was hospitably open, and from whence a shady green sweep led us to a noble and stately house, which was once Melrose Hall, but is now the Hospital for Incurables.

The

A little phalanx of bath-chairs was drawn up round the entrance, and in each a patient was sitting, basking in this first pleasant shining of the summer sun. birds were chirping in the tall trees overhead, the little winds were puffing in our faces, and of those of the worn, wan, tired creatures who had been dragged out to benefit by the comforting freshness of the day. Some of them looked up-not all-as we drove to the door.

M. sent a small boy with a card to ask for admission

for some friends of Mr. H., and we waited for a few minutes until the answer came. All the time that we were waiting, an eager, afflicted young fellow was trying hard to make himself intelligible to the sick man in the bath-chair next to his own. The poor boy could only make anxious uncouth sounds; the sick man to whom he was speaking listened for awhile, and then shook his head and turned wearily away. So it was not all sunshine, even in the sunshine in the lovely tree-shaded garden, with the chirping birds and bursting lilac buds. There were attendants coming and going from chair to chair, and there were other little carriages slowly progressing along the distant winding paths of the garden. Presently the message came that we could be admitted. The matron was away, but the head-nurse offered to show us over the place; she led the way across the vestibule, with its pretty classical ornamentation, opening the tall doors, and brought us into the stately rooms where a different company had once assembled; yet it was not so very different, after all, for pain and illhealth are no great respecters of persons.

The inmates sit in groups round the tables and windows, busy, and somewhat silent. At the end of the room there is a golden-piped organ; a governess, who is one of the patients, often plays to the others upon it, and so do the ladies who visit the place. Once, when I was there, some one opened the instrument and began to play. As the music filled the room we all listened, beating a sort of time together. It seemed, t those who were listening, like a promise of better things, both for themselves and for others. This sitting-room is a lofty stately place, as I have said, with columns and mouldings; all about there are comfortable chairs and tables, and spring-sofas for aching spines that cannot sit upright.

The head-nurse went from one to another, and the faces of all seemed to light up to meet hers. It is a very

"It

simple and infallible sign of love and confidence. would not do for me to pity them too much," the kind nurse said; "I always try to speak cheerful to them." We-who come only to look on-may pity, and utter the commonplaces of compassion and curiosity; but how tired the poor things must be of the stupid reiteration of adjectives and exclamations! There was one old woman, so nice and with such sweet eyes, that I could not help sitting down by her, and saying a few words to her. She didn't answer, but only looked at me with an odd long look. "She cannot speak," the nurse whispered, beckoning me away. A few of the patients were reading, but only a few; 'Good Words' seemed to be popular; some of the patients do plain work. As I was speaking to one of them, the door opened, and a goodnatured-looking man came in.

Any of the ladies like to go out for a drive to-day ?" he said, in a brisk businesslike tone.

Two or three voices answered, "Only Miss;” and then Miss began beckoning and waving her hand from the other end of. the room, and was rolled off accordingly for her ride in the garden-chair. We went upstairs, and were shown lifts and pulleys, and all sorts of comfortable appliances for the use of the patients. I could not help admiring the extreme order and neatness of all the arrangements, and the freshness and ventilation of all the places we entered. There was a great scampering of children's feet in one of the passages as we came up the wooden stairs, and some bright eyes peeped at us; and three little girls in short kilts and plaid ribbons, retreated into a room of which the door was wide open, and fled to a bedside, where they all stood shyly in a row until we could come up. Our guide led the way, and we followed her into the room; and there from the bed, a pair of big bright brown eyes, not unlike the children's, were turned upon us, and a handsome young girl, lying flat on her back,

greeted us with a good-humoured smile. "Aunt Mary," the children called her.

Big and handsome and strong though she looked, this poor bright-looking Aunt Mary was completely paralysed as far as the head; she could not move hand or foot; it was a dead body with a bright bonny living face to it. She did not look more than six or seven-and-twenty; she had nice thick brown hair and white teeth. With these teeth this brave girl had imagined for herself that with practice she might hold a pencil and guide it, tracing the words against a little desk, that was so contrived as to swing across her bed when wanted. She was perfectly enchanted with the contrivance, and said it was the greatest possible delight to her to be able to write for herself. The doctor she told me, not without pride, had been quite surprised to receive a letter from her one day, and could not imagine how she had written it for herself.

The room, which was formerly the library, makes a delightful room for one or two patients. There are tall windows opening upon a broad terrace-like balcony, and beyond are the same elm-trees and glimpses of sky and common that we see from the big room down below. There is one great sufferer here who does not often get down. She cannot sit up in consequence of spinedisease; and when I saw her last, she was lying by the window, with a face wrapped in cotton-wool, poor soul! for she had been suffering from neuralgia; and though the dentist had taken out two of her teeth, she was still in pain. The head-nurse pitied her, and recommended a little blister to draw away the inflammation. The patient shrank, and laughed, and shook her head. She couldn't bear any more pain, she whispered imploringly-she wanted so to get down for a change. "A little belladonna-plaister under her cap so that it shouldn't show and look ugly, and where nobody would see it, please." There were two good-sized baskets standing on a table