of people, most likely, for I felt sure she must have a great many friends. Three o'clock came, and the visitors, most of whom had been waiting outside for some time, I fancy, were let in, but no one came up to our end of the ward.

I was pretty well amused at first with watching, but by-and-by looking at so many happy faces and hearing so much talk, rather tired me, and I turned to see how my neighbour was getting on.

I was quite sure, directly I looked at her, that she was expecting some one, for she was lying with her face turned towards the door and watching it, so that she never knew that I was looking at her. At last it grew so late that, I suppose, she gave up hope, and she turned round towards me. She and I were the only two who had no visitors; the deaf old woman's husband was talking to her by signs, as he sat by the bed; the girl with the broken arm had her mother and her little sister with her by the fire; and there were one or two by everybody's bed but hers and mine.

'You and I are both left alone to-day,' she said to me, and she looked rather sad.

"Tis nothing to me,' I answered; 'I didn't expect as anyone would trouble over me.'

'Poor child!' she said; 'why you must be as adly off as I am; I haven't father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister; all the folks that belonged to me are gone;' and now the tears were in her eyes, and fell quick and sharp on her hand.

'But you thought someone would come and see you.'

'Yes,' she answered; I hoped the kind woman that I lodge with would come; 'tis likely she has been hindered, for I know she meant to be here. And there she is!' she exclaimed suddenly, as the sound of the door was heard, and a stout old woman, quite out of breath, made her way in and stood looking round with a puzzled face at all the beds, till at last she saw the hands stretched out and the bright smile which were ready to welcome her at the further end of the ward.

'Well, my dear, and so here you are,' she began almost before she could get breath to speak; and here am I too at last,—I couldn't come sooner. There's Fred at home with chilled feet; and Amy, her cough is so bad I daren't send her out with the baby; and as for Mary Anne she is always running in next door after that bit of a child you pulled from under the horse's feet, such a work as she makes, and she says," It will please Kate if I look after the child, when she has hurt herself so bad to save it."'

This told me two things; first, that my neighbour's name was Kate, and then that the hurt on her chest, from which I knew that she was suffering, had been received in trying to save a neighbour's child from harm. I was glad of this, because now I could like her even better than before.

The talk went on, while I tried hard not to listen, and only caught a few words here and there; but there was not much time for talking, the old woman had come so late, that almost before she had well got her breath, after her climb up the stairs, the visitors' hour came to an end, and she had to say good-bye.

'Keep your mind easy, my dear; don't you fret about anything,' she said, as she stood up to go. I'll see to it all, and if any letter comes from Australia, you shall have it as quick as I can send it up.'

'Are you a governess?' I said to her, when every one was gone.

'No,' she answered, rather sadly; 'I was going to be a teacher in a school, but it costs money to get ready, and before I was fit father died. Mother tried hard to keep me on at it, but she couldn't do it, and I had to turn my hand to anything I could find to do; there was one younger than me, a cripple, and mother was but weakly.'

'Then what do you do; you can't be a servant, for you said you lodged with that fat old lady?' I asked.

'I'm a dressmaker and milliner, dear,-at least when I can get any dresses or bonnets to make; but through never having been appren

ticed, I suppose my hand isn't as good at it as some, and I've not much custom. I get plain work at times from Mason and Tubbs' in the City, and every one is very kind to me, and I get on; but I often think I would rather be a servant, because then I should have more people to care for.'

'Oh, no, you wouldn't,' I answered (I felt more free now that I saw she was nearly as poor as I was). 'I'm a servant, and I've no one at all to care for me.'

'Dear me how's that? what sort of a mistress have you, then?' she said, as if surprised.

'Oh, I don't know; she's better than some, I daresay, and worse than others; but 'tis a hard place; such a lot of children you never saw, and mistress has some of the washing done at home. Mistress scolds a good deal, I think.'

'I daresay, if there are so many of them, she gets worried sometimes; but I always used to think I should like a place where there were children,' Kate said.

'No, you wouldn't; not if they were always into everything, running about with their boots into all the wet places in the street, and you had to clean them, and if you had to put them all to bed.'

'I should like that, I know, for I often put Mrs. Espin's children to bed, and hear them say their little hymns and their prayers.'

'Now I've never any time for that; when mistress goes up with them, she hears them their prayers; but I always tell them they must say them in bed; often and often I don't get time to say my own, without hearing theirs.'

'Then I don't wonder everything gets wrong, and seems hard,' said Kate.

I didn't like her to say that; I didn't see what business it was of her's, and I was going to make some saucy answer, such as I often gave mistress when she faulted me, but before I could get out the words Kate went on, 'I beg your pardon, if I ought not to have said it, dear; but 'tis what I find myself; if I don't

say my prayers, I'm sure to get all wrong with everybody and everything, and with myself most of all.'

'I should think you never forget to say your prayers.'

'I'm afraid I have sometimes,' she answered, quite humbly; and then she said, 'I wish you would tell me your name; mine is Kate Stevens.'

They call me Mary Draper; master always says "Anne," because the last girl was Anne but I don't like being called off my name.'

produced only on the stem and its branches. What are called root-leaves do not really grow on the root, but from the root-stock, which is that part of the stem which is immediately above the root. Often this portion of the stem does not lengthen, so the leaves which grow upon it grow, as it were, in tufts, so closely are they packed together. The stems

or bases of these leaves do not wither, decay, and disappear like the upper part or blade; they are persistent (i. e. not falling off), as it is termed, and form a kind of crown immediately above the root; the short stem crowned with these leaves is termed the rootstock.

We will now consider the position of leaves with respect to each other. They are more frequently alternate, that is, one leaf is above the other, on opposite sides of the stem, as in all grasses; or one is a little to the right or left and above the other, as in the elm and the oak; or they grow in pairs, one leaf being immediately opposite another leaf, as in the common nettle and the horse-chestnut; or they grow in whorls, as in the bedstraws; or they grow in tufts, as in the larch. Leaves always grow from leaf-buds, and in the axil of each leaf thus produced another leaf-bud is formed, thus ensuring the continued growth of stems and leaves. You will recollect that when speaking of leaf-buds, I told you that the position of the branches on a tree, whether they grow opposite to one another or otherwise, depends greatly on the position of the leaves on the stem. If the leaves are opposite the branches will be opposite; if the leaves are alternate the stems will be alternate. does not necessarily follow that because the leaves are whorled the branches will be produced in whorls, because, some of the leaf-buds in the axils of these leaves remain

It

dormant, and only one or two grow into branches.

4. Duration. Leaves last very much longer on some plants than on others. The leaves of annual plants cannot live longer than the plants themselves, but die with the plant. The leaves of perennial herbs do not fall off, but die down with them in the winter. The leaves of most of our English shrubs and trees are deciduous, i.e. fall off in the autumn; those of some evergreens, as the holly and the laurel, do not fall off in the autumn, but continue through the winter, and are pushed off by the growth of new leaves in the following spring, so the leaves of these evergreens are termed persistent. The leaves of some evergreens live much longer, for instance, those of many of the fir tribe, and those of the tree-ferns of the tropics.

5. Stalked and Sessile Leaves.-Always note carefully whether the leaves of the plant you are studying are stalked or not; you will frequently find that those of the root are stalked, while those of the stem of the same plant are sessile. The leaves of the elm and of the ivy are examples of stalked leaves; those of the common yellow stonecrop, the bedstraw, and the common thistle, are examples of sessile leaves.

6. Stipules.-These are very remarkable appendages to the bases of the leaf-stalks of some plants. In some whole families of plants they are always present; while in others they are altogether absent. Like leaves, they are either deciduous or persistent, but when they are deciduous they fall off before the leaves themselves are fully developed. The stipules of the rose, the pea, and the heartsease, are persistent. Those of the beech, oak, and common laurel, are deciduous; if you wish to see them you must

Many plants have no stipules to their leaves, such as the primrose and the privet. The exact nature of stipules is not understood. Many of the outer bracts of the leaf and flower-buds are plainly stipules without

called simple even if it be divided into lobes, provided always that the divisions do not reach to the midrib of the leaf; so the leaf of the common groundsel, see Friendly Leaves for 1877, pp. 55, is a simple leaf.

FIG. 3.

Leaf of the Acacia.

A leaf is called compound when it is formed of several parts or little leaves, as in the garden acacia, fig. 3, and each little leaf is called a leaflet. Thus the leaves of the horse chestnut, of the ash, and

8. Forms.--The forms of leaves are so very varied that it would take up too much space to describe them all here. I shall only mention those which are more commonly met with. One of the commonest forms is that which is represented by the outline of an egg when held against the light, so a leaf when thus shaped is called ovate or egg-shaped. It is called oblong when it is equally broad at both ends, and its length does not exceed twice its breadth. A leaf is called circular when it is round like a penny-piece; lanceshaped when it is long and narrow and takes the form of a lance-fig. 2; linear when very long and narrow like a grass leaf; heartshaped when hollowed out at the base, as in fig. 1; kidney-shaped when broader than long and hollowed out at the base, as in a heartshaped leaf. Simple leaves may be variously lobed; when deeply lobed, as in groundsel, the leaf is called pinnatifid. The shape of the top of the leaf is important and should be noticed independently of the general outline. Thus the leaflets of the leaf, fig. 3, are blunt at the end, while the end of the leaf, fig. 2, is sharp and therefore called acute. Several of the terms above mentioned may be used together to describe a leaf very accurately. Thus the leaf of the lime-tree is ovate and acute with a cordate base. The chestnut leaf is lanceolate, narrowed at the base, and acute.

To describe a compound leaf, the general outline of the whole leaf including all the leaflets should be stated; thus the general outline of the acacia leaf is linear. When the leaflets are many and in two rows, one on either side of the midrib, as in fig. 3, the leaf is called pinnate, or feather-like; when the leaflets are placed all together at the apex or

If

leaf is called digitate, i.e., fingered. When there are three leaflets, as in the clover and wood-sorrel, the leaf is called ternate, a word which means divided into three. the leaflets of the acacia, fig. 3, were themselves pinnate, the leaf would be called twice pinnate, and a leaf may be even three times pinnate. In a similar way a leaf may be twice or three times ternate. The form of the separate leaflets of compound leaves should be described in the same terms as those for simple leaves.

The edges of leaves are often cut or jagged in different ways. When they are not cut at all, they are termed entire, as in the leaflets of the acacia, fig, 3. When they are cut like the teeth of a saw, as in the chestnut leaf, fig. 2, they are called serrate. When the teeth are all of the same size they are equally serrate; when the teeth are unequal, they are unequally serrate. When the teeth are very large, the leaf is called toothed or dentate. Sometimes the teeth are themselves toothed, the leaf is then called doubly serrate or doubly dentate. When the teeth are not sharp but rounded the leaf is called crenate.

There is much that I should like to tell you about the curious forms of leaves, but I must reserve this for another chapter. (To be continued.)

There the Weary are at Rest. SAVIOUR, when I shall reach Thy promised land,

I ask no seat of pride

At Thy right hand;
Nor do I even long,
Amid the angel throng,
On high to stand.