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velopment of his somnambalism to cease, and a description, somewhat less brief, of an incident for which, perhaps, many will be quite unprepared.

And first with respect to the means by which his career as a somnambulist was checked. It has been seen that Mr. Scholefield was an abstemious man: it has been stated that when he dined at the doctor's, he neither ate nor drank anything calculated to heat the blood or to produce any unnatural excitement; it will, therefore, be sufficient to add simply, that his arguments in favour of that practice were so strong and so convincing, that Sylvester adopted it at once; and having done so, he felt throughout the day so much lighter and more lively, that he adhered to it during the whole of the time he resided in Mr. Scholefield's house. It will, however, here be correct to observe that his adherence to this system must not be ascribed to any consciousness on his part of the cause of his having previously felt so languid—he had not even the most remote idea of the fact of his physical energies having been during the night exhausted: he attributed his gaiety and lightness of heart solely to the regimen he had adopted, and hence he continued to adhere to it firmly.

Now it happened that when Sylvester had been articled about twelve months, Mr. Scholefield was summoned to attend a female who was reported to be in the very last stage of consumption. He accordingly went, and was shown into a plain but clean and neatly-furnished room, in which he found a poor wasted, yet beautiful girl on a bed, near which her broken-hearted mother sat weeping.

The old lady rose as he entered, and tried to conceal her tears, but as the effort deprived her of the power to speak, he pressed her hand in silence, and went to the bedside.

"My poor girl," said he, with a benevolent smile, on taking her hands, which were like gloved bones, "why, your eyes are bright!—and sparkling!—you must not be in this state long."

"I feel," she observed faintly—"I feel that I should be well, if I were not so weak. I have no pain—no absolute physical pain—and yet I am prostrated thus!"

"Well, well," said he, soothingly, as a deep sigh escaped her, "you must not be sad. We must hope for the best, and see what can be done. I will send you that which will raise your spirits; but your mind must be tranquil: you must be quite calm. In the morning I'll see you again."

He then gently pressed her thin, weak, fleshless hand, and, as she fervently breathed forth her thanks, he left her.

On leaving the room, he was followed by her heart-stricken mother, who exclaimed, with an expression of anxiety which denoted the existence of those feelings which mothers only can experience—

"Pray, sir, tell me: are there any grounds for hope?—or will my poor dear child be lost to me for ever?"

"My, dear lady," replied Mr. Scholefield, who, although he perceived clearly that the case was hopeless, felt perfectly justified in concealing the fact then, "when I call in the morning, I shall be able to express a