A short turn to the right, and he has reached the front wall of the Queen’s Barracks, on his left, and the entrance to the “Work-house,” on his right; the one overlooking the other, and separated by a narrow street.  Leave men are seen reluctantly returning in at the night-gate; the dull tramp of the sentinel within sounds ominously on the still air; and the chilly atmosphere steals into the system.  Again the stranger pauses, as if questioning the safety of his position.  Suddenly a low moan grates upon his ear, he starts back, then listens.  Again it rises, in a sad wail, and pierces his very heart.  His first thought is, that some tortured mortal is bemoaning his bruises in a cell of the “Work-house,” which he mistakes for a prison.  But his eyes fall to the ground, and his apprehensions are dispelled.

The doors of the “Work-house” are fast closed; but there, huddled along the cold pavement, and lying crouched upon its doorsteps, in heaps that resemble the gatherings of a rag-seller, are four-and-thirty shivering, famishing, and homeless human beings—­

An institution for the relief of the destitute. (mostly young girls and aged women), who have sought at this “institutution of charity” shelter for the night, and bread to appease their hunger.

This sight may be seen at any time.  Alas! its ruthless keepers have refused them bread, shut them into the street, and left them in rags scarce sufficient to cover their nakedness, to sleep upon the cold stones, a mute but terrible rebuke to those hearts that bleed over the sorrows of Africa, but have no blood to give out when the object of pity is a poor, heart-sick girl, forced to make the cold pavement her bed.  The stranger shudders.  “Are these heaps of human beings?” he questions within himself, doubting the reality before him.  As if counting and hesitating what course to pursue for their relief, he paces up and down the grotesque mass, touching one, and gazing upon the haggard features of another, who looks up to see what it is that disturbs her.  Again the low moan breaks on his ear, as the sentinel cries the first hour of morning.  The figure of a female, her head resting on one of the steps, moves, a trembling hand steals from under her shawl, makes an effort to reach her head, and falls numb at her side.  “Her hand is cold-her breathing like one in death—­oh!  God!—­how terrible-what, what am I to do?” he says, taking the sufferer’s hand in his own.  Now he rubs it, now raises her head, makes an effort to wake a few of the miserable sleepers, and calls aloud for help.  “Help! help! help!” he shouts, and the shout re-echoes through the air and along the hollow court.  “A woman is dying,—­dying here on the cold stones-with no one to raise a hand for her!” He seizes the exhausted woman in his arms, and with herculean strength rushes up the narrow street, in the hope of finding relief at the Gin Palace he sees at its head, in a blaze of light.  But the body is seized with spasms, an hollow, hysteric wail follows, his strength gives way under the burden, and he sets the sufferer down in the shadow of a gas light.  Her dress, although worn threadbare, still bears evidence of having belonged to one who has enjoyed comfort, and, perhaps, luxury.  Indeed, there is something about the woman which bespeaks her not of the class generally found sleeping on the steps of St. Martin’s Work-house.