LITMIR.BIZ

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to see the upper housemaid, had shaken their heads and said there was only one thing that would save her, and that was to go up to the great East Central Hospital and place herself in the hands of Sir Denton Hayle.

      Then, during one of his visits home, Aunt Anne insisted upon Neil Elthorne seeing the woman. Mr Elthorne said it was absurd, but he was quiet afterward when he heard that his son had also declared that the only thing that could save the patient’s life was for her to come up to the hospital in town. Furthermore, he said that he would speak to the illustrious chief under whom he studied, and see that every arrangement was made for her reception.

      Maria went up, and now lay by the open window thinking of the country, of how long it would be before the doctors made her well again and sent her back to her situation. Then she wondered how Miss Isabel was, and Mr Alison, and how soon there would be weddings at the house. For it was an open secret among the servants at Hightoft that “Master’s” sons were to marry the Misses Lydon, and that Miss Isabel would become Lady Burwood.

      “I shall be glad to get back,” she said at last with a sigh. “I always thought London was a gay place, but – ugh! – it is dull.”

      “Dull lying here, my poor girl,” said a sweet voice, and she turned sharply and uttered a cry of pain with the effort.

      In an instant busy hands were about her, changing her position and wiping the agony-engendered perspiration from her brow before assisting her to drink a little water.

      “I am sorry I startled you.”

      Maria looked half angrily in the beautiful face bent over her, with its clearly cut, aristocratic features and large eyes, which gazed searchingly into her own. For it was a countenance that attracted attention with its saddened, pitying look, heightened by the smooth white cap and stiffened quaint linen “bib and tucker,” as our mothers termed the old puritan-like costume, the whole being strongly suggestive of the portrait of some lady of the Pilgrim Father days.

      “You came so quiet, you quite frightened me,” said the woman.

      “Your nerves are over-strung,” was the reply. “I ought to have known better.”

      There was something so sweet and soothing in the deep musical tones of the soft voice that it had its effect upon the patient directly, and she lay back with a sigh.

      “It don’t matter, nurse,” she said, “but do make haste and get me well.”

      “Indeed, we are trying very hard. But you are mending fast. Sir Denton will be here soon to see you again.”

      “Yes,” said the woman, with her brow growing rugged and a petulance of manner, “to hurt me again, horrid. He’ll kill me before he has done.”

      “You do not think so, Maria,” said the nurse gently, as she laid her cool white hand upon the patient’s brow. “He is as tender and gentle as a woman, and he takes great interest in your case.”

      “But, I say, they won’t take me into the theatre again, will they? Oh, I say, what a shame to call that horrid place a theatre!”

      “No; that is all over now, and you have nothing to do now but get well and go back to the country.”

      “But it takes so long, and it was so horrid with all those doctors and people, and the chloroform, and stuff, and – ”

      “Do you not think it would be better,” said the nurse gently, “if, instead of looking at what has passed in that spirit, you were to try and remember it only with gratitude, and think that a month back you were in a very dangerous state, while now you are rapidly getting well?”

      “I don’t know,” said the woman querulously. “It’s very horrid lying here listening to other people complaining and saying how bad they are, and no one near who knows you.”

      “Come, come,” said the nurse gently, “you are hot and tired. I have brought you some flowers and fruit. There!”

      She placed a bunch of roses in the patient’s hand, and placed a bunch of large grapes before her on the bed.

      “Thanky,” said the woman, ungraciously, as she sniffed at the flowers. “But they’re not very fresh.”

      “No,” said the nurse, smiling; “but you must recollect that they had to be cut in the country and sent up by rail. Try a few of the grapes.”

      She held up a little tray, and the patient picked one or two grapes off the bunch with an indifferent air.

      “Not much of grapes,” she said. “You should see them in the vineries at Hightoft. Much nicer than these poor tasteless things.”

      “I am sorry they’re not better, Maria,” said the nurse with a pitying smile. “They were the best I could get. You must remember we are in London.”

      “Oh, yes; it isn’t your fault, nurse. You can’t help it.”

      “Eat a few more.”

      “No; I don’t want ’em. I say, how long will the doctor be? I want to know if I mayn’t get up.”

      “I can tell you that, Maria. Not yet. Try and be patient and trust to us.”

      “Oh, very well,” said the girl petulantly; “but it’s horrid lying here so long.”

      “Do you think you could read a little if I brought you a book?”

      “No. It only makes me tired. I hate reading.”

      “Hush! Here is Mr Elthorne.”

      As she spoke a tall, keen-looking, youngish man approached the bed. He was handsome and with a strong resemblance to his father; but his high forehead wore a peculiarly thoughtful, intent look, and there were the lines in his face made by constant devotion to some study, and a something in his eyes which suggested that he was thinking deeply of an object which had eluded his mental grasp.

      “Good-morning,” he said quietly. “How is your patient?”

      “A little nervous and restless, sir. Ought she not to have change?”

      “Yes,” said the young surgeon, taking the patient’s hand and watching her intently. “As soon as we can move her, but we must hasten slowly. You will be glad to get back – home, Maria?”

      “Oh, yes, sir, please, sir. I am so tired of being here.”

      “I suppose so,” said the young surgeon. “Naturally;” and he turned to the nurse with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

      “It is so sad and painful, sir,” she said gravely. “Poor thing! I am sure she has tried to be very patient.”

      “Well, we will hear what Sir Denton says.”

      Neil Elthorne went across the ward to another bed, and Maria uttered a little laugh.

      “What amuses you?”

      “Oh, nothing, nurse; I was only thinking. Of course I want to get home again. Anybody would.”

      “Well, be patient. You are getting better, and you must think of health and strength, and the bright country life, where you will have fresh flowers and better fruit, and be among your friends.”

      The nurse smiled, and then placed a little bottle of lavender water in her patient’s hand.

      “To sprinkle about you when you feel faint,” she said.

      “Thanky,” said the woman, in a tone of voice which robbed the word of thankfulness; and the nurse went across to where the young surgeon was busy with another patient.

      “And she knows I don’t like lavender water,” grumbled the woman. “Always trying to play the fine lady nurse, and showing off, and I don’t believe she’s a lady at all. A real lady would have brought Padchouly or Odyklone. Think I don’t know. Flowers and grapes only cheap rubbish. Can’t afford better, I suppose.”

      She lay back watching the actions of nurse and surgeon the while, and commenting thereon.

      “She’s an artful one, she is, with all her demure looks and mincing ways. I’m

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