Dorothy talked a little longer to Effie. When at last she left her, the poor girl felt soothed and strengthened. She dropped off to sleep, to dream of the old days when she was living in the pretty little cottage in Whittington, and when she longed so earnestly to go out into the wide world. Effie woke long before it was time to get up. She thought of142 her dream, and sighed heavily to herself. She was in the wide world now with a vengeance. Did it look as fair, as rose-colored, as fascinating, as it used to look in her early dreams? No; the reality was bitter enough. She would have given a great deal at that heavy moment of her life to turn back the page and be a child at home again.

The nurses' bell rang, and she got up quickly. Next week she was to take her turn at night-nursing. She was getting on well, and, notwithstanding the small cloud which now existed between her and Sister Kate, Sister Kate knew Effie's value. There are nurses and nurses. Many girls who go as probationers to the great hospitals are thoroughly unsuited to the life; their qualifications are not those essential to the good nurse; they are destitute of tact, of presence of mind, of that tenderness which can be firm as well as gentle. But Effie was an ideal nurse; her soft and gentle ways, her kind yet firm glance, the cleverness she showed, the tact she displayed, all proved to Sister Kate that the young probationer might one day be a valuable help to her. She was angry with Effie at present, but she was determined to leave no stone unturned to help the girl and train her thoroughly in her noble profession.

During that night Sister Kate had thought of Effie. She had noticed her pale face during the past day, the sadness in her eyes, the heaviness in her steps, and her heart smote her a little, a very little.

"I don't believe that girl could do anything mean or underhanded," she reflected. "Of course it is tiresome that she should know any of the medical students, but I believe I can trust her word that she will never speak to this young man except out of the hospital."

Accordingly, Sister Kate met Effie the next morning143 with much of her old pleasantness. Effie's sad heart bounded again in her breast when Sister Kate spoke kindly to her, and she went about her duties with the determination not to leave even the smallest matter undone. Thoroughly but carefully she went through all the minuti? of those everlasting cleanings and brushings.

At last her morning's work was over, and now came the crucial moment when she must speak to Sister Kate. The doctors had gone their rounds, the patients were all settled for the morning. Effie came up to Sister Kate in one of the corridors.

"Can you spare me a few moments of your time?" she asked.

The Sister looked up at the tall clock in the passage.

"Do you want to see me about anything important?" she asked.

"Yes, it is something important."

"Well, come into my private room; I can give you five minutes."

Sister Kate sat down—Effie stood before her.

"I'll try and tell you what I want as briefly as possible," she said. "I wish to know if I can be spared to go out this afternoon?"

"It is not your afternoon out. What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary. The fact is, there's great trouble at home, and I—I must see my mother, and perhaps I may have to make another visit."

Sister Kate frowned.

"I don't wish not to sympathize with you, of course," she said, after a pause, "but the fact is, nurses should detach themselves as much as possible from home-life. The nurse who really gives herself144 up to her splendid calling has to try to forget that she has a home. She has to remember that her first duties consist in taking care of her patients and in learning her profession."

"Then I can't be a nurse," said Effie, the color rushing into her face.

Sister Kate looked at her and shook her head.

"I am very sorry," she said, after a pause. "The fact is, I had great hopes of you—you have many of the qualifications which go to make a splendid nurse; I won't recount them here. I had, as I said, great hopes of you, but your words now make me fear that, excellent as those qualifications are, they are overbalanced."

"By what?" asked Effie.

"By sentimentality—by nervous overworry about matters which you should leave in other hands."

"I have no other hands to leave them in; the fact is, home duties must always be first with me. I've got a mother and several young brothers and sisters. I am the eldest daughter. I cannot let my mother suffer, even to indulge what has been for a long time the great dream of my life. It is very probable that I shall have to give up being a nurse."

"How can you? You are engaged here for three years."

"I must beg of the Governors of the hospital to let me off; the case is a special one—the trouble under which I am suffering is most unexpected. I fear, I greatly fear, that I shall be obliged to leave the hospital for a time."

"I am truly sorry to hear that," said Sister Kate. "Does your friend Miss Fraser know of this?"

"Yes."

"I hope it may not be necessary. As I said, you have the making of a good nurse in you. You want145 to go away for a few hours? Well, I'll try and manage it. Perhaps when you go home and see your people, you will find that it is unnecessary for you to sacrifice yourself to this extent. Anyhow you can have from two till five to-day. Now go and much in train for the afternoon as you can. You can stay out from two till five. I hope you'll have good news for me when you return."

"I hope I shall," said Effie; but her heart felt low. She had little expectation of being able to continue the life which she longed to perfect herself in. At two o'clock she went out, and did not take many minutes in reaching her mother's door.

Mrs. Staunton looked surprised to see her.

"What is the matter. Effie?" she said. "How white and worn you look! Why have you come back to-day?"

"I wanted to see you, mother, so I got an afternoon off duty. Sister Kate was kind—I begged of her to let me come. I have a great longing to see you."

"Well, my dear, I'm all right. The fact is, I get better and better."

Mrs. Staunton was seated by the window. She was making a pinafore for little Marjory—her needle flew in and out of the stuff. She was trimming the pinafore with narrow lace. Effie took it up and sat down by her mother.

"Your hands tremble, mother; are you really well?"

"Oh, yes, my love; yes! You look at me as if you thought there was something the matter. Have you—Effie, your looks frighten me."

"Don't let them frighten you, dear mother. You know the greatest longing of my heart is to help146 and serve you. If there is anything worrying you, you'll tell me, won't you?"

"I will," said Mrs. Staunton. She paused and looked at her daughter. "There's nothing exactly worrying me," she said, after a pause, "but still I feel a little bit anxious."

"You'll tell me, won't you?"

"You won't scold me, Effie?"

"As if I could, mother darling!"

"Well, perhaps I did a rash thing—poor dear George!—You know how devoted I am to him, Effie?"

"Oh, yes, mother darling, anyone can see that."

"Well, the fact is, I—I yielded to his entreaties. Perhaps I ought not to tell you, Effie—perhaps it will displease him."

"Yes, do tell me," said Effie. "There ought not to be any secrets in one's family. I ought to know—I will know. You are worried about something, and I will know what your burden is. What is it, mother?"

"I'll tell you in a few words. There's nothing in it, after all. Shortly after you left us, George persuaded me to put my money into the City Bank in his name. He said it seemed such folly to have two accounts for such very small sums."

"You did it?" said Effie, her face turning white.

"Yes, yes, I knew you would reproach me. I won't be reproached—I won't!"

"I will not say a word, dearest, dearest mother. Take my hand—your hand does shake so. Now tell me all about it."

"Oh, it's nothing, my love, really, only——"

"Yes, mother—only?"

"Onl............