ers was of the heart. To them,
pain was a thing to be recorded on a report; to Sidney, it was written
on the tablets of her soul.

Carlotta Harrison went on night duty at the same time--her last night
service, as it was Sidney's first. She accepted it stoically. She had
charge of the three wards on the floor just below Sidney, and of the
ward into which all emergency cases were taken. It was a difficult
service, perhaps the most difficult in the house. Scarcely a night went
by without its patrol or ambulance case. Ordinarily, the emergency ward
had its own night nurse. But the house was full to overflowing. Belated
vacations and illness had depleted the training-school. Carlotta, given
double duty, merely shrugged her shoulders.

"I've always had things pretty hard here," she commented briefly.
"When I go out, I'll either be competent enough to run a whole hospital
singlehanded, or I'll be carried out feet first."

Sidney was glad to have her so near. She knew her better than she knew
the other nurses. Small emergencies were constantly arising and finding
her at a loss. Once at least every night, Miss Harrison would hear a
soft hiss from the back staircase that connected the two floors, and,
going out, would see Sidney's flushed face and slightly crooked cap
bending over the stair-rail.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you," she would say, "but So-and-So
won't have a fever bath"; or, "I've a woman here who refuses her
medicine." Then would follow rapid questions and equally rapid answers.
Much as Carlotta disliked and feared the girl overhead, it never
occurred to her to refuse her assistance. Perhaps the angels who keep
the great record will put that to her credit.

Sidney saw her first death shortly after she went on night duty. It was
the most terrible experience of all her life; and yet, as death goes, it
was quiet enough. So gradual was it that Sidney, with K.'s little watch
in hand, was not sure exactly when it happened. The light was very dim
behind the little screen. One moment the sheet was quivering slightly
under the struggle for breath, the next it was still. That was all. But
to the girl it was catastrophe. That life, so potential, so tremendous a
thing, could end so ignominiously, that the long battle should terminate
always in this capitulation--it seemed to her that she could not stand
it. Added to all her other new problems of living was this one of dying.

She made mistakes, of course, which the