eard tell of her for years, and the
nurses are good women for all that. High-spirited? Aye; but dear, bright,
happy things, to think what they have to know and to be present at!
Lawyers, doctors, and nurses see the worst of human nature, and she'd be
a heartless woman who'd no make allowances for them, poor creatures!"

John Storm had risen from the table with a flushed face, making many
excuses. He would step round to the hospital; he had questions to ask
there, and it would be a walk after luncheon.

"Do," said Mrs. Callender, "but remember dinner at six. And hark ye,
hinny, this house is to be your hame until you light on a better one, so
just sleep saft in it and wake merrily. And Jane Callender is to be your
auld auntie until some ither body tak's ye frae her, and then it'll no be
her hand ye'll be kissing for fear of her wrinkles, I'm thinking."

The day was bright, the sun was shining, and the streets were full of
well-groomed horses in gorgeous carriages with coachmen in splendid
liveries going to the drawing-room in honour of the royal birthday. As
John went by the palace the approaches to it were thronged, the band of
the Household Cavalry was playing within the rails, and officers in
full-dress uniform, members of the diplomatic service with swords and
cocked hats, and ladies in gorgeous brocades carrying bouquets of orchids
and wearing tiaras of diamonds and large white plumes were filing through
the gate toward the throne-room.

The hospital looked strangely unfamiliar after so short an absence, and
there were new faces among the nurses who passed to and fro in the
corridors. John asked for the matron, and was received with constrained
and distant courtesy. Was he well? Quite well. They had a resident
chaplain now, and being in priest's orders he had many opportunities
where death was so frequent. Was he sure he had not been ill? John
understood--it was almost as if he had come out of some supernatural
existence, and people looked at him as if they were afraid.

"I came to ask if you could tell me anything of Nurse Quayle?"

The matron could tell him nothing. The girl had gone; they had been
compelled to part with her. Nothing serious? No, but totally unfit to be
a nurse. She had some good qualities certainly--cheerfulness, brightness,
tenderness--and for the sake of these, and his own interest in the girl,
they had put up with inconceivable rudeness and irregularities. What had
become of her? She real