y days to dreams and my nights to idleness, I hasten to tell
that I rise at 6, breakfast at 6.30, begin duty at 7, sup at 9.30 P.M.,
gossip till 10, and then go into my room and put myself to bed; and there
I am at the end of it. Being only a probationer, I am chiefly in the
out-patient department, where my duties are to collect the things wanted
at the dispensary, make the patients ready to see the surgeon, and pass
them on to the dressers. My patients at present are the children, and I
love them, and shall break my heart when I have to leave them. They are
not always too well looked after by the surgeon, but that doesn't matter
in the least, because, you see, they are constantly watched by the best
and most learned doctor in the world--that's me.

"Last Saturday I had my first experience of the operating theatre.
Gracious goodness! I thought I shouldn't survive it. Fortunately, I had
my dressings and sponges to look after, so I just stiffened my back with
a sort of imaginary six-foot steel bar, and went on 'like blazes.' But
some of these staff nurses are just 'ter'ble'; they take a professional
pleasure in descending to that inferno, and wouldn't miss a 'theatre' for
worlds. On Saturday it was a little boy of five who had his leg
amputated, and now when you ask the white-faced darling where he's going
to he says he's going to the angels, and he'll get lots of gristly pork
up there. He _is_ too.

"The _personnel_ of our vineyard is abundant, but there are various sour
grapes growing about. We have a medical school (containing lots of nice
boys, only a girl may not speak to them even in the corridors), and a
full staff of honorary and visiting physicians and surgeons. But the only
doctor we really have much to do with is the house surgeon, a young
fellow who has just finished his student's course. His name is Abery, and
since Saturday he has so much respect for Glory that she might even swear
in his presence (in Manx), but Sister Allworthy takes care that she
doesn't, having designs on his celibacy herself. He must have sung his
_Te Deum_ after the operation, for he got gloriously drunk and wanted to
inject morphia in a patient recovering from trouble of the kidney. It was
an old hippopotamus of a German musician named Koenig, and he was in a
frantic terror. So I whispered to him to pretend to go to sleep, and then
I told the doctor I had lost the syringe. But--'Gough bless me
sowl!'--what a dressing the Sister gave me