e, when the sound of
complaining voices from the next room caught her ear. The wounded men
left behind were moaning for help--the deserted soldiers were losing
their fortitude at last.

She entered the kitchen. A cry of delight welcomed her appearance--the
mere sight of her composed the men. From one straw bed to another she
passed with comforting words that gave them hope, with skilled and
tender hands that soothed their pain. They kissed the hem of her black
dress, they called her their guardian angel, as the beautiful creature
moved among them, and bent over their hard pillows her gentle,
compassionate face. "I will be with you when the Germans come," she
said, as she left them to return to her unwritten letter. "Courage, my
poor fellows! you are not deserted by your nurse."

"Courage, madam!" the men replied; "and God bless you!"

If the firing had been resumed at that moment--if a shell had struck
her dead in the act of succoring the afflicted, what Christian judgment
would have hesitated to declare that there was a place for this woman
in heaven? But if the war ended and left her still living, where was the
place for her on earth? Where were her prospects? Where was her home?

She returned to the letter. Instead, however, of seating herself to
write, she stood by the table, absently looking down at the morsel of
paper.

A strange fancy had sprung to life in her mind on re-entering the room;
she herself smiled faintly at the extravagance of it. What if she were
to ask Lady Janet Roy to let her supply Miss Roseberry's place? She had
met with Miss Roseberry under critical circumstances, and she had done
for her all that one woman could do to help another. There was in this
circumstance some little claim to notice, perhaps, if Lady Janet had no
other companion and reader in view. Suppose she ventured to plead her
own cause--what would the noble and merciful lady do? She would write
back, and say, "Send me references to your character, and I will
see what can be done." Her character! Her references! Mercy laughed
bitterly, and sat down to write in the fewest words all that was needed
from her--a plain statement of the facts.

No! Not a line could she put on the paper. That fancy of hers was not
to be dismissed at will. Her mind was perversely busy now with an
imaginative picture of the beauty of Mablethorpe House and the comfort
and elegance of the life that was led there. Once more she thought of
the chance whi