spite of her headaches; she ceased to complain of them,
and concealed her cough to a great extent, by a process known amongst us
as "smothering." The one remedy she pined for--fresh air--was the last
that either Miss Mulberry or Madame considered appropriate to any form
of a "cold."

This craving for fresh air helped Matilda in her struggle with illness.
Our daily "promenade" was dull enough, but it was in the open air; and
to be kept indoors, either as a punishment for ill-said lessons, or as a
cure for her cough, was Matilda's great dread.

Night after night, when Madame had paid her final visit to our rooms,
and we were safe, did Eleanor creep out of bed and noiselessly lower the
upper sash of our window to please Matilda; whilst I sat (sometimes for
an hour or more) upon the bolster of the bed in which Matilda and I
slept together, and "nursed her head."

What quaint, pale, grave little maids we were! As full of aches and
pains, and small anxieties, and self-repression, and tender sympathy, as
any other daughters of Mother Eve.

Eleanor and I have often since said that we believe we should make
excellent nurses for the insane, looking back upon our treatment of poor
Matilda. We knew exactly when to be authoritative, and when to
sympathize almost abjectly. I became skilful in what we called "nursing
her head," which meant much more than that I supported it on my knees.
Softly, but firmly, I stroked her brow and temples with both hands, and
passed my fingers through her hair to the back of her head. I rarely
failed to put her to sleep, and as she never woke when I laid her down,
I have since suspected myself of unconscious mesmerism.

One night, when I had long been asleep, I was awakened by Matilda's
hysterical sobs. She "couldn't get into a comfortable position;" her
"back ached so." Our bed was very narrow, and I commonly lay so poised
upon the outer edge to give Matilda room that more than once I have
rolled on to the floor.

We spoke in undertones, but Eleanor was awake.

"Come and see if you can sleep with me, Margery," she said. "I lie very
straight."

I scrambled out, and willingly crept in behind Eleanor, into her still
narrower bed; and after tearful thanks and protestations, poor Matilda
doubled herself at a restful angle, and fell asleep.

Happily for me, I was very well. Eleanor suffered from the utter change
of mode of life a good deal; but she had great powers of endurance.

Fatigue, and "m