became head cook as well as
governess and nurse. On the whole, I think I shall not try to live by
cooking, if other trades fail; I don't mind boiling and frying, and
making pie-crust is rather pleasant, but I do object to lifting saucepans
and blistering my hands over heavy kettles. There is a certain charm in
making a stew, especially to the unaccustomed cook, because of the
excitement of wondering what the result of such various ingredients will
be, and whether any flavor save that of onions will survive the
competition in the mixture. On the whole my services as cook were voted
very successful; I did my cooking better than I did my sweeping: the
latter was a failure from sheer want of muscular strength.

This curious episode came to an end abruptly. One of my little pupils
fell ill with diptheria, and I was transformed from cook into sick-nurse.
I sent my Mabel off promptly to her dear grandmother's care, and gave
myself up to my old delight in nursing. But it is a horrible disease,
diptheria, and the suffering of the patient is frightful to witness. I
shall never forget the poor little girl's black parched lips and gasping
breath.

Scarcely was she convalescent, when the youngest boy, a fine, strong,
healthy little fellow, sickened with scarlet fever. We elders held a
consultation, and decided to isolate the top floor from the rest of the
house, and to nurse the little lad there; it seemed almost hopeless to
prevent such a disease from spreading through a family of children, but
our vigorous measures were successful, and none other suffered. I was
voted to the post of nurse, and installed myself promptly, taking up the
carpets, turning out the curtains, and across the door ways hanging
sheets which I kept always wet with chloride of lime. My meals were
brought upstairs and put on the landing outside; my patient and I
remained completely isolated, until the disease had run its course; and
when all risk was over, I proudly handed over my charge, the disease
touching no other member of the flock.

It was a strange time, those weeks of the autumn and early winter in Mr.
Woodward's house. He was a remarkably good man, very religious and to a
very remarkable extent not "of this world". A "priest" to the tips of his
finger-nails, and looking on his priestly office as the highest a man
could fill, he yet held it always as one which put him at the service of
the poorest who needed help. He was very good to me, and, while