“How do you know? _You never gave it a trial._ Come, no more chat. Give me my bath: and then you may wash yourself in a tea-cup if you like--only don't wash my spoons in the same water, for _mercy's sake!”_ Thus affectionately stimulated in her duties, Polly brought cold water galore, and laid out her new merino dress. In this sober suit, with plain linen collar and cuffs, the Somerset dressed herself, and resumed her watching by the bedside. She kept more than ever out of sight, for the patient was now beginning to mutter incoherently, yet in a way that showed his clouded faculties were dwelling on the calamity which had befallen him. About noon the bell was rung sharply, and, on Polly entering, Rhoda called her to the window and showed her two female figures plodding down the street. “Look,” said she. “Those are the only women I envy. Sisters of Charity. Run you after them, and take a good look at those beastly ugly caps: then come and tell me how to make one.” “Here's a go!” said Polly; but executed the commission promptly. It needed no fashionable milliner to turn a yard of linen into one of those ugly caps, which are beautiful banners of Christian charity and womanly tenderness to the sick and suffering. The monster cap was made in an hour, and Miss Somerset put it on, and a thick veil, and then she no longer thought it necessary to sit out of the patient's sight. The consequence was that, in the middle of his ramblings, he broke off and looked at her. The sister puzzled him. At last he called to her in French. She made no reply. “Je suis a l'hopital, n'est ce pas bonne soeur?” “I am English,” said she, softly. CHAPTER VI. “ENGLISH!” said Sir Charles. “Then tell me, how did I come here? Where am I?” “You had a fit, and the doctor ordered you to be kept quiet; and I am here to nurse you.” “A fit! Ay, I remember. That vile woman!” “Don't think of her: give your mind to getting well: remember, there is somebody who would break her heart if you--” “Oh, my poor Bella! my sweet, timid, modest, loving Bella!” He was so weakened that he cried like a child. Miss Somerset rose, and laid her forehead sadly upon the window-sill. “Why do I cry for her, like a great baby?” muttered Sir Charles. “She wouldn't cry for me. She has cast me off in a moment.” “Not she. It is her father's doing. Have a little patience. The whole thing shall be explained to them; and then she will soon soften the old man. 'It is not as if you were really to blame.” “No more I was. It is all that vile woman.”