These are the officers. But what of the Sisters? There are eight of them. When you have said they are entirely unselfish, you have included most attributes. That includes an irrepressible spirit that no continuity of labour can break. It includes gentleness which familiarity with pain in others does not quench. And it includes a contempt of personal comfort that must sometimes amaze even themselves if they ever find time to grow either introspective or retrospective. They sleep in tents; they lack fuel; they shiver by the hour in damp beds unless exhaustion drives them to sleep; and they rise in the murky morning to don sodden garments. They work hard and without intermission for twelve to sixteen hours--and indefinitely when a "stunt" has brought the convoys from the line. But none of these things beats them down. The theatre Sisters deserve immortalisation. All the qualities of patience and gentleness, endurance and cheerfulness, seem intensified in them. They have not the smallest objection to your watching them work in the theatre; nor have the surgeons. Rather, they encourage you, and get you to help in a minor way when the place is busy. It is rarely on receiving-day that four "tables" are not in use simultaneously. This makes it inevitable that the victims, as they are brought in and laid out for the anæsthetic, see within six feet sights not calculated to fortify them. Some smile in hardy fashion; some smile in a fashion that is not hardy. The abject terror of those wretches out of whom pain has long since beaten all the fortitude is horrible to see. What must be the state of that man, made helpless by unassuaged suffering, who sees the scalpel at work upon a fellow beside him--the gaping incision; the merciless pruning of the shattered limb; the hideous bloodiness of the steaming stump at amputation--and hears the stertorous breathing of the subject and his agonised subconscious moaning, which has all the infection of terror that actual suffering would convey?