Women are all nurses and sick-attendants at heart: there are more Florence Nightingale's among us than we know of, until time and occasion draws them out of seclusion, and displays them in their true colours. Here was Lizzie, who a moment before had been crying, wringing her hands and inclined to faint, now as composed as possible, although very pale and tearful, just because the doctor had employed her services, and showed her how to be useful. "Bless my soul! little girl; don't stop crying there. Hold his head up, while I get some water." And Lizzie had raised Tom's head as tenderly as if it had been a piece of Sevres china, and moved it on to her lap, while her arm passed round him. She did not mind his weight a bit, and could have thus supported him all day without feeling tired, although Tom was pretty heavy. Love lightens loads wonderfully! The doctor bustled off down to the river's brink, and quickly fetched back some water in his smart new white hat; he did not mind that, however, for he would at any time sacrifice anything he had to give ease or pleasure to another. By the time the others came up, Tom opened his eyes, and looked dreamily around. "Hullo! what's the row? where am I?" "Bless my soul! you're a nice fellow you are, alarming us all like this. Do you feel better now? Where's the pain? Does that hurt you, eh! or that?" said the doctor, who had removed Tom's waistcoat, and was poking him about in the side with his fat fore-finger. "Ugh!" ejaculated Tom, as Aesculapius bore rather heavily on a tender spot in his ribs, but he took no further notice of his enquiries, for he was gazing up into Lizzie's anxious face; unless you take a murmured "Lizzie, my darling," spoken so softly that only one person heard it, as an answer to the doctor's questions. "Speak, you young rascal! You can speak well enough; I heard you, you rogue. Bless my soul! I heard you." Tom laughed faintly, and a little pink colour came into Lizzie's face. "I'm all right, doctor, thanks. I'll be well in a minute." He made an effort to rise, as the others gathered around, and a perfect gabble of questions without answers ensued. "I'm all right;" but his head fell back again in Lizzie's lap, and a dead-like pallor once more overspread his face. Tom's actions belied his words. He was not by any means all right. Two of his ribs were broken by the heavy shot, nearly the size of slugs, that the young imp, Sir Mortimer had loaded his gun with; and if Tom had been hit on the left side, it would have been a case of _requiescat in pace_ for him and all his troubles. As it was, he would be laid up for some time, perhaps for months. The doctor saw this, and interrupted the old campaigner, as she was saying for Lizzie's especial benefit, in her honeyed accents, which had a concealed sting beneath them--"How very sad! What a very charming picture; but if I were a young girl--"