In his despair he sent the lady in the direction of the women’s ward, and there her difficulties began anew. There were many poor suffering ones in the women’s wards. How could they tell where was the one she sought? As she was waiting, one of the staff came downstairs. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed; ‘Miss Howard, how came you here?’ He knew the actress, and at once rushed to rescue her from the dilemma. Rose had little to go by. The note had been sent from Sloville. It was clear that someone connected with Sloville was lying ill—perhaps dying—there. Under the guidance of one of the nurses she went softly from one bed to another. One nurse after another was appealed to. At length one was found who had the charge of a case in one of the wards. Her patient had at times spoken of the town in question; but she was ill, very ill, and the nurse was afraid any excitement might be fatal. When the medical man in charge of the case was consulted he shook his head despairingly. The thread of life was nearly worn out. A woman from Sloville had been there to see her, and the little talk between the two had considerably increased the patient’s danger. Originally the woman in question had been run over by a cab outside one of the theatres. Her constitution was entirely gone, and the injuries inflicted on the system had been serious. After three months’ nursing she had been sufficiently healed to leave the hospital, and had led a more or less wandering life. Then she had gone down hop-picking in Kent; had caught cold; that cold had settled on her lungs. There was no earthly hope for her, and there she lay, wrestling not for dear life, but with grim death. But there was no immediate danger. Good nursing and tender care might lengthen her days for a short season. ‘If Miss Howard would return to-morrow, the doctor would try and get her into a proper state for a little talk.’ ‘I would rather see her now,’ said the lady. ‘Impossible, madam; quite impossible, madam,’ said the medico, and Rose had reluctantly to retire. ‘Surely I have enough on hand,’ said she to herself, ‘if all the note hints is true. People said when I left the stage I should find life tame and dull. I have not found it so at present. I believe no life is tame and dull if one is determined to make the most of it. After she had left the stage, Mrs. Siddons, from the want of excitement, was never happy. I am not a Mrs. Siddons, happily,’ said the retired actress to herself. The morning came, and Rose was again at the hospital. The medical man was there to meet her, and they went together to the patient’s bedside. In that emaciated face, purified by disease from its former grossness, few would have recognised ‘our Sally.’ We are a merciful people. Let our tramps live as they may, we take good care of them in our hospitals. ‘Father never gives beggars anything,’ said a little boy to one of the fraternity in a small country town; ‘but he always prays for them.’