Let our Master be able to say some day that every one of the Patients has been the better, not only in body but in spirit--whether going to life or to death--for having been nursed by each one of you. * * * * * But one is gone, perhaps the dearest of all--Nurse Martha Rice. I was the last to see her in England. She was so pleased to be going to Miss Machin at Montreal. She said it was no sacrifice, except the leaving her parents. She almost wished it had been, that she might have had something to give to God. Now she _has_ had something to give to God: her life. “So young, so happy: all so happy together, when in their room they were always sitting round the table, so cheerful, reading their Bible together. She walked round the garden so happy that last night.” So pure and fresh: there was something of the sweet savour of holiness about her. I could tell you of souls upon whom she made a great impression: all unknowing: simply by being herself. A noble sort of girl: sound and holy in mind and heart: living with God. It is scarcely respectful to say how I liked her, now she is an angel in heaven; like a child to Miss Machin, who was like a mother to her, loved and nursed her day and night. “So dear and bright a creature,” “liked and respected by every one in the Hospital,” “and, as a Nurse, hardly too much can be said in her favour.” “To the Doctors, Patients, and Superintendent, she was simply invaluable.” “The contrast between these Nurses and the best of others is to be keenly felt daily”; “doing bravely”; “perfectly obedient and pleasant to their Superintendent.” Was Martha conceited with all this? She was one of the simplest humblest Christian women I have ever known. All noble souls are simple, natural, and humble. Let us be like her, and, like her, not conceited with it all. She was too brave to be conceited: too brave not to be humble. _She_ had trained herself for the battle. “With a nice, genial, respectful manner, which never left her, great firmness in duty, and steadiness that rendered her above suspicion”: “happy and interested in her charge.” More above all petty calculations about self, all paltry wranglings, than almost any. How different for us, for her, had it not been so! Could we have mourned her as we do? The others of the small Montreal staff who miss her so terribly will like to hear how we feel this. They were all with her when she died. Miss Machin sat up with her every night, and either she or Miss Blower never left her, day or night, during the last nine days of her illness. She died of typhoid fever: peritonitis the last three weeks; but, as she had survived so long, they hoped against hope up to Easter Day. About seven days before her death, during her delirium, she said: “The Lord has two wills: His will be done.” It is when we do not know what God’s will is to be, that it is the hardest to will what He wills.