Sister Agnes often said she had observed in Elsworth traits that promised a great and useful man, and she was always unwilling to believe that he had gone wrong in any way. For many months past she had found difficulties in her work at St. Bernard’s in consequence of the growing dissatisfaction she felt at the conduct of most of the doctors who attended her patients. It pained her and roused her indignation that needless and dangerous things were constantly done to patients who had no idea of their import, and who would have protested with all their might if the opportunity had been given them. Valuable lives of patients who had become her friends had been sacrificed to the growing taste for novelty in methods and instruments, daily introduced from all parts of the world. What one man had done in Berlin must be imitated here, and what had proved fatal in New York was tried at St. Bernard’s in the hope of better success and the increased reputation of the operator. One man extirpated one organ and one another; one resected this and another that, till poor Sister Agnes began to wonder what, and if any, part of the frame would ultimately claim exemption from the rage for taking it away. And she was expected to do her part in paving the road for all these mutilations. The wiser she grew, and the more she learned of her business, the more she saw that much, if not most, of all this was not for the patient’s good; and no wonder she began to rebel. She was brought principally in contact with Dr. Stanforth, who was the chief physician of the women’s wards. Not alone did she object to his professional methods, but the manner he used in the wards. It was neither useful nor expedient for Dr. Stanforth to regale his class, in the presence of herself and nurses, with his most salacious anecdotes, his coarse allusions and indecent jokes. Some patients no doubt enjoyed them, but these were a minority which should have been made better instead of worse by living in the hospital. To most, however, these things were painful in the extreme. It required better health and stronger nerves than the women generally possessed to cope with Dr. Stanforth and his rollicking lads. The valley of the shadow of death is an ill place for satyric abominations. The sympathetic nerves of the poor sister’s face were too habituated to Dr. Stanforth’s little ways to cause her cheeks to flush at all of their manifestations, but there were times when her indignation would make her turn away with her note-book and inkstand, and remove out of earshot. At such times the funny man would apologise in a way which only made matters worse, and she would often wonder in her own mind how much longer she could or ought to be a party to these improprieties. CHAPTER XXVII. “ANOTHER PATIENT, SISTER!” He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb.—_Tennyson._