“Well, I can’t tell you that, Stubbins, but if you like I will get a clever doctor I know to see her, and tell us all about the case; but my advice to you, from what I know of St. Bernard’s, is to get her away at once. If the operation must be done, we will find some other hospital, after we have tried what we can do with less severe means.” Visions of similar cases crowded in upon the good Sister’s recollection—of eviscerated creatures in whom no tumour was discovered to remove; of cases where, on the post-mortem table, sponges, and even instruments, had been discovered carelessly sown up in the patients after operation, and had caused their deaths. Had not Dr. Stanforth ever after said, with a look full of meaning, when about to perform this operation, “Count your sponges, sister!” Mrs. Stubbins discharged herself from St. Bernard’s without waiting for further treatment, and actually recovered her health perfectly, unassisted even by “still waters.” She always declares that her doctors were like “Helen’s Babies,” who wanted to see the “wheels go round,” and was glad they had not gratified their curiosity on her “works.” Poor woman! she forgave them the wrong they had intended to do her, for in common with her class she believed it was somehow meant for her good, only “they are so fond of hacking folks about at them places.” Good-natured creatures, they sacrifice their poor skins, organs, and limbs, usually with generosity, when a great institution requires it, though the general practitioner cannot touch them with a lancet without protest. It is the _éclat_ does the business. One day an old pavior smashed his hand. The surgeons at St. Bernard’s wanted to remove three fingers. Not before he had been to see Sister Agnes, he thought. Sister Agnes went in for conservative surgery, and told him to refuse his consent. How often had she known a simple method of dressing save the digits in such a case. In three months the man had the complete use of his hand as before the accident, but that didn’t console the house surgeon, whose fingers had itched “to make a neat little job of it.” The pavior was so grateful to the Sister for her advice that he begged her acceptance of his favourite linnet in a nice cage. CHAPTER XXXII. THE RISE OF NIGHTINGALE HOSPITAL. Heaven must be won, not dreamed; thy task is set, Peace was not made for earth, nor rest for thee. _Lyra Apostolica._