“I know of terrible things which Sister Agnes has told me,” said Aunt Janet; “and I am afraid more goes on than even she knows. Your father told me of a case of puerperal fever which was clearly one of licensed murder. He protested, but in vain. A poor woman recently confined was suffering from hyperpyrexia, which no drugs would abate. The physician in charge had become enamoured of the iced-water-bath treatment, and the wretched woman was the first victim at St. Bernard’s to the new fad. She was kept for four hours a day in the cold water at her bedside. When she died, her relatives all protested she was murdered.” “That must have discredited the treatment rather.” “Not at all; they persevered in ‘giving the thing a fair trial.’ The Germans invented it, and said it was very effectual in bringing down high temperatures. At St. Bernard’s, it brought the patients down, and the doctors could not bring them up again: and, as all the cases died, the authorities stopped the experiments; but some of the physicians declare to this day, I believe, that ‘there was something in it, after all.’ Mr. Crowe was very strongly in favour of it; he said it was physiologically right, and therefore must be so medically.” “But perhaps the patients would all have died, any way,” said Mildred. “Very likely; but what cruel torture in your last moments to be served like that!” “Yes, that is the horrible part of the business. At an hospital, you cannot even die in peace; you are in danger of being the subject of some ghastly medical freak while there is a gasp left in you.” “Yet, as the doctor must necessarily be an autocrat in his treatment, I don’t see how you can interfere with him,” mused Aunt Janet. “Oh, can’t you! Do you think they would dare do such things in a parish infirmary? What a pretty storm there would be if our Mr. Hilbourne, for instance, heard of such things at St. Mark’s Workhouse! Don’t you think the doctors content themselves with using the best of their already acquired knowledge there?” asked Mildred. “Yet, the poor think much more highly of hospital than of infirmary treatment.” “Naturally. It is drummed into them a hundred times a day by everybody in the place, that everything is being done for their benefit. Papa told me of ‘a very pretty knee case’ which had been fourteen months in the wards, merely because it was an object of surgical interest, and was the subject of a monograph.” “Your scheme, I fear, would not provide for monographs!” “I fear you think I am very quixotic, aunt.” “No, dear; you are not tilting at windmills, but at real dragons, which I am afraid are much too strong for you! But we must think it over. Dr. Graves is a good, sensible man, and though of course wrapped up in the conventionalism of his class is still open to reason. You will want more armour, and a sharper sword than Isabella’s for this fight, I am thinking.”