Before the physician calls see that the room is tidy and the place well arranged. Of course we can do our business as well in a coal-cellar as in a palace. But you have no idea what a difference it makes to yourself and your patient if the physician is not inconvenienced in any way. We are all human, and if we see that the nurse is doing her best to make her patient comfortable, it stimulates us to do all that we possibly can. And if the nurse is an amateur, and we see that she is giving her whole attention to her work, we are more likely to relieve and instruct her as far as lies in our power. If when we call we see the room is in disorder, with stale food about the place and signs of negligence on the part of the nurse, we are inclined to get away as soon as possible, knowing that whatever we order stands a very fair chance of remaining undone. One last word. You have a very great advantage over trained nurses in that, as you are related to the invalid, you can cheer him, you can read to him, and generally comfort him. We have nothing to say against trained nurses. In some diseases the help of a woman skilled in nursing is essential. What we want to do is to impress upon every woman the fact that it may become her duty to nurse her relative or friend, and that, if she will put her whole mind into the work, she will be as competent to nurse invalids through most diseases as are her specially skilled sisters. SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE. A STORY FOR GIRLS. BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc. CHAPTER IX. A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE. To explain what had occurred, and how that terrible cry had arisen, it is necessary to describe what had been passing in the large hall whilst the tableaux were going on upstairs. The stalls of the bazaar were by that time pretty well empty, and made fine seats for the crowd of little people waiting eagerly to watch the antics of the performing dogs. Numbers of grown-up people, unable to get into the “theatre,” as it was dubbed for the nonce, remained to take care of the little ones, and the middle of the floor was left clear for the showman and his troupe. This, like most other of the entertainments, was an amateur affair, the showman being a young man of fallen fortunes, who, from his love for animals, had taken to the training of performing dogs, sometimes making money by them, but always ready to lend his services for a good cause. One of the cleverest of his dogs was a black poodle, half clipped and half shaggy, and he did wonderful things, as did also a big fox-terrier, his special friend and comrade. One of their accomplishments was to strike a match and light their pipes, and this feat was so applauded that it was repeated. Somehow—nobody of course could say how or why—a spark from the match or the pipe settled in the poodle’s glossy coat, and, as it so chanced, his master had lately used a wash for it having some paraffin in its composition.