For the first few days the illness took a normal course, and anxiety, though real, was not acute; but on the fourth day strength failed noticeably, and oxygen was ordered to help the clogged lungs to work. At first it was given every two hours, then hourly, then every half-hour, and every woman who knows anything about nursing understands what _that_ means, plus doses of brandy, struggles to pour as much milk as possible down an unwilling throat, and a constant taking of pulse and temperature, to say nothing of hypodermic injections at those awful moments when there seems no pulse to feel. It means that no one woman, be she ever so competent, can keep up the fight single-handed for twelve hours at a stretch, and that an understudy to work under her may mean the very turning of the scale. I have been understudy by night, and proud I am to record that Nurse proclaims me unusually "handy" for a member of the "laity". Hour after hour we have fought together for the little darling's life, while he lay unconscious against the piled cushions, a waxen image, unrecognisable as the bonnie curly-headed Billie we had loved. We racked our brains to think of new means and new contrivances to fight the ever-increasing danger. With the aid of screens and a sheet we contrived a tent over his cot, through a hole in which the elongated cardboard funnel of the steam-kettle could enter and give increased relief to the breathing. We made mustard poultices with white of egg instead of water, to save needless irritation of the skin; we used the French expedient of putting quinine pads under the armpits to reduce the terrible temperature. Nurse was indefatigable--a miracle of energy and resource--but through all her anxiety and tenderness for the little patient, it was impossible not to recognise the keen professional zest in a "good case." "Give me a bad pneumonia, and I'm happy!" said she, frankly, and she meant what she said.