The first “real live patient” of the future Queen of Nurses was Cap, the dog of an old Scotch shepherd, and although the story has been many times repeated since Florence Nightingale’s name became a household word, no account of her childhood would be complete without it. One day Florence was having a delightful ride over the Hampshire downs near Embley along with the vicar, for whom she had a warm affection. He took great interest in the little girl’s fondness for anything which had to do with the relief of the sick or injured, and as his own tastes lay in that direction, he was able to give her much useful instruction. However, on this particular day, as they rode along the downs, they noticed the sheep scattered in all directions and old Roger, the shepherd, vainly trying to collect them together. “Where is your dog?” asked the vicar as he drew up his horse and watched the old man’s futile efforts. “The boys have been throwing stones at him, sir,” was the reply, “and they have broken his leg, poor beast. He will never be any good for anything again and I am thinking of putting an end to his misery.” “Poor Cap’s leg broken?” said a girlish voice at the clergyman’s side. “Oh, cannot we do something for him, Roger? It is cruel to leave him alone in his pain. Where is he?” “You can’t do any good, missy,” said the old shepherd sorrowfully. “I’ll just take a cord to him to-night--that will be the best way to ease his pain. I left him lying in the shed over yonder.” “Oh, can’t we do something for poor Cap?” pleaded Florence to her friend; and the vicar, seeing the look of pity in her young face, turned his horse’s head towards the distant shed where the dog lay. But Florence put her pony to the gallop and reached the shed first. Kneeling down on the mud floor, she caressed the suffering dog with her little hand, and spoke soothing words to it until the faithful brown eyes seemed to have less of pain in them and were lifted to her face in pathetic gratitude. That look of the shepherd’s dog, which touched her girlish heart on the lonely hillside, Florence Nightingale was destined to see repeated in the eyes of suffering men as she bent over them in the hospital at Scutari. The vicar soon joined his young companion, and finding that the dog’s leg was only injured, not broken, he decided that a little careful nursing would put him all right again. “What shall I do first?” asked Florence, all eagerness to begin nursing in real earnest. “Well,” said her friend, “I should advise a hot compress on Cap’s leg.”