But, if she was on pleasure bent, Mrs. St. John Deloraine had also, not only a kind heart, but a practical mind. In five minutes she had heard the tragic history, had dried her eyes, torn off her wig, and settled herself as nurse by the bedside of Margaret. The girl’s wound, as Barton was happily able to assure her, was by no means really dangerous; for the point of the weapon had been turned, and had touched no vital part. But the prodigious force with which the blow had followed on a scene of violent reproaches and insane threats (described by one of the young women) had affected most perilously a constitution already weakened by sickness and trouble. Mrs. St. John Deloraine, assisted by the most responsible of _The Bun-house_ girls, announced her intention to, sit up all night with the patient. Barton--who was moved, perhaps, as much by the beauty of the girl, and by the excitement of the events, as by professional duty--remained in attendance till nearly dawn, when the Lady Superior insisted that he should go home and take some rest. As the danger for the patient was not immediate, but lay in the chances of fever, Barton allowed himself to be persuaded, and, at about five in the morning, he let himself out of _The Bunhouse_, and made sleepily for his lodgings. But sleep that night was to be a stranger to him, and his share of adventures--which, like sorrows, never “come as single spies, but in battalions”--was by no means exhausted. The night, through which the first glimpse of dawn just peered, was extremely cold; and Barton, who had left his great-coat in the _Hit or Miss_, stamped his way homeward, his hands deep in his pockets, his hat tight on his head, and with his pipe for company.