I remember once, in Buenos Ayres, seeing tears come to the eyes of an old Bohemian of Fleet Street, who had for years been dwelling in that city of pellucid atmosphere, when one winter evening a genuine English mistiness made its appearance for a while, reminding that home-sick exile of his dear dingy city of the far Northern island. This was by no means the first time that the doctor had walked home with Mary. A mutual liking had for some time existed between them; but so far the keenest observer could not have detected, in a word or look of either, any signs of serious affection, if such existed. They were not a demonstrative couple, and did not carry their hearts on their sleeves as Sister Susan seemed to do. The doctor would speak to her in a calm respectful way, paying only those attentions a well-bred man always pays to a young woman. She, very much on her guard when with him, affected a manner that would have repulsed many less earnest admirers. She would be cold, curt almost to rudeness, and went so far as to assume, at times, a flippant cynicism, which she was far from feeling. But the soft languor of this November afternoon seemed to have entered into the girl's soul; and during this particular walk her power of putting on such defensive affectations failed her for once. Said the doctor: "What a strange girl that Miss Riley is; I cannot make her out at all." "She is a very good nurse," replied Mary. "Excellent; but she is different from all I have ever seen. She shows none of the nervousness, the more or less concealed repugnance, all other girls exhibit at the commencement of this unpleasant training." "She is kind to the patients." "Oh, yes! She in a way is the kindest of you all. She is never awkward. She sets to work in such a business-like way, and is so quick and deft. She is so free from nervousness that she inflicts a minimum of pain on a patient. She would make a splendid surgeon. But she seems to have no feeling for them, or, at any rate, conceals it as no novice ever did before. I have seen her assisting at a horrible surgical case, and she looked as calm, even absent-minded, over it, as if it had been a case of gardening, trimming and pruning plants, and not poor human flesh." "I wish I was like her: I am very stupid and nervous sometimes." "And yet I think I would rather be nursed by you, Miss King." "I don't think it is very charitable of us to be criticising poor Miss Riley behind her back," said Mary, wishing to turn the conversation. "Of us! Of me you mean. I am the only culprit. You have been generously taking up the cudgels in her defence. But we will change the subject. I have heard nothing of your aunt for some time. May I ask how she is?" "My aunt! Oh, Mrs. King! She is very well indeed, thank you, Dr. Duncan; but I did not know you were even aware of her existence."