Salome had now ample means at her command, for Miss Leonard had taken a generous letter of credit when she went abroad, and before her death she had made this over to her companion. More than that, she had written to her lawyer that she had not long to live and directed him to honor any call which Salome might make upon him for needful funds. It would be impossible to estimate the amount of good which she accomplished in that plague-smitten city. She was in perfect health; her voyage and subsequent travel, with its pleasant, varying scenes, its comfort and freedom from anxiety, had been of great benefit to her, and she had grown strong and active, and was thus well fortified for the work into which she threw herself. Every day she went to some hospital and devoted many hours to the care of the sick and the relief of the overworked nurses. She visited many homes, where disease was cutting down the brightest and best, while she never refused to relieve poverty and suffering wherever she found them. And so Dr. Winthrop, while he was also devoting himself to similar work, was brought in contact with her in one of the hospitals where he was stationed. He did not recognize her—no one would have, meeting her by chance and disguised as she was—but the first time she saw him in the ward where she happened to be serving, she was so overcome by the shock of the meeting that she nearly fainted, for until that moment she had not a suspicion that he was in Paris. The next day she appeared in the same ward again, but more completely disguised by a pair of double blue spectacles, which so thoroughly concealed her eyes and changed her appearance that those who knew her hardly recognized her. And here she came constantly after that. In spite of the great wrong which she believed she had suffered through Dr. Winthrop, there was yet a strange fascination in being near him. She loved him still, and after learning that he was practising in that hospital she gave up her work in other places, and attached herself permanently to that institution. The observing physician had often noticed and admired the manner in which the gentle nun had ministered to the suffering patients in his ward, and so when his friend, Tillinghast, had been stricken down, he had appealed to her for help in the sore emergency. Later, when his own family fell victims to the dread foe, his confidence in her skill and judgment was so strong he had begged her, as we know, to go to them. Even though he did not dream who she was, though she rarely spoke to him, he felt strangely drawn toward her, as did others also; there was something peculiarly soothing in her quiet presence, and he often found himself watching the motions of her beautiful hands as they so deftly ministered to the comfort of his patients—“blessed hands,” he called them, and truly they were blessed.