At the end of eighteen months the girl packed up her trunk, and left home to pay a dull visit to a great-aunt. "Don't expect me to write letters," she said to her family at parting, and the family groaned in chorus, and cried: "Please, don't! It's quite enough for one of us to be victimised. Spare us the echoes of Aunt Eliza! Just send a postcard when you're coming back." Great-aunt Eliza was a daunting old lady who prided herself upon speaking the truth. "Goodness! How you have gone off," was the first remark which she hurled at her great-niece's head, after the conventional greetings had been exchanged. She poured out a cup of strong, stewed tea, and offered a slice of leathery muffin. "And you used to be quite nice looking!" Juliet smiled with the laboured brightness of a wallflower in a ballroom, and said, but did not for a moment mean: "I'm growing old, Aunt Eliza." "You are, my dear," agreed Aunt Eliza. "Twenty-eight, is it, or twenty-nine? And three other girls at home. Pity you haven't married! Your father will have precious little to leave." Juliet, who was twenty-six, and had never had a real definite proposal, smiled more laboriously than before, but the muffin tasted bitter as gall. On the third day of the visit, Aunt Eliza read a letter at the breakfast-table, and said suavely: "I shall have to curtail your visit, my dear! Cousin Maria Phillips writes that she is in the neighbourhood, and wishes to come over to see me. I can't refuse to receive Maria, but two guests would upset the servants. You must come again later on. Perhaps there are some other friends you would like to visit?" Juliet replied haughtily that there were many other friends. When would Aunt Eliza wish-- "Oh, there's no hurry. Perhaps to-morrow," said the old lady calmly. "This afternoon, my dear, I want you to go to the hospital for me. I distribute flowers in the Mary Wright Ward every Thursday, but I have a slight cold to-day, and daren't venture out. Be ready by three, and the brougham will take you there. You can walk home." At half-past three o'clock, therefore, Juliet entered the long bare stretch of the Mary Wright Ward, dedicated to female surgical cases, and passed from bed to bed, distributing little bunches of drooping flowers affixed to little white cards inscribed with texts. The patients accorded but a lukewarm welcome to these offerings, but were unaffectedly pleased to welcome the handsome girl whose coming made a break in the monotonous day. Some of the patients were sitting upright against their pillows, progressed so far towards convalescence as to be able to enjoy a chat; others could only give a wan smile of acknowledgment; at the extreme end of the ward the sight of a screened-off bed told its own sad tale. The woman in the nearest occupied bed related the story in a stage aside.