She spent six months at the small-pox hospital in 1875; and for a long time she was practically alone there with the patients; the doctors of course came by day, and three of her old patients constantly visited the hospital for the sake of seeing if they could do anything for her; and there were two nearly helpless old women from the workhouse, who were supposed to do part of the work; but she was absolutely alone as regards regular skilful assistance in the nursing and other work. The porter did what he could, showing his devotion by getting up early to scrub and clean for her; but he could hardly ever resist the temptation to go off “on the drink” whenever his wages were paid; on these occasions he would absent himself for four and twenty hours at a time. Once when this had happened, and Sister Dora was quite alone, a delirious patient, a tall, powerful man, flung himself out of bed in the middle of the night, and rushed to the door trying to make his escape. “She had no time for hesitation, but at once grappled with him, all covered as he was with the loathsome disease ... she got him back to bed, and held him there by main force till the doctor arrived in the morning.” One of the trials of her work was that the small-pox patients were nearly all “alive” with vermin; added to this was the horror of the all-pervading smell of pox; in a letter to a friend, Sister Dora spoke of this, and said it was impossible to get away from it. “I taste it in my tea!” For months she never had her bonnet on, or went even as far as the gate; and yet she was able to look back on the time she spent in this hospital as one that had been very much blessed to her. With her High Church feelings about Lent, she wrote cheerfully in the letter already quoted, “Is not this a glorious retreat for me in Lent? I can have no idle chatter.” In another letter, she wrote, “I am still a prisoner, surrounded by my lepers. I do feel so thankful that I came.... I thank God daily for my life here.”