Dora often laughed mockingly here. A man who had a crooked little finger and whose Christian name was Athol! How easy he would be to find!
Dora's work at the hospital could not have been better, and in most ways she was an ideal nurse. Most capable, and with infinite patience, she was always sympathetic towards anyone in suffering, and her nature never hardened by its familiarity with pain, as is unhappily the case with so many of her calling. The patients loved her, and many a fretful child would at once cease its crying only with her, as she held its little hand or stroked the fevered little forehead with her cool white fingers.
Once, when the matron was ill, she picked upon Dora, of all the other nurses, to attend to her. “I feel safe with you, dear,” she smiled. “You've got something
