“Ah, yes, of course,” said Nurse Brown, nodding and smiling encouragingly.  “And you feel shy and nervous; but, if you only knew it, you are better off here than you would be anywhere else; you have the very best surgeons in the world—­we are awfully proud of them; and, though I ought not to say it, the best of nursing.  You are watched night and day, and you get the least wee little thing you want if it’s good for you.  I daresay you won’t care to stay here, but will like to be taken away as soon as you are well enough to be moved; for, of course, we all know that you are a lady.  Oh, it isn’t the first time we have had a lady in the ward.  A great many of them come down here ‘slumming,’ and sometimes they get run over, as you have been, or they fall down some of the dark and rickety stairs, or hurt themselves in some other way—­it’s wonderful what a choice of accidents you can have in this busy and crowded part of London.”

After a pause she went on: 

“Of course you will go away as soon as you can; but it’s a pity, it really is; you’re ever so much better off here, and you’d soon get used to the other people in the ward, though they are of a different class to yourself.  But though most of them are very poor and some of them are usually rough when they are at home, it is wonderfully how patient they are—­you will scarcely ever hear a murmur; only a sigh now and again—­and they are so grateful that sometimes they bring the tears to your eyes, and it’s quite hard to part from them when they get well and are discharged.  But I really mustn’t talk to you any more,” she murmured, penitently, and the soft, placid voice ceased.

Ida looked round the ward, her heart beating as fast as her condition would allow.  As Nurse Brown had said, she felt terribly strange and nervous in the long, whitewashed ward which, however, was rendered cheerful enough by the dozens of pictures from illustrated papers, which had been fastened to the walls, and by the vases and great bowls of flowers which seemed to occupy every suitable spot.

She closed her eyes and tried to think; but she fell asleep instead and dreamt that she had fallen off Rupert and was lying on the moss beside the river, quite comfortable and most absurdly content.  When she woke the sister was standing beside her, and nodded with cheerful approval.

“That’s better, Miss Heron,” she said.  “It is quite pleasant to watch you asleep and not to hear you rambling.”

Ida’s face flushed.

“Have I been rambling?” she asked.  “What have I said?  You know my name!”

The nurse smiled.

“Your things are marked,” she explained.  “But there was no address, nothing which could help us to communicate with your friends, or we would have done so.  You will tell us where to send now, will you not?”

Ida blushed again and felt troubled.  Why should she annoy and worry the Herons?  She shuddered slightly as she pictured her cousin John standing beside the bed where the sweet and pleasant-faced sister now stood, and preaching at her.  They would want to take her back to Loburnum Villa; and Ida regarded the prospect of return to that cheerful abode of the Christian virtues as a prisoner might regard the prospect of returning to his gaol.  The sister regarded her keenly without appearing to do so.