Into the young woman’s face, which is honest and comely, comes a flush as she replies:  “There is neither grown person nor child in all the large establishment that I belong to, who hasn’t a good word for Sally.  I am Sally.  Could I be so well thought of, if I was to be bought?”

“I do not mean to buy you; I mean only to reward you very slightly.”

Sally firmly, but not ungently, closes and puts back the offering hand.  “If there is anything I can do for you, ma’am, that I will not do for its own sake, you are much mistaken in me if you think that I will do it for money.  What is it you want?”

“You are one of the nurses or attendants at the Hospital; I saw you leave to-night and last night.”

“Yes, I am.  I am Sally.”

“There is a pleasant patience in your face which makes me believe that very young children would take readily to you.”

“God bless ’em!  So they do.”

The lady lifts her veil, and shows a face no older than the nurse’s.  A face far more refined and capable than hers, but wild and worn with sorrow.

“I am the miserable mother of a baby lately received under your care.  I have a prayer to make to you.”

Instinctively respecting the confidence which has drawn aside the veil, Sally—­whose ways are all ways of simplicity and spontaneity—­replaces it, and begins to cry.

“You will listen to my prayer?” the lady urges.  “You will not be deaf to the agonised entreaty of such a broken suppliant as I am?”

“O dear, dear, dear!” cries Sally.  “What shall I say, or can say!  Don’t talk of prayers.  Prayers are to be put up to the Good Father of All, and not to nurses and such.  And there!  I am only to hold my place for half a year longer, till another young woman can be trained up to it.  I am going to be married.  I shouldn’t have been out last night, and I shouldn’t have been out to-night, but that my Dick (he is the young man I am going to be married to) lies ill, and I help his mother and sister to watch him.  Don’t take on so, don’t take on so!”

“O good Sally, dear Sally,” moans the lady, catching at her dress entreatingly.  “As you are hopeful, and I am hopeless; as a fair way in life is before you, which can never, never, be before me; as you can aspire to become a respected wife, and as you can aspire to become a proud mother, as you are a living loving woman, and must die; for god’s sake hear my distracted petition!”

“Deary, deary, deary me!” cries Sally, her desperation culminating in the pronoun, “what am I ever to do?  And there!  See how you turn my own words back upon me.  I tell you I am going to be married, on purpose to make it clearer to you that I am going to leave, and therefore couldn’t help you if I would, Poor Thing, and you make it seem to my own self as if I was cruel in going to be married and not helping you.  It ain’t kind.  Now, is it kind, Poor Thing?”