Dr. Oleander had spent a most harassing afternoon, his office besieged with applicants for that advertised situation.  The number of incapables that thought themselves capable, and the number of capables who flatly declined the moment they heard they were to go down into the country, might have worn out the patience of a more patient man.  And the capables willing to overlook the dreariness of the country in consideration of high wages rose up immediately and bid him good-day when informed the patient was a lunatic.

Dr. Oleander was driven to the verge of desperation, when, lo! just as he was about to give it up in despair, there entered an applicant who suited as if made to order.

The applicant—­this “last, and brightest, and best”—­was a woman of uncertain age, tall and stout, strong and strapping, and adorned with a head of violent red hair and a pair of green spectacles.  Minus these two disagreeable items, she was a highly respectable woman, with a grave, shrewd face, and a portly person wrapped in a somber plaid shawl.

She stated her case.  She had seen the advertisement, and had come to apply for the situation.  She was accustomed to the office of sick-nurse, and considered herself fully qualified for it.

Her statement was plain and straightforward—­much more so than that of her predecessors.  Dr. Oleander was inclined to be pleased, despite the green spectacles.

“But I should wish you to go into the country—­a very dull place indeed.”

The applicant folded her cotton gloves one over the other, and met the doctor’s gaze with composed green glasses.

“The country is no objection, sir.  I’m used to quiet, and all places are alike to me.”

“You have your credentials with you, I suppose?”

“I have, sir.  Here they are.”

She handed two or three certificates of capability to the toxicologist.

He glanced them lightly over, and saw that Mrs. Susan Sharpe was all that heart could desire in the way of sick-nurse.

“These are satisfactory,” handing them back.  “But I have one fact to mention that may discourage you:  the lady—­the patient—­is insane.”

Mrs. Susan Sharpe heard this startling statement without moving a muscle of her dull, white face.

“Indeed, sir!  A violent lunatic, sir?”

“Oh, dear, no! merely insane.  Subject to occasional fits of violence, you understand, but quiet generally.  But even in her most violent fits she would be nothing in your hands—­a strong, large woman like you.  She is little more than a child in years, and quite a child in weakness.  If you don’t mind the dullness of the country, you would suit admirably, I think.”

“I don’t in the least mind, sir.  The situation will suit me very well.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said the doctor, immensely relieved.  “We may consider it a bargain, then?”

“If you please, sir,” rising quietly.  “When will you want me to go?”