WAS Sister in a large male surgical ward of a well-known hospital in the North of England at the time when the following incident occurred.
A few months previously one of those disastrous colliery explosions, only too common in our neighbourhood, had taken place, and eight of the men, poor fellows, all badly injured, had been brought into the Martin ward. We all had a heavy time of it, and our house-surgeon—never very strong—had completely broken down under the strain of his devoted attention to his patients.
He had the satisfaction of seeing all the cases (with one exception) fairly started on the road to convalescence before he too came on the sick list, and was ordered absolute rest for several months. No man ever deserved a rest more than he.
By his constant and unwearied labours of love he had earned the blessing pronounced on Abou Ben Adhem as "one who loved his fellow men." We all greatly missed his cheery presence in the wards, and felt small interest in the doctor who came as his "locum," feeling sure that no one could take his place.
Dr. Freston, the temporary house-surgeon, however, made a favourable impression on his arrival, and soon showed that he thoroughly knew his work. He had a quiet, reserved manner, and we had worked together some days before I learned anything more about him. Then an accident, if there is such a thing, showed me the real man. One evening, on going his rounds, I reported a new case just come in, to him. It was a man who had been found lying in the road. He had evidently fallen against the curb-stone, and had received a scalp wound. That he was a stranger in the town was proved by some papers in his pocket, showing him to have been discharged from a sailing vessel at Hull a few days previously.
"I have not made out his history yet," I said, "he seems to be very poor, and apparently has no friends."
"No friends," repeated Dr. Freston, with an expression I had not seen on his face before. "Very few of us realise what those words mean, Sister. It means more than mere friendlessness. It means a man's life without any influence for good upon it—no restraint to keep him from sinking to the lowest depths. No anchor to hold him back from suffering shipwreck on the rocks which surround us all. Some seen, and some hidden ones more dangerous than all. No—." He seemed to have forgotten he was speaking to me, and remembering, checked himself.
"We see so many of such lives in our work," I said.
"Yes," he said slowly and absently, as if his thoughts were far away, "it must always be a sad sight, even if those who suffer are utter strangers to us."
He paused, then turned round to face me, and spoke more quickly, as if he wished to force himself to say something.
"To me it is the most painful sight of all, because I am haunted by the feeling that somewhere in this world there may
