"Quite out of her head, poor thing. Her fever is very high."
"We must have the doctor," said the other. "She looks like a very sick girl."
"That she certainly is. She slept, under the opiate, but kept starting, and frowning, and muttering in her sleep; and this morning she waked quite wild."
"She must have got dreadfully chilled, walking so late in the street—so poorly clad, too!"
With this brief conversation, the second sister assumed her place by the bedside, and the first went to get some rest in her own room.
As day grew brighter, the singing of the matins in the chapel came floating up in snatches; and the sick girl listened to it with the same dazed and confused air of inquiry with which she looked on all around.
"Who is singing," she said to herself. "It's pretty, and good. But how came I here? I was so cold, so cold—out there!—and now it's so hot. Oh, my head! my head!"
A few hours later, Mr. St. John called at the Refuge to inquire after the new inmate.
Mr. St. John was one of the patrons of the Sisters. He had contributed liberally to the expenses of the present establishment, and stood at all times ready to assist with influence and advice.