‘Father never gives beggars anything,’ said a little boy to one of the fraternity in a small country town; ‘but he always prays for them.’
We may show a stern face to the tramp; but once inside a hospital we give him something more than prayers—proper food, trained nursing, the best science that can be procured for love or money. Comforts, nay, luxuries, he could never procure for himself. Indeed, in all desirable respects, he is as well off as a millionaire.
But to return to our Sally, lying there calmly in her clean bed, in a long and lofty ward, apparently indifferent to all external things, simply satisfied with life such as it was.
‘A lady has come to see you,’ said the doctor, in his pleasant tones, ‘A lady from Sloville.’
‘Take her away. I am that bad I can’t speak to her.’
‘Are you quite sure you don’t want to see her? She says you sent her a letter to come.’
‘No, it warn’t me. It was that Sloville woman as was here last week. I told her not to bother, and now she’s gone and done it.’
A fit of coughing came, and conversation ceased.
Then the nurse administered a little stimulus, and that revived her.
‘Leave us alone,’ said the poor woman.