Sister Warwick was one who always felt the full responsibility of the life she had to live. Seven years before, after the governors of the hospital had offered her the coveted position of Sister of one of these hospital wards, she had written to her mother—
"It is very trying work beginning to be a Sister—more so than you can possibly imagine. To feel the whole weight of your domain weighing on you, a family of thirty to care for, and nurses to guide and train, is very appalling, very full of care."
And now, though she was used to her position, if experience was teaching her the wisest way to carry her cares, custom did not lighten them.
To-day she greeted her friend Carden with a smile and a "Good morning! What sort of a night have you had in the ward?"
"All has gone comfortably, Sister, except that Susie and Patty have both been troublesome again."
"Susie fretting for her mother, and Patty crying with the pain?"
"Yes, Sister, and really disturbing the others by being very noisy, poor mites."
"Perhaps there is some naughtiness in their crying. We must think what we can do. And Mrs. 13?"
"She is distinctly weaker, but she says the pain is less. How patient she is!"
And whereas within hospital walls it is the rule, not the exception, for the patients to show touching bravery and endurance in their pain, such an exclamation from a nurse was a special tribute to Mrs. 13's heroism. It was partly because before both Sister and nurse there rose in that moment a picture of what that poor woman's life had been. A dressmaker for some second-rate theatre, she had spent her days with ten or twelve other women in a room without a window, with the gas burning, and only the fireplace for ventilation.