thankfully receive it, and believe me, if you do not go to your
patient with a feeling of thankfulness to God for allowing you to
assume such a sacred trust as the care of a human life, you are in
no condition to undertake the work. Your nursing should be, in a
way, an exponent of your own spiritual state; looking at it in its
highest aspect, an outward and visible sign of an inward and
spiritual grace.

In the first place, then, you must be in entire sympathy with the
sick one--and here do not mistake me--by sympathy I do not mean
sentimentalism. The two emotions are as far asunder as the poles.
Sympathy, then, you must have, and if you do not intuitively feel
it, let me tell you what to do to rouse your dormant feelings. Try
earnestly to put yourself in the patient's place. Has she had an
operation of some kind, and you have all night been trying to keep
her quiet on her back, and she has been begging you to let her
turn "never so little?" When you go to lie down, and have,
perhaps, a backache, and feel tired, instead of settling yourself
in the most comfortable position you can, lie straight and square
on your back and say to yourself, "Now I can't turn over," and
imagine you have by your side a nurse who will not let you turn.
You will find out in the course of an hour that your patient has
had a good excuse for all her complaints, and the next night you
will know just where to slip your hand in the hollow of the back
or under the shoulders to give a little ease. The patient will
profit by such exercise on the part of the nurse, and your
sympathies will be quickened. Never forget that _the patient is
sick_, and you are _not_. You can, you must be firm in what
you know is for your patient's best good, but you must never
be dictatorial or argumentative. It is hard, I know, to bear with