arm. The roses that the flower-girls had thrown me are in water and
within handstretch. They seem almost persons and curiously
sacred--symbols of all the heroism and kindness that has ministered to
me every step of the journey. It's a good little war I think to
myself. Then, with the green smell of England in my nostrils and the
rumbling of London in my ears, like conversation below stairs, I
drowse off into the utter contentment of the first deep sleep I have
had since I was wounded.

I am roused all too soon by some one sticking a thermometer into my
mouth. Rubbing my eyes, I consult my watch. Half-past five! Rather
early! Raising myself stealthily, I catch a glimpse of a neat little
sister darting down the ward from bed to bed, tent-pegging every
sleeping face with a fresh thermometer. Having made the round, back
she comes to take possession of my hand while she counts my pulse. I
try to speak, but she won't let me remove the accursed thermometer;
when she has removed it herself, off she goes to the next bed. I
notice that she has auburn hair, merry blue eyes and a ripping Irish
accent. I learn later that she's a Sinn Feiner, a sworn enemy to
England who sings "Dark Rosaleen" and other rebel songs in the secret
watches of the night. It seems to me that in taking care of England's
wounded she's solving the Irish problem pretty well.

Heavens, she's back again, this time with a bowl of water and a towel!
Very severely and thoroughly, as though I were a dirty urchin, she
scrubs my face and hands. She even brushes my hair. I watch her do the
same for other patients, some of whom are Colonels and old enough to
be her father. She's evidently in no mood for proposals of marriage at
this early hour, for her technique is impartially severe to everybody,
though her blue eyes are unfailingly laughing.