Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although they

were chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young women coming and

going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There were medicine-closets with

orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms with great stacks of sheets

and towels, long vistas of shining floors and lines of beds. There were

brisk internes with duck clothes and brass buttons, who eyed her with

friendly, patronizing glances. There were bandages and dressings, and

great white screens behind which were played little or big dramas, baths or

deaths, as the case might be. And over all brooded the mysterious authority

of the superintendent of the training-school, dubbed the Head, for short.

Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission,

Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept and dusted the

wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolled bandages--did

everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had come to do.

At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow white bed

and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, and practiced

taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K.'s little watch.

Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to be waited

for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, with the ward in

spotless order, the shades drawn against the August sun, the tables covered

with their red covers, and the only sound the drone of the bandage-machine

as Sidney steadily turned it, Dr. Max passed the door on his way to the

surgical ward beyond, and gave her a cheery greeting. At these times

Sidney's heart beat almost in time with the ticking of the little watch.

The other hour was at twilight, when, work over for the day, the night

nurse, with her rubber-soled shoes and tired eyes and jangling keys, having

reported and received the night orders, the nurses gathered in their small

parlor for prayers. It was months before Sidney got over the exaltation of

that twilight hour, and never did it cease to bring her healing and peace.

In a way, it crystallized for her what the day's work meant: charity and

its sister, service, the promise of rest and peace. Into the little parlor

filed the nurses, and knelt, folding their tired hands.

"The Lord is my shepherd," read the Head out of her worn Bible; "I shall

not want."

And the nurses: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me

beside the still waters."




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