Effie saw very little of Dorothy Fraser, but on the following day, to her great surprise and pleasure, as she was leaving the dining-hall, Dorothy came up and spoke to her.

"You have a minute to spare," she said; "just come out on this balcony and talk to me."

Effie obeyed her.

"What do you want with me, Dorothy?" she asked.

"I wish to know why you look so pale and worried—you seem to have displeased Sister Kate, too."

Effie very nearly burst into tears, but she restrained herself.

"I'll tell you what it is," she said. "It is the most unjust thing!"

She then mentioned in as few words as possible the circumstance of Lawson having spoken to her—of her great anxiety about George—and of her having walked back with the young medical student from her home on the previous evening.

Dorothy looked very grave while Effie was speaking.

"It is unfortunate," she said. "This is just the sort of thing that injures a girl at the commencement of her hospital life."

"But it is so ridiculous and unjust," said Effie. "What in the world can Mr. Lawson be to me?"

"Oh, nothing, of course, my dear," replied Dorothy. "But still the rules cannot be too strict on this point. You know I am not a prude, but all girls are not like you, Effie; and, in short, Sister Kate is in the right. Someone must have seen you walking back with Mr. Lawson, and must have told her, or hinted, at least, at the state of the case. Nothing else would have induced her to question you."

"She had no right to speak to me about acquaintances that I meet out of the hospital."

"Strictly speaking, she has no right; that's why I say she must have got a hint."

"Oh, well, never mind her," said Effie. "I won't speak to Mr. Lawson again, unless I meet him out of doors, where I can, and shall, whatever Sister Kate may say."

"Effie, you must be careful."

"I don't want to think of myself at all. Can't you see how miserable I am about my mother and about George?"

"Yes; it is a most wretched business. I am more sorry for you than I can say."

"Oh, I wish something could be done," said Effie. "I feel tired and fettered here—I feel almost wild. I cannot devote myself to my necessary duties."

"Poor child," said Dorothy in her caressing voice. "Let me think: I must help you in some way. Suppose I go to-day to see your mother? I had a chance of having the whole afternoon to myself, but, as I had nowhere in particular to go, was determining not to avail myself of it, but now I can be of use to you."

"Oh, Dorothy! would you really go to see mother? It will be of the greatest possible use. You have such tact—you can say things that no one else would venture to say; and then if only you could see George!"

"I'll take the thing up somehow," said Dorothy; "you shan't be dragged and worried to death, you dear, brave little girl. Give me a kiss, Effie, and go back to your work. Between Mr. Lawson and me, we will pull you through this trouble, see if we don't!"

"Do you know Mr. Lawson, Dorothy?"

"Know him! Of course I do. He is one of the very nicest fellows here—as good as gold and as steady as a rock, and with such a beautiful enthusiasm for his profession—he'll make a splendid doctor by and by. Yes, Effie, don't mistake me: it is not the man I object to, it is the fact that he is a medical student, and that you are a nurse. So many bad things have been said about nurses and medical students that all nurses worthy of the name have to make up their minds to show the world that they can and will nurse without even the thought of flirtation coming into their head."

"You're right, of course," said Effie, with burning cheeks. "But it's a shame, it's horrible! How can anyone think I wish to flirt?"

She turned away—she was obliged to go back to her duties; but her heart felt much lighter after her conversation with Dorothy.

That afternoon Sister Kate, watched Effie as she would, could find no fault with her. She was attentive, tactful, kind, and considerate; a little bit of her old pleasant cheerfulness had also returned to her—her face looked less careworn.

The fact is, she was leaning on Dorothy, and felt the comfort of Dorothy's strong support.

The patients were only too glad for Effie to do things for them; and No. 47, who was very weak and low, smiled whenever the girl approached her bedside.

"Hold my hand, love, whenever you have a minute to spare," said the poor creature. "I feel low like, awfully low; I am going down—down, and it supports me to hold your hand; you're a good girl, anyone can see that."

"I try to be," said Effie, tears springing to her eyes.

"Ah, it's well to be good," continued the woman. "When we come to lie as I'm lying now, we think a sight of goodness."

"I hope you'll soon be better," said Effie.

"Never, my love, never again. I'm going out—that's what is happening to me; it's a lonesome thing to die, but I don't feel so lonesome when I'm holding your hand."

Effie came to the poor creature as often as she could. Once again the fascination of the life she so dearly loved drew her out of herself, and enabled her to forget the heavy home cares.

In her bedroom that night Sister Dorothy paid her a visit.

"Well, Effie," she said, "I've news for you. Mr. Lawson saw George last night. He spoke to him quite frankly, and said that, if he did not immediately give over this awful gambling, he'd go and see his cousin, Mr. Gering."

"And what did George say?" asked Effie.

"Oh, he promised as faithfully as possible that he'd give it up. Mr. Lawson seemed quite pleased with him, and said he didn't think he'd have been so penitent and so easily influenced as he has been."

"But will he give it up?" questioned Effie.

"He promised to. Of course he is anxious at not being able to earn more money, for the foolish fellow encouraged your mother to be extravagant, and now there are several debts which must be met somehow. What's the matter with you, Effie? Why do you start?"

"How can I help it? Debts would kill mother. Perhaps I ought to tell you, Dorothy—you have been so good to me, and I trust you so much that I don't think it can be wrong to tell you any trouble which concerns me."

"No, of course it isn't. Speak out what is in your mind, Effie."

"Well, George was in trouble that time he came to see father—that time when father was dying. He owed Mr. Lawson—- I can't tell you how, I can't tell you why—£250. He said that if the money were not paid back within six weeks, that he, George—oh, Dorothy, how can I say it?—that he'd have to go to—to prison! He said he must have the money; I felt, too, that he must have the money; for our mother's sake. So I went to see Squire Harvey, and he—he lent it to me."

Dorothy sat down on the side of the bed. Effie's story made her feel very grave. She paused for a moment, puzzled what to say.

"He lent me the money," continued Effie, looking straight at her friend with her bright eyes. "I know he never wants it back again, but he must have it back."

"Oh, yes! he must have it back," exclaimed Dorothy.

"Well, he lent it to me," continued Effie, with a sigh; "and I thought, of course, that George would be all right after that, and I arranged that the Squire should have his interest regularly. I thought my own salary would nearly cover that."

"It can't be done," interrupted Dorothy. "Your salary barely pays for your washing and your few out-of-pocket expenses. It's absolutely impossible that you can live here without a penny; the little you earn must go to yourself."

"Then there's nothing for it," said Effie; "I must go where I can earn more. I hate the thought beyond all words, but I must—I must do it!"

"You don't mean to tell me that you would give up your life as a nurse?"

"Do you think for a moment, Dorothy, that I'd give it up willingly? It makes me sick to think of relinquishing what has been my dream ever since I was a little girl; but I see plainly that I must do something to earn money to help mother; and then, if George does keep straight, perhaps we may all be happy some day."

Tears choked Effie's voice, her eyes grew dim.

"What do you think of doing, dear?" said Dorothy in a gentle voice.

"I'll go to the Harveys and ask them to take me as a governess for Freda. I fancy, somehow, that they might be induced to give me a good salary—something like fifty or sixty pounds a year, and I can teach a child like Freda very well indeed, for her father saw that I was well educated. There's nothing else for it, I can see that; but it breaks my heart all the same."