me company for the last half-hour agreed with me that the caicque was
not the safest conveyance by night on the Bosphorus, and recommended
me to present my letter to Miss Nightingale, and perhaps a lodging for
the night could be found for me. So, still under the Sergeant's
patient guidance, we thread our way through passages and corridors,
all used as sick-wards, until we reach the corner tower of the
building, in which are the nurses' quarters.

I think Mrs. B----, who saw me, felt more surprise than she could
politely show (I never found women so quick to understand me as the
men) when I handed her Dr. F----'s kind letter respecting me, and
apologized for troubling Miss Nightingale. There is that in the
Doctor's letter (he had been much at Scutari) which prevents my
request being refused, and I am asked to wait until Miss Nightingale,
whose every moment is valuable, can see me. Meanwhile Mrs. B.
questions me very kindly, but with the same look of curiosity and
surprise.

What object has Mrs. Seacole in coming out? This is the purport of her
questions. And I say, frankly, to be of use somewhere; for other
considerations I had not, until necessity forced them upon me.
Willingly, had they accepted me, I would have worked for the wounded,
in return for bread and water. I fancy Mrs. B---- thought that I
sought for employment at Scutari, for she said, very kindly--

"Miss Nightingale has the entire management of our hospital staff, but
I do not think that any vacancy--"

"Excuse me, ma'am," I interrupt her with, "but I am bound for the
front in a few days;" and my questioner leaves me, more surprised than
ever. The room I waited in was used as a kitchen. Upon the stoves were
cans of soup, broth, and arrow-root, while nurses passed in and out
with noiseless tread and subdued manner. I thought many of them had
that strange expression of the eyes which those who have gazed long on
scenes of woe or horror seldom lose.

In half an hour's time I am admitted to Miss Nightingale's presence. A
slight figure, in the nurses' dress; with a pale, gentle, and withal
firm face, resting lightly in the palm of one white hand, while the
other supports the elbow--a position which gives to her countenance a
keen inquiring expression, which is rather marked. Standing thus in
repose, and yet keenly observant--the greatest sign of impatience at
any time[B] a slight, perhaps unwitting motion of the firmly planted
right foot--was Florence Ni