he escaped, and we have never seen him since.

Diphtheria was so prevalent that the Red Cross on receiving a patient,
gathered in the whole family for a few days, inoculated, washed, and
gargled it. They also toured the villages around, digging out typhus and
other infectious cases, thus stopping the spread of infection. They had
a most energetic matron, Miss Caldwell, who had already nursed in
Cettinje during the Balkan Wars, and we have already told how she
managed the Montenegrins.

Often the patients came in ox-carts. Too ill to be lifted out, they had
to be examined and treated in the carts. Dr. Boyle acquired a special
nimbleness in jumping in and out of these contrivances armed with
stethescope, spoons, bowls, and dressings. We accumulated a congregation
of "regulars," who came to be dressed every day--gathered feet,
suppurating glands, eczema, etc.

One old mother with a bad leg was bandaged up with boracic ointment and
told to come back in two days. She came. Jo undid the bandage. All the
old lady's fleas had swarmed to the boracic till it looked like a
fly-paper. After which we used Vermigeli.

All wore brightly woven belts, sometimes two or three, each a yard and a
half long, tightly wound round their bodies, thus making their waists
wider than their hips. One girl was black and blue with the pattern
showing on her skin, and many men were suffering from the evils of tight
lacing.

The village priest received belts as fees from the peasants when he
married them. He sent us a message to say he had some for sale, so we
went in a body to his house, were received by his daughter, who looked
like a cow-girl, turned over a basketful of belts, and bought largely.
After which he put up the price.

Jo went on night duty for the first time.

A queer experience this, starting the day's work at half-past seven in
the evening and finishing at seven in the morning--breakfasting when
other people are dining; hearing their contented laughter as they go off
to bed; and then a queer loneliness and the ugly ticking of a clock. One
creeps round the big ward. What a noisy thing breathing is. Some one
groans, "Sestra, I cannot sleep." This man has not been ordered morphia.
Silence once more broken only by the sound of the breathing, distant
howling of dogs from the darkness or the hoot of an owl. The old
frostbite man coughs; he coughs again insistently. Both say "Yes" to hot
milk. So down to the big kitchen, some mice sca