There were not many adventures to be had in those regions where she washed up.  Not much “wide and adaptable life” to take her thoughts off herself.  But on her journeys to and from the hospital she had more than one odd little experience.  One morning she noticed a poorly dressed woman with a red and swollen face, flapping along Regent Street like a wounded bird, and biting strangely at her hand.  Hearing her groan, Noel asked her what the matter was.  The woman held out the hand.  “Oh!” she moaned, “I was scrubbin’ the floor and I got this great needle stuck through my ’and, and it’s broke off, and I can’t get it out.  Oh!  Oh!” She bit at the needle-end, not quite visible, but almost within reach of teeth, and suddenly went very white.  In dismay, Noel put an arm round her, and turned her into a fine chemist’s shop.  Several ladies were in there, buying perfumes, and they looked with acerbity at this disordered dirty female entering among them.  Noel went up to a man behind the counter.  “Please give me something quick, for this poor woman, I think she’s going to faint.  She’s run a needle through her hand, and can’t get it out.”  The man gave her “something quick,” and Noel pushed past two of the dames back to where the woman was sitting.  She was still obstinately biting at her hand, and suddenly her chin flew up, and there, between her teeth, was the needle.  She took it from them with her other hand, stuck it proudly in the front of her dress, and out tumbled the words:  “Oh! there—­I’ve got it!”

When she had swallowed the draught, she looked round her, bewildered, and said: 

“Thank you kindly, miss!” and shuffled out.  Noel paid for the draught, and followed; and, behind her, the shining shop seemed to exhale a perfumed breath of relief.

“You can’t go back to work,” she said to the woman.  “Where do you live?”

“’Ornsey, miss.”

“You must take a ’bus and go straight home, and put your hand at once into weak Condy’s fluid and water.  It’s swelling.  Here’s five shillings.”

“Yes, miss; thank you, miss, I’m sure.  It’s very kind of you.  It does ache cruel.”

“If it’s not better this afternoon, you must go to a doctor.  Promise!”

“Oh, dear, yes.  ’Ere’s my ’bus.  Thank you kindly, miss.”

Noel saw her borne away, still sucking at her dirty swollen hand.  She walked on in a glow of love for the poor woman, and hate for the ladies in the chemist’s shop, and forgot her own trouble till she had almost reached the hospital.

Another November day, a Saturday, leaving early, she walked to Hyde Park.  The plane-trees were just at the height of their spotted beauty.  Few—­very few-yellow leaves still hung; and the slender pretty trees seemed rejoicing in their freedom from summer foliage.  All their delicate boughs and twigs were shaking and dancing in the wind; and their rain-washed leopard-like bodies had a lithe un-English gaiety.