ry
familiar with the diseases which they suffered most from, and
successful in their treatment (I say this in no spirit of vanity),
were quite sufficient to account for the numbers who came daily to the
British Hotel for medical treatment.

That the officers were glad of me as a doctress and nurse may be
easily understood. When a poor fellow lay sickening in his cheerless
hut and sent down to me, he knew very well that I should not ride up
in answer to his message empty-handed. And although I did not hesitate
to charge him with the value of the necessaries I took him, still he
was thankful enough to be able to _purchase_ them. When we lie ill at
home surrounded with comfort, we never think of feeling any special
gratitude for the sick-room delicacies which we accept as a
consequence of our illness; but the poor officer lying ill and weary
in his crazy hut, dependent for the merest necessaries of existence
upon a clumsy, ignorant soldier-cook, who would almost prefer eating
his meat raw to having the trouble of cooking it (our English soldiers
are bad campaigners), often finds his greatest troubles in the want of
those little delicacies with which a weak stomach must be humoured
into retaining nourishment. How often have I felt sad at the sight of
poor lads, who in England thought attending early parade a hardship,
and felt harassed if their neckcloths set awry, or the natty little
boots would not retain their polish, bearing, and bearing so nobly and
bravely, trials and hardships to which the veteran campaigner
frequently succumbed. Don't you think, reader, if you were lying, with
parched lips and fading appetite, thousands of miles from mother,
wife, or sister, loathing the rough food by your side, and thinking
regretfully of that English home where nothing that could minister to
your great need would be left untried--don't you think that you would
welcome the familiar figure of the stout lady whose bony horse has
just pulled up at the door of your hut, and whose panniers contain
some cooling drink, a little broth, some homely cake, or a dish of
jelly or blanc-mange--don't you think, under such circumstances, that
you would heartily agree with my friend _Punch's_ remark:--

"That berry-brown face, with a kind heart's trace
Impressed on each wrinkle sly,
Was a sight to behold, through the snow-clouds rolled
Across that iron sky."

I tell you, reader, I have seen many a bold fellow's eyes mois