doubtless a comfortable quid in his mouth, to cheer the
weary march. How like an old friend he looked, though we had only met
fifteen minutes ago; how glad we were to be there to smile back at
him, and send him on his way feeling that, even in a strange city,
there was some one to say, "God bless you, Joe!" We watched the
tallest blue cap till it vanished, and then went home in a glow of
patriotism,--Tom to long for his turn to come, I to sew vigorously on
the gray gown the new nurse burned to wear as soon as possible, and
both of us to think and speak often of poor Joe Collins and his
Lucindy. All this happened long ago; but it is well to recall those
stirring times,--to keep fresh the memory of sacrifices made for us by
men like these; to see to it that the debt we owe them is honestly,
gladly paid; and, while we decorate the graves of those who died, to
remember also those who still live to deserve our grateful care.

II

I never expected to see Joe again; but, six months later, we did meet
in a Washington hospital one winter's night. A train of ambulances had
left their sad freight at our door, and we were hurrying to get the
poor fellows into much needed beds, after a week of hunger, cold, and
unavoidable neglect. All forms of pain were in my ward that night, and
all borne with the pathetic patience which was a daily marvel to those
who saw it.

Trying to bring order out of chaos, I was rushing up and down the
narrow aisle between the rows of rapidly filling beds, and, after
brushing several times against a pair of the largest and muddiest
boots I ever saw, I paused at last to inquire why they were impeding
the passageway. I found they belonged to a very tall man who seemed to
be already asleep or dead, so white and still and utterly worn out he
looked as he lay there, without a coat, a great patch on his forehead,
and the right arm rudely bundled up. Stooping to cover him, I saw that
he was unconscious, and, whipping out my brandy-bottle and salts, soon
brought him round, for it was only exhaustion.

"Can you eat?" I asked, as he said, "Thanky, ma'am," after a long
draught of water and a dizzy stare.

"Eat! I'm starvin'!" he answered, with such a ravenous glance at a
fat nurse who happened to be passing, that I trembled for her, and
hastened to take a bowl of soup from her tray.

As I fed him, his gaunt, weather-beaten face had a familiar look; but
so many such faces had passed before me that winter, I