ess of praise, obeying directions apparently to the
very letter, yet never allowing the mistakes or carelessness of the
director to mar her own work--would have seemed almost colorless; but I
have never considered myself an ordinary observer where character is
concerned, and I soon saw that hers was not the unreasoning goodness of
instinct, that it derived life and tone from a past full of culture and
discipline. I noticed in her three things particularly: First, complete
and unusual happiness, a happiness entirely independent of the incidents
of the day. It was as if an unclouded sun were perpetually shining in
her heart. This came, I knew afterward, from the fact that she was
serving the cause she loved most, that she was doing her work well, and
that through it and connected with it she found place for all her best
qualities and highest knowledge. Second, her thorough refinement.
Without, as I perceived, hereditary breeding, and without conventional
pruderies, she had a rare purity and elevation of feeling, which exerted
a manifest and constant influence, sadly needed in a soldiers' hospital.
Third, her life within. From choice, not from necessity, her life
continually turned upon itself; from within she found her chief motive,
sanction, and reward, and this took from her intercourse with others all
pettiness, and made their relations to herself uncommonly truthful.

From time to time, as the scene of battle shifted, we removed to other
hospitals, I always accompanying Miss Sunderland; but at last, in the
spring, we again got back to Washington. The battles all around were
raging fearfully, and the wounded were continually brought to us in
scores. Day and night Miss Sunderland was engaged. Usually careful of
herself in the extreme, she seemed now to forget all prudence.

'You cannot endure this,' said I one day to her. 'Your first duty is to
take care of your health.'

'No, no,' said she, 'my first duty is to save the lives of these men;
the second, to take care of my health for their future benefit; but I
cannot give out now. Don't you see how necessary my work is?'

'Yes, I see it,' I replied. 'I don't know how you could spare yourself,
but it does not seem right that you should be entirely worn out.'

'Yes, it _is_ right,' answered she; 'a life saved now is of as much
consequence as one saved next year. I am useful at this time, for I
understand my profession; but others are learning the art of nursing in
no f