uld wring out her heart's
blood,--to face disease and death itself, if need be, to hand down a
priceless inheritance to the coming ages.

"You will get sick, my child. You have not strength to be a nurse in the
hospital," said her mother, when Azalia told her that she must go and
take care of the soldiers.

"I cannot spare you, my daughter," said her father, tenderly taking her
in his arms, and kissing her ruby lips. She was his only child, and he
loved her dearly. "I don't think it is your duty to go; and how lonesome
the house would be without my darling!"

And so, knowing that it was her duty to do whatever her parents wished,
she tried to be content. But the days dragged wearily. She was ever
thinking of the soldiers,--thinking through the days and through the
nights, till the bright bloom faded from her cheek. Her heart was far
away. Her life was incomplete,--she felt that it was running to waste.

Her father saw that his flower was fading. At last he said, "Go, my
darling, and God be with you."

"I don't think that Judge Adams ought to let Azalia go into the
hospital. It isn't a fit place for girls," said Miss Dobb, when she
heard that Azalia was to be a nurse. But, giving no heed to Miss Dobb,
with the blessing of her parents following her, she left her pleasant
home, gave up all its ease and comfort, to minister to the sick and
wounded, who had fought to save the country.

She went to Washington, and thence to the hospitals at Annapolis. It was
hard work to stand all day by the side of the sick, bathing their
fevered brows, moistening their parched lips, binding up their bleeding
wounds. It was painful to look upon the quivering flesh, torn and
mangled by cannon-shot. But she learned to bear it all,--to stand calmly
by, waiting upon the surgeon while he ran his sharp knife into the live
flesh. It was a pleasure to aid him in his work.

Her step was light upon the floor; soothing and tender the touch of her
hand. There was no light so sweet and pure as that which beamed from her
earnest eyes. The sick waited impatiently for her appearance in the
morning, watched her footsteps through the day, thanked her for all she
did, and said, "God bless you!" when she bade them good night. Men who
were in the habit of uttering fearful oaths wept when she talked with
them about their mothers; she wrote their letters, and read to them the
words of affection which came from home. She sang the songs they loved
to hear. I