The sick and wounded were quartered in great wooden barracks eighty feet long. There were rows of cots on either side of the room. That very day she went into one of these wards. She had never been in a hospital before; and when she entered and saw the long rows of cots, and all the faces of the men, whether they were lying down or sitting up, turned towards her, she grew faint and dizzy, and her courage almost failed her. She seemed powerless to do anything but to walk on down the long aisle.
At last a soldier called to her from his bed,—
“Say, miss, won’t you write a letter for me?”
It was a great relief to have the oppressive silence broken and to have something to do. As she sat down beside his cot, she asked,—
“To whom shall I write?”
“My mother.”
And he thrust his hand down under his pillow, and drew forth a letter which she read with tears.
“What shall I say to her?”
“Tell her that the surgeons think that I may live a week or two yet.”
“Oh! but you may get well.”