“What do we do with our beggings? Oh, that is a hard question to ask of one whose way of life leads ever among the poor, the sorrowing, the unfortunate, the most wretched of mankind. Not on me is it wasted. I stand here in my earthly all. What do we do with it? Ah! some day you may know.’
“She turned away and left him, sad of face, heavy of heart, and her dark eyes misty with unshed tears.
“‘Stay!’
“The General’s request was like a command. He could be stern; nay, almost rude, but he knew truth and worth when he saw it, and could be just. The Sister paused on the threshold, and for a minute nothing was heard but the rapid scratching of the General’s pen.
“‘There, madam, is your order on the Commissary for ice and beef at army terms, good for three months. I do it for the sake of the Union Soldiers who are, or may be, in your care. Don’t come bothering me again. Good-morning!’
“In less than three weeks from that day the slaughter of the Red River campaign had been perfected, and there neared the city of New Orleans a steamer flying the ominous yellow flag, which even the rebel sharpshooters respected and allowed to pass down the river unmolested. Another, and still another, followed closely in her wake, and all the decks were covered with the wounded and dying whose bloody bandages and, in many instances, undressed wounds gave woeful evidence of the lack of surgeons, as well as the completeness of the rout. Among the desperately wounded was General S. He was borne from the steamer to the waiting ambulance, writhing in anguish from the pain of his bleeding and shell-torn limb, and when they asked him where he wished to be taken he feebly moaned:
“‘Anywhere, it matters not. Where I can die in peace.’
“So they took him to the Hotel Dieu, a noble and beautiful institution, in charge of the Sisters of Charity. The limb was amputated and then he was nursed for weeks through the agony of the surgical operation, the fever, the wild delirium; and for many weary days no one could tell whether life or death would be the victor. But who was the quiet, faithful nurse, ever at his bedside, ever ministering to his wants, ever watchful of his smallest needs? Why only ‘one of the Sisters.’
“At last life triumphed, reason returned, and with it much of the old, abrupt manner. The General awoke to consciousness to see a face not altogether unknown bending over him, and to feel a pair of small, deft hands skillfully arranging a bandage, wet in ice-cold water, around his throbbing temples, where the mad pain and aching had for so long a time held sway. He was better now, though still very weak; but his mind was clear, and he could think calmly and connectedly of all that had taken place since the fatal battle—a battle which had so nearly cost him his life and left him at best but a maimed and mutilated remnant of his former self.
“Yet he was thankful it was no worse—that he had not been killed outright. In like degree he was grateful to those who nursed him so tenderly and tirelessly, especially the gray-robed woman, who had become almost angelic in his eyes; and it was like him to express his gratitude in his own peculiar way, without preface or circumlocution. Looking intently at the Sister, as if to get her features well fixed in his memory, he said: