At nine o'clock they started. The crescent of a young moon showed itself through the light clouds, which, low as mist, hung over the valley. Nothing stirred; each leaf hung motionless from its branchlet as they passed. Even the penetrating sing-song chant of the summer insects was hushed, and the smooth river as they followed its windings made no murmur. They were in a light wagon, with an escort of two mounted men. "If you go beyond Number Two, you'll have to take to horseback, I reckon," said their driver, a countryman, who, without partisan feeling as to the two sides of the contest, held on with a tight grip to his horses, and impartially "did teaming" for both. "Is there still another hospital beyond?" inquired Anne. "Yes, there's Peterson's, a sorter hospital; it's up in the mountains. And heaps of sick fellers there too, the last time I was up." "It does not belong to this department," said Mary Crane. "I reckon they suffer pooty much the same, no matter where they belong," replied the driver, flicking the wheel reflectively with his whip-lash. "There was a feller up at Number Two the other day as hadn't any face left to speak of; yet he was alive, and quite peart." Anne shuddered. "There now, hold up, won't you?" said Mary Crane. "This young lady ain't a real nurse, as I am, and such stories make her feel faint." "If she ain't a real nurse, what made her come?" said the man, glancing at Anne with dull curiosity. "Twas just goodness, and the real downright article of patriotism, I guess," said the hearty nurse, smiling. "Oh no," said Anne; "I was lonely and sad, and glad to come." "It _doos_ kinder rouse one up to see a lot of men hit in all sorts of ways, legs and arms and everything flying round," remarked the driver, as if approving Anne's selection of remedies for loneliness.