Before she left the Crimea, her hut was beset by fifty or sixty poor women who had been left behind when their husbands sailed for home with their regiments. They had followed their husbands to the war without leave and, having proved themselves useful, had been allowed to remain. And now they were left alone in a strange land and, but for Florence Nightingale, the end of the story might have been bitter sorrow. But she managed to get them sent home in a British ship. Many a mother at home must already have blessed her; for reckless boys who had enlisted, without the sanction of their families, had again and again been by her persuaded to write home, and in the first months of the war she had actually undertaken to stamp for the men any letters home which were sent to her camp. And at Scutari she had arranged a provisional money-order office where, four afternoons in each week, she received from the men the pay which she encouraged them to send home. When we are told that, in small sums, about £1,000 passed through this office month by month, we realize dimly something of the labour involved, and thinking of all her other cares and labours, which were nevertheless not allowed to stand in the way of such practical thoughtfulness as this, we do not wonder that “the services” loved her with a love that was akin to worship. The money, as she herself says, “was literally so much rescued from the canteens and from drunkenness;” and the Government, following her lead, had themselves established money-order offices later at Scutari, Balaclava, Constantinople, and the Headquarters, Crimea. It is not surprising that, in the “Old Country,” songs were dedicated to her as “the good angel of Derbyshire,” and that her very portrait became a popular advertisement. And we have it on good authority that her name was revered alike by English, French, Turks, and Russians. The Treaty of Peace was signed at Paris on March 30, 1856, and on July 12 General Codrington formally gave up Sebastopol and Balaclava to the Russians. When the last remnant of our army was ordered home and the hospitals were finally closed, Florence Nightingale was for the first time willing to leave a post which she had held so bravely and so long. But before she left she wished to leave a memorial to the brave men who had fallen, and the brave women, her comrades, who had died upon that other battlefield where disease, and Death himself, must be wrestled with on behalf of those who are nursed and tended.