Miss Stanley tells a most amusing story of how one of the military chaplains complained to Miss Jebbut that very improper books had been circulated in the wards; she pressed in vain to know what they were. “As I was coming away he begged for five minutes’ conversation, said he was answerable for the men and what they read, and he must protest against sentiments he neither approved nor understood, and that he would fetch me the book. It was Keble’s ‘Christian Year,’ which Miss Jebbut had lent to a sick midshipman!” It was a brave heart indeed that the Good Samaritan needed now, with cholera added to the other horrors of hospital suffering, and the frost-bitten cases from Sebastopol were almost equally heart-rending. It was early in January 1855 that Miss Stanley escorted fifty more nurses. Most of them worked under Miss Anderson at the General Hospital at Scutari, but eight were sent into the midst of the fighting at Balaclava, and of the life there “at the front” the letters of Sister Aloysius give a terrible picture. We have, for instance, the story of a man ill and frost-bitten, who found he could not turn on his side because his feet were frozen to those of the soldier opposite. And it came to pass that for two months the death-rate in the hospitals was sixty per cent. Night after night, the restless, lonely sufferers watched for the coming of the slender, white-capped figure with the little light that she shaded so carefully lest it should waken any sleeper, as she passed through the long corridors watching over the welfare of her patients, and to them she was “the Lady with the Lamp.” We still see with the American poet:— “The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors. “Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. “And slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.” “Ah,” said to me old John Ball, the veteran of the Crimea, who had been wounded at Alma and been at Scutari a month before her arrival, so that in his later days there he saw the changes that she wrought, “ah, she was a _good_ soul—she was a _good_ woman!” And through his words, and those of the other old men who remembered her, it was possible to discern a little of the glow, the humour, the homely maternal tenderness with which the _Wohlgebohrene Dame_ had comforted young and old in their hours of patriotic wounding and pain. For herself, in the long days of sacrificial service, was there any human solace, any dear companionship, any dawning light of love?