Once Elfie was conscious that a consultation was going on by the bedside of a patient half way down the row of beds on the opposite side of the ward. And soon after she heard a little bustle of preparation, and she saw a procession like a funeral train bearing that patient on his mattress on a bier from the ward to the operating room. The procession had to pass her to go out by the door at her end of the ward. And as it went by, she knew that another victim was about to lose a limb and, perhaps, his life also. This victim never came back. In an hour afterwards Elfie learned from the nurses that he had died under the knife, and had been taken to the dead house. The dinner hour for the patients came. And the beef tea, wine whey, chicken broth, milk punch, boiled rice, calf’s foot jelly, and whatever else had been ordered, or provided, was served around. It was sometime before Albert Goldsborough awoke; but when he did a choice was given him among all the delicacies furnished to the sick. He had no appetite, but was consumed by a great thirst. So he asked only for iced lemonade, and got it. Elfie raised his head while he drank it. “That will do, my dearest,” he said, drawing a deep breath of relief when he had drained the glass. “Only keep me in a plenty of this, and I shall do well. Cooling drink is the only material want I have left me,” he added, smiling. “You shall have a water cooler full of it set by the bed, so that I can draw it ice cold from the spigot whenever you like,” said Elfie, as she laid his head back on the pillow. “But you, my darling! What provision is there here for your comfort? How will you eat and drink? Where will you sleep?” he anxiously inquired. “All right. Don’t distress yourself, Albert, Erminie will send me my meals. And Sister Agnes will give me the use of her room, when I require it,” answered Elfie. Albert Goldsborough seemed very much refreshed by his long sleep and his cool drink, and now he was inclined to talk a little more. “Elfie,” he said, “if I die, my widow will be one of the wealthiest women in Virginia.” “Dear Albert, you are a great deal better. You are not going to die. And if you were, I know very well that wealth would never console your widow for your loss. But you will live, Albert. You will get over this and live!” “If I do live, Elfie, I will atone to you for all I have made you suffer. If I die, I have the comfort of knowing that you will be very rich in this world’s goods.” “Pray—_pray_ don’t talk so, dear.”