“You are very good, but I would rather go back, when I have bathed my face and arranged my dress. Where is the box Miss Rosenthal sent me, please?” “Here it is,” said the sister, drawing a medium sized trunk from under the bed. The key was tied to one of the handles, and Elfie untied it and opened the trunk. Erminie had sent her a soft gray merino wrapper, suitable for nursing, a soft pair of cloth slippers, a change of clothing and a great plenty of fresh pocket-handkerchiefs and towels. Elfie dressed herself in these comfortable habiliments, and then requested her guide to show her back to her ward. “For I never could find the right way by myself, I am sure,” she said. The sister complied with her request and attended her to the door of the ward, where she left her. A few steps within the room Elfie met the assistant surgeon, and stopped him to put the same questions she had already put to the sister. “He is much better, doctor, isn’t he? He will recover, won’t he?” “We have good reason to hope so, Madam,” answered the surgeon. “But I cannot get him to take any nourishment. He has no appetite; only a great thirst, and he will take nothing except lemonade,” complained Elfie. “Then do not force nourishment upon him. Give him the drink he craves,” said the surgeon hurrying past her to attend to his other business. Elfie went down between the two rows of little white beds until she came to the corner where Albert Goldsborough lay. He was wide awake, and waiting for her. He seemed refreshed, and cheerful. “I have been looking for you, my darling. The doctor has given me an opiate, and ordered me to go to sleep, as if one could go to sleep to order! I could not do so without your hand in mine. Sit by my bed, dear Elfie, and let me feel that you are there while I sink to rest,” he said. And Elfie took up her old position, with her hand clasped in his, and her cheek on the edge of his pillow. CHAPTER XXXIII. AT PEACE. Here lurks no treason here no envy swells, Here grows no damned grudges; here are no storms. No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.—SHAKSPEARE. During Elfie’s absence from the ward all the sick and wounded had been made as comfortable as circumstances would permit for the night. The greater number of them had been quieted by opium. And even those who could not sleep lay in benign repose, under the influence of that blessed but much abused “gift of God.” Certainly the great good of opium never was so realized and appreciated as in the military hospitals during the war.