“Perhaps it’s no good, miss, but it seemed our last chance, and if you’d just try?” Here was a trial. And yet, had I enlisted only for sunny weather? Was I to shrink at the first chance of service? Nevertheless, I did shrink, and, I fear, very visibly, too; but I felt I must go forward, or deserve to be stricken from the rolls. Could the exact springs of all our actions be known, I fear it would too often be seen that they arise in many cases from motives which we should be most unwilling to confess; so in this case, I sincerely believe that it was the shame of uttering the simple truth “I am afraid of him,” which led me straight to his bedside, far more than the benevolent wish of informing distant relatives of his dying condition. “Have you ever heard him mention any of his family at any time?” said I to Wilson, as we crossed the ward, half to keep him with me, and half to know how to address this dreaded, wild-looking creature. “Yes, he did say something once about a sister, but if we ask him anything further, he bursts out singing or laughing, and it’s no use.” The power of the eye I had frequently heard of, and also that a single, direct question, often steadies the unbalanced mind. I could but try them now. I had an indistinct impression, as I drew near, that it would be easier to face the hottest fire of the fiercest foe in the field, than the glare of those eyes; but, trying to look at him steadily, I said, slowly and distinctly, “What is your sister’s name?” He looked at me for a moment, surprised and perfectly silent, and then, to my utter amazement, replied with equal distinctness, “Susanna Weaver.” “Where does she live?” “Westchester, Pennsylvania.” This was so evidently a success, that I ventured further, though doubtful of the result. “How do you direct your letters?” No hesitation, “Mrs. Susanna Weaver, care of James Weaver, shoemaker, Westchester, Pennsylvania.” As he uttered the last word, a man who had just come in, came up to me. “What he says, ma’am, ain’t no use; he’s out of his head, and he don’t mean it.” I said nothing in reply, but was satisfied as to the truth of my own conclusions, when, two days afterwards, I walked in to see the veritable Susanna, wife of James Weaver, shoemaker, portly, patronizing, and polite, fanning her apparently insensible brother, and applying ice to his temples, for the dreaded stupor had come on.