“The right when other friends have flown, And left the sufferer all alone, To kneel that dying couch beside, And meekly point to Him who died; The right a happy home to make In any clime, for Jesu’s sake; Rights such as these, are all we crave, Until our last--a quiet grave.” Anxious, as I have said, to discover whether our presence in the hospital was really acceptable or not, I have closely watched the countenances of the men on the entrance of the lady visitors. I speak not now of myself, for I am merely one, and a most insignificant one, among many; but I can truly say, that at all such times I have never, but once, seen other than an expression of pleasure, and the warm greeting is apparently most sincere. The one instance to which I allude, is certainly no argument against the presence of ladies; it extended to every one who approached his bedside, and was produced by intense physical anguish, acting on a highly nervous organization. I merely name it now, because it is, as I have said, the sole instance in which we were not welcomed and urged to stay. And yet, the very words, in that suffering, pleading tone, “Dear lady, please to go away, I am so very wretched,” proved that it was no dislike to us personally, but merely that terrible state, too well known to any one of a very nervous temperament, when even the stirring of the air by the bedside seems a pain. Subsequent events, which I have noted elsewhere, show this to have been the case. At the time of the visit of the Surgeon-General of the United States to inspect the hospitals, it was rumored, though wholly without foundation, that his object was to change the organization and remove the ladies. The burst of feeling with which this rumor was received was more than gratifying, it was convincing, and proved that if the men were “victimized” they were quite unconscious of it. Only a day or two since, as I was sitting by one of our sick men, M. passed with some preparation in her hand, which she had just made. He turned to me, and pointing to her, said, “I don’t think all our angels are in heaven, do you?” The same feeling, though not always expressed in the same words, seems to be entertained by one and all. “Tell me,” said I to one the other day, “if I am in your way?” “In our way!” said he, “is the green grass in our way?” “No, for you walk over it, and I have no wish to be trampled on.” He looked disappointed. “I didn’t mean that, Miss, I meant its presence always cools and refreshes us, and I thought you’d understand.” “I did quite understand, and thank you,” I said, sorry that I had pained him by rejecting the well-meant expression of feeling.