“Drink, old fellow! and you’ll soon come round. It’s my advice to you, to stay in your bed till you’re fit to get out of it; you ought to be ashamed to make a lady look like that.” “Be quiet, Gilman,” said I; “I’m not frightened at all; I’ve seen worse sights here than a fainting man; it was only the effort of suddenly throwing him backward, which I felt for the moment.” But I have no doubt Gilman’s rebuke was of far more service to Shaw than my ready sympathy would have been; for it roused him, and diverted his mind from his own sorrows. He did not at all know what he had done; but was profuse in bewildered apologies for some unknown wrong to me, which he seemed to feel convinced that he had committed; although the “how, why, or what” was wrapped in mystery. I soon satisfied his mind on that point, and then, more guardedly, touched upon “Pat;” promised to see to his comfort as far as possible; give him good advice as well as good food,--little doubting which would be the more welcome,--and finally, promising Shaw to return as soon as they were off, I hurried away, fearing I was already too late to say goodbye. These partings are brighter things for those who go, than for those who remain; it is as true here, as in other cases, that “Les peines du départ sont pour celui qui reste.” The bustle, the excitement of getting off, the hope of service, the prospect of change of scene, make the going something pleasant, even to those whose patriotism is not at fever heat; while, for those who remain, the sight of others going, the consciousness of their own inability thus more painfully forced upon their minds, the sense of confinement, make the hours after one of these departures a somewhat sad affair, and we have to exert all our powers to restore cheerfulness. A bustling scene meets me at the door of our room. A busy group is crowded there; some kneeling on the floor, strapping knapsacks and blankets; some jumping into the well known blue overcoats, which have enjoyed a profounder rest than their owners have done since their entrance into the hospital; some settling their caps well down over their eyes, as though cap and “caput” were never again to part company; while some (yes! they really have,) have begun to say goodbye. M. calls me, and I hurriedly enter. “They’re going; you’ll be too late to see them off.” “Hurrah, boys! Come on. We’re off. Goodbye, ladies! We won’t forget you. If ever the rebs come here, send for us; we’ll stand by you, and fight for you, too.” “Goodbye, ma’am, if I get hit I hope they’ll send me here.” “We’ve had a bully time here, and we’re proper sorry to go back. ‘Salt horse’ and ‘hard tack’ will come pretty hard, after all your nice little messes. Goodbye, ladies, and thank you kindly for all you’ve done for us.”