“I wanted you! No, ma’am; that’s a mistake; no one’s been near me since they bathed me, and gave me clean clothes--I know there hasn’t, for I watched them running all about; but none came to me, and I want so much to have my arm dressed.” And the ready tears once more began to flow. “There is no mistake. I told you that my assistant orderly came to me in the ladies’ room, and told me that you needed me. Think again--who has been here since you were brought in?” “Not a single soul, ma’am,--indeed, not a thing, but a dog, standing looking in my face, and wagging his tail, as if he was pitying me.” “But a dog! Exactly; he’s my assistant orderly; he came over to me, pulled my dress, and wouldn’t rest till I came to see after you. I am surprised you speak so slightingly of poor Dick.” Here was at once a safe and fertile theme. I entered at large upon Dick’s merits; his fondness for the men--his greater fondness, occasionally, for their dinners--his having made way with three lunches just prepared for men who were starting--(the result, probably, of having heard the old story that the surgeons eat what is intended for the men,) our finding him one day on our table with his head in a pitcher of lemonade, and how I had tried to explain to him that such was not the best way of proving his regard for his friends, the soldiers, but I feared without much effect--in short, I made a long story out of nothing, till the wardmaster arrived with his supper, saying that the doctor’s orders were that the new cases should all take something to eat before he examined their wounds. My friend had quite forgotten his own troubles in listening to Dick’s varied talents, and allowed me to give him his supper very quietly, as I found he was really too much exhausted even to raise his uninjured arm to his mouth. I had the pleasure of seeing him smile for goodbye, and having given him rather more time than I could spare, hurried away, with a promise of seeing him the next day (Sunday), for they were too ill not to be watched. But oh! for a little more daylight! It is getting so dark, and yet I must stop and make acquaintance with each new face--or rather, I long to do so, but it will not be possible. Look at those clear blue eyes, over there--just what the French call “les yeux de velours!”--I cannot surely pass them without a word; they smile a welcome as I approach. What a contrast their owner presents to poor Stillwell, my tearful friend, whom I have just left. A sweet, bright face, clear complexion, curling light hair, and something very winning in his open, frank expression, which attracts you to him at once. Before he opens his lips I am persuaded that he possesses a cheerful spirit, ready to look on the bright side of everything. “You don’t look as though you were suffering much; I hope you’re not badly wounded.” What a beaming, beautiful smile, as he extends his hand to me at once!