I was reposing in a pretty bed, with spotless white hangings, and lace all so charmingly arranged, that it reminded me of a baby’s cradle. A divan of yellow silk cushions surrounded the apartment on three sides. On the fourth it was entirely open to the verandah and garden. On this divan I saw my undress uniform, neatly folded, with my forage-cap, sword, and cartridge-box placed above it. My watch and purse, Louisa’s miniature and ring—I felt for the latter involuntarily—were all lying on a little white marble tripod table by my side, together with a beautiful china drinking vessel, which seemed familiar to me. A sigh of thankfulness that I was conscious, free of pain, and at comparative ease, escaped me, and I turned to survey again the other side of my chamber, when a remarkable female figure met my eye. She was seated on the low divan, quite motionless. She was reading intently, and by her costume I knew at once that she was a French sister of charity—one of those pure in heart, great in soul, and unflinching in purpose, who, on their saint-like mission of mercy and humanity, had followed the allies from France. Her dress was a plain black serge gown, with a spotless white coif, which fell in soft folds upon her shoulders, pure as the feathers of a dove. In her gentle face, which seemed familiar—for doubtless it had often been before me in the intervals of suffering and delirium—there was a kind, a peaceful, and divine expression, that underlay the lines of premature care, suffering, and privation. She was young; but among the dark brown hair that was braided smoothly and modestly over her pale, serene brow, I could detect already a silver thread or two. So perfectly regular were her features, so straight the lines of eyebrow and nose, that the dark, speaking eyes, and that drooping form of eyelid peculiar to the south of Europe, alone relieved them from tameness, for I had seen more sparkling beauty in a somewhat irregular face; but in those dark eyes there ever shone the steady light of a soul devoted to one great purpose; and yet at times, as I afterwards found, her manner could become merry, almost playful. Slight though the motion of simply turning my head, she heard it, arose anxiously, and, coming forward, handed to me a cooling drink. "Mademoiselle, I thank you!" said I, gratefully. "You must not thank me, monsieur. I am simply your nurse." "And I have disturbed you——" "At my office—merely, monsieur, at my office, which I can read at any time within the twenty-four hours." "And how often do you do this?" "Every day—all these pages—see!" Her voice was so very silvery, her eyes so calm and lustrous, her hands so white and small, that it was impossible not to see that she had been highly bred, delicately nurtured, and came of some good French family. "How long have I been here, mademoiselle?" I asked, after a pause. "I do not know. Monsieur was here when I came." "And who brought you to nurse me?"