While we in the mountains of Tennessee were tracing the wanderings of Will Mather and Captain Carleton, Mrs. Simms and Annie had stood untiringly at their posts beside the sick and dying soldiers who had learned to bless and watch for the stern widow, and to love and worship the beautiful Annie Graham. And well had she earned such appreciation, for she had been most faithful to the wretched ones committed to her care,—faithful both to body and soul, and in the better world she knew there was waiting to welcome her more than one, whose darkened mind she had led to the fountain of all light. And Annie had made a vow to stay till from that foul Southern prison, where 28,000 men had died, there came to her _the one_ for whom she always looked so anxiously when new arrivals came, her blue eyes running rapidly over each wasted form, and then filling with tears when the scrutiny was found to be in vain. James Carleton had never been heard from since that letter sent to her so long ago, and hope had died out of Annie’s heart, when at last, with Widow Simms, she stood by the cot where lay the insensible form of which the physician had spoken so discouragingly. It was the figure of a young man, who must once have been finely formed, with handsome face and hair and eyes. The latter were closed now, and only the lids moved with a convulsive motion, as Annie bent over him. The dark hair, matted and coarse and filthy, had curled in rings about the bony forehead, but had been cut away when the bath was given, and the closely shorn head was like many other heads which Annie Graham’s hands had touched, gently, tenderly, as they now moved over this one, trying to infuse some life into the breathing skeleton. He was to be her charge,—he was in her division and Mrs. Simms’ keen grey eyes scanned Annie curiously as she bent over the poor fellow.