In this hospital I found several wounded in the face, among whom is Sergeant Clark, also of the Eighth. The ball lodged somewhere in the mouth, and has not yet been found. It is very distressing to see him; his tongue is swollen to an immoderate size, and protrudes from his mouth. He is unable to speak, or take nourishment, except liquids. There are hundreds of cases, each peculiarly sad, and each presenting itself as an object of sympathy. Among the hospitals I have visited to-day, is the Old Theatre, where I saw so many terribly mangled bodies last evening. I took a quantity of pillows, chicken-soup, and crackers. The moment I entered the hospital, oh, what begging for pillows came from all parts of the room! “Please, give me a pillow, I’m wounded in the head, and my knapsack is so hard,” said one. Another wants one for the stump of his arm or leg. “I don’t think it would be so painful if I only had a pillow, or cushion, or something to keep it from the hard floor; there, that small one will do for me; please lady, let me have that.” “Oh,” said another, “if I only could have one of those pillows for my back; it is all raw from lying on the hard floor; Oh! can’t you spare me one?” For a few moments I stood with the pillows in my arms, unable to decide what to do. I could not supply all, and to whom should I give? The calls did not cease until the last one was given out, and then the cry was, “Can’t you bring more?” Concluding they were as needy as any, I came home, got another armful, and returned, thus supplying the worst cases in that room. While there, an incident occurred, to which I can never refer without weeping. As I was busy dishing out my broth, a friend of mine, Lieutenant Grisson, who was himself wounded, said: “I wish you would see if you can’t do something for that captain who lies the third from me; he is dreadfully wounded.” On going to him, I inquired if there was anything I could do for him, and if he would like a little broth. “Just a little, if you please,” he said. After placing a pillow under his head, and another under his back, I fed him as much as he wished, then asked what more I could do for him? He looked up with tearful eyes, and said: “Oh, you are so kind, I don’t know what to call you, unless it be sister.” “Very well,” I replied, “I’ll be your sister; but tell me, Captain, is there nothing more I can do for you before I go.” “If you will please write a few lines to mother.” Taking her address, I inquired whether there was anything in particular he wished me to write. I shall never forget the expression of his countenance as he looked up and said: “Oh! give her _some_ encouragement, but tell her I’m trusting in God.” He hesitated a few moments, and then added: “It will be so hard for mother, for she is a widow, and I am her only son.” I tried to speak a few words of comfort, telling him that if his trust was in God all would be well, for his hopes were anchored upon a