A burial-place was found for Sister Winifred on a piece of ground between two rocks, on the hills of Balaclava, where her remains could repose without fear of desecration. The funeral formed a contrast to that of the Protestant sister at Smyrna, but was equally impressive. We can picture the sad cavalcade, distinguished by the symbols of the Roman Catholic faith, wending its way up the hillside to the lonely spot in the rocks above the Black Sea. Two priests preceded the coffin, chanting the prayers, and the black-robed nuns came closely behind, while soldiers and military and medical officers followed. Amongst the mourning band walked one tall, slight figure dressed simply in black whose presence arrested attention. It was Florence Nightingale, who had come to pay her tribute of love and honour to the sister who, if divided by faith, had been united with her in holy work and deeds of mercy. A tribute was paid to the memory of Sister Winifred in a poem by a friend, from which we quote the following verses:-- They laid her in her lonely grave upon a foreign strand, Far from her own dear island home, far from her native land. They bore her to her long last home amid the clash of arms, And the hymn they sang seemed sadly sweet amid war’s fierce alarms. They heeded not the cannon’s roar, the rifle’s deadly shot, But onward still they sadly went to gain that lowly spot; And there, with many a fervent prayer and many a word of love, They left her in her lowly grave with a simple cross above. * * * * * Yet far away from her convent grey, and far from her lowly cell, And far from the soft and silvery tone of the sweet convent bell, And far from the home she loved so well, and far from her native sky, ’Mid the cannon’s roar on a hostile shore she laid her down to die. * * * * * She went not forth to gain applause, she sought not empty fame; E’en those she tended might not know her history or her name; No honours waited on her path, no flattering voice was nigh; For she only sought to toil and love, and ’mid her toil to die. They raise no trophy to her name, they rear no stately bust, To tell the stranger where she rests, co-mingling with the dust; They leave her in her lowly grave, beneath that foreign sky, Where she had taught them how to live, and taught them how to die.