Two weeks later I was in my room, resting after a hard day, when a haggard officer, covered with mud and dust, entered. It was my husband. "My men are all dead," he said, with anguish, and, falling across the bed, he gave vent to the passionate grief of his heart. Thousands of Confederate soldiers were killed, thousands wounded. Richmond was saved! DEATH OF MRS. SARAH K. ROWE, "THE SOLDIERS' FRIEND" [From Southern Historical Papers.] ORANGEBURG, S. C., _June 2, 1884_. I feel warranted in informing you of the death of Mrs. Sarah K. Rowe, which occurred yesterday, the 1st of June, at her country home in this county. Mrs. Rowe was known for four and a half years, '61 to '65, as "the soldiers' friend." I detract nothing from great women all over the South, Cornelias of heroic type, when I state that Mrs. Rowe was pre-eminently the soldiers' friend. If this should meet the eye of Hood's Texans, of Polk's Tennesseeans, of Morgan's Kentuckians, or of Pickett's Virginians, any of whom passed on the South Carolina Railroad during the war, her face beaming with benevolence, her arms loaded with food, will be remembered as one of the sunny events of a dark time. From the first note of war Mrs. Rowe gave all she had and could collect by wonderful energy to the soldiers. She had her organized squads. The gay, strong soldier to Virginia was fed and cheered on; the mangled and sick were nursed and cared for. She had a mother's blessing for the brave; a mother's tears and sympathy for the dying and the dead. Mrs. Rowe emphatically lived and spent herself for the cause, and when it failed, like a noble woman she submitted, with the remark, "It is all right." The sight of a bandaged head or limb under her soft touch was an everyday picture. The echo of a thousand cheers as the troop trains passed her was recurring every day. She bandaged and waved God-speed as well. A few days ago Mrs. Rowe showed by request a part of her great legacy--the letters from the soldiers she had nursed to life again. Truly her reward was rich. She passed away, of paralysis, at a ripe old age. The soldiers and survivors buried her. The Young and "Old Guard" lowered her remains to mother earth. When Fame makes up its roll her precious name should stand out--the soldiers' friend. Yours truly, JOHN A. HAMILTON. "YOU WAIT" [Phoebe Y. Pember, in Hospital Life.] Pleasant episodes often occurred to vary disappointments and lighten duties of hospital life. "Kin you writ a letter?" drawled a whining voice from a bed in one of the wards, a cold day in '62. The speaker was an up-country Georgian, one of the kind called "Goobers" by the soldiers generally--lean, yellow, attenuated, with wispy strands of hair hanging over his high, thin cheek-bones. He put out a hand to detain me and the nails were like claws. "Why do you not let the nurse cut your nails?" "Because I aren't got any spoon, and I use them instead."