“If _he_ should be wounded,” she said to herself, “some of the girls will care for him as I care for these men.” Mary was not jealous lest another should have the privilege of nursing the man she loved, and lest in his heart should blossom the flower of thankfulness for another than herself. Mary had not much time to think about herself; her thoughts were too busy with others. It may have been because she was not jealous nor over-watchful for her property in her lover, that when he was wounded he was really brought to the hospital where she served so faithfully. Of course he was given to Mary to nurse--it could not have been otherwise, and he was very seriously wounded. When the operation was performed by which the doctors hoped to save his life, it was Mary who stood by and assisted. She did not faint nor cry out even when they cut his broken arm away, the arm on which she had dreamed she might lean for the rest of her earthly life. Mary was thinking about his mother and was glad that she was not there to see what she herself saw. During many of the hours when Mary might have slept, she was writing to the mother--writing brave letters wherein she sought to veil the fear that was in her own heart. Tom--we will call him Tom because that was not his name--Tom had never been able to believe in any life beyond the earth life, and as Mary watched his strength grow less she prayed all day and most of the night that something might happen to make Tom believe in heaven and angels. The exigencies of war had left him long on the battlefield after the shell had shattered his right arm, and his wound had been infected before the operation by which the doctors sought to save him for England and for Mary. Tom knew that he might have to leave the world. Mary would not keep the overwhelming possibility from him, though she still kept it from his mother; for she hoped that in the hours or days which might be all that remained for him in the sunshine of the upper world something might happen, some miracle of thought or of love, which should open his eyes to what she called the Truth. Each day I spent a little time in the long white room in which Tom lay; but even if he could have seen me, I might not have been much comfort to him, and I cannot speak to any ears except those trained to listen for unusual sounds. I sympathized with Mary. Having convinced so many souls of the truth of immortality through a former writing of mine, I wanted to convince one more--for Mary’s sake; because I knew that if Tom should go out of life firmly believing that death was the end of him, it might really be the end of him for a long time. In my perplexity I sought the Beautiful Being for advice. That angel’s knowledge compared to mine is like an arc-light beside a tallow dip.