for her son, after days and nights on battlefields,
through ambulances, and among scenes which would have killed most women.

'She will be here directly, and I dread her coming, for I'm afraid the
poor lad who has just gone is her boy. I'd rather face a cannon than
these brave women, with their hope and courage and great sorrow,' says
the surgeon.

'Ah, these poor mothers break my heart!' adds the nurse, wiping her eyes
on her big apron; and with the words Mrs Meg came in.

There was the same dress, the basket and umbrella, the rustic speech,
the simple manners; but all were made pathetic by the terrible
experience which had changed the tranquil old woman to that haggard
figure with wild eyes, dusty feet, trembling hands, and an expression of
mingled anguish, resolution, and despair which gave the homely figure
a tragic dignity and power that touched all hearts. A few broken words
told the story of her vain search, and then the sad quest began again.
People held their breath as, led by the nurse, she went from bed to
bed, showing in her face the alternations of hope, dread, and bitter
disappointment as each was passed. On a narrow cot was a long figure
covered with a sheet, and here she paused to lay one hand on her heart
and one on her eyes, as if to gather courage to look at the nameless
dead. Then she drew down the sheet, gave a long shivering sigh of
relief, saying softly:

'Not my son, thank God! but some mother's boy.' And stooping down, she
kissed the cold forehead tenderly.

Somebody sobbed there, and Miss Cameron shook two tears out of her eyes,
anxious to lose no look or gesture as the poor soul, nearly spent with
the long strain, struggled on down the long line. But her search was
happily ended for, as if her voice had roused him from his feverish
sleep, a gaunt, wild-eyed man sat up in his bed, and stretching his arms
to her, cried in a voice that echoed through the room:

'Mother, mother! I knew you'd come to me!'

She did go to him, with a cry of love and joy that thrilled every
listener, as she gathered him in her arms with the tears and prayers and
blessing such as only a fond and faithful old mother could give.

The last scene was a cheerful contrast to this; for the country kitchen
was bright with Christmas cheer, the wounded hero, with black patch and
crutches well displayed, sat by the fire in the old chair whose familiar
creak was soothing to his ear; pretty Dolly was stirring about, gaily