uch more comfortable, there was something so
irresistible in this persistent devotion, that no one had the heart to
oust her from her post. She slept on the floor, without uttering a
complaint; bore jokes somewhat of the rudest; fared scantily, though
her basket was daily filled with luxuries for her boy; and tended that
petulant personage with a never-failing patience beautiful to see.

I feel a glow of moral rectitude in saying this of her; for, though a
perfect pelican to her young, she pecked and cackled (I don't know that
pelicans usually express their emotions in that manner,) most
obstreperously, when others invaded her premises; and led me a weary
life, with "George's tea-rusks," "George's foot bath," "George's
measles," and "George's mother;" till after a sharp passage of arms and
tongues with the matron, she wrathfully packed up her rusks, her son,
and herself, and departed, in an ambulance, scolding to the very last.

This is the comic side of the matter. The serious one is harder to
describe; for the presence, however brief, of relations and friends by
the bedside of the dead or dying, is always a trial to the bystanders.
They are not near enough to know how best to comfort, yet too near to
turn their backs upon the sorrow that finds its only solace in
listening to recitals of last words, breathed into nurse's ears, or
receiving the tender legacies of love and longing bequeathed through
them.

To me, the saddest sight I saw in that sad place, was the spectacle of
a grey-haired father, sitting hour after hour by his son, dying from
the poison of his wound. The old father, hale and hearty; the young
son, past all help, though one could scarcely believe it; for the
subtle fever, burning his strength away, flushed his cheeks with color,
filled his eyes with lustre, and lent a mournful mockery of health to
face and figure, making the poor lad comelier in death than in life.
His bed was not in my ward; but I was often in and out, and for a day
or two, the pair were much together, saying little, but looking much.
The old man tried to busy himself with book or pen, that his presence
might not be a burden; and once when he sat writing, to the anxious
mother at home, doubtless, I saw the son's eyes fix upon his face, with
a look of mingled resignation and regret, as if endeavoring to teach
himself to say cheerfully the long good bye. And again, when the son
slept, the father watched him as he had himself been watche