"Twas just goodness, and the real downright article of patriotism, I
guess," said the hearty nurse, smiling.

"Oh no," said Anne; "I was lonely and sad, and glad to come."

"It _doos_ kinder rouse one up to see a lot of men hit in all sorts of
ways, legs and arms and everything flying round," remarked the driver,
as if approving Anne's selection of remedies for loneliness.

They reached Number Two at dawn, and found the wounded in rows upon the
floor of the barn dignified by the name of hospital. There had been no
attempt to classify them after the few beds were filled. One poor torn
fragment of humanity breathed his last as the nurses entered, another an
hour later. Mary Crane set herself to work with ready skill; Anne, after
going outside two or three times to let her tears flow unseen over the
sorrowful sights, was able to assist in taking care of two kinds of
cases--those who were the least hurt and those who were beyond hope, the
slightly wounded and the dying. One man, upon whose face was the gray
shadow of death, asked her in a whisper to write a letter for him. She
found paper and pen, and sat down beside the bed to receive his farewell
message to his wife and children. "And tell little Jim he must grow up
and be a comfort to his mother," he murmured; and then turning his quiet
gaze slowly upon the nurse: "His mother is only twenty-two years old
now, miss. I expect she'll feel bad, Mary will, when she hears." Poor
young wife! The simple country phraseology covered as much sorrow as the
finest language of the schools. During the night the man died.

The new nurses remained at Number Two six days. Anne's work consisted
principally in relieving Mary Crane at dawn, and keeping the watch
through the early morning hours while she slept; for the head surgeon
and Mary would not allow her to watch at night. The surgeon had two
assistants; with one of these silent old men (they were both
gray-haired) she kept watch while the sun rose slowly over the
hill-tops, while the birds twittered, and the yellow butterflies came
dancing through the open doors and windows, over the heads of the poor
human sleepers. But Number Two had greater ease now. The hopelessly
wounded were all at rest, their sufferings in this life over. Those who
were left, in time would see health again.

On the seventh day a note came to the surgeon in charge from the
temporary hospital at Peterson's Mill, asking for medicines. "If you can
possibly s