t was like wine to the weak. The down-hearted took new
courage, and those who were well enough to be hobbling about on
crutches, who were telling stories of the battles, forgot what they were
saying while listening to her voice. Her presence was noonday, her
absence night. Once, when through long watching and patient waiting her
strength gave way, and the fever raged in her own veins, it was touching
to see their sorrow. The loud-talking spoke in whispers, and walked
noiselessly along the wards, for fear of increasing the pain which
racked her aching head; the sick ones, who missed the touch of her
magic hand, and the sweet music of her voice, and the sunlight of her
presence, whose fevers were raging because she was absent, when the
physician went his rounds in the morning, at noon, and at night,
inquired not about themselves, but her. When the fever passed,--when she
was well enough to walk through the wards, and hold for a moment the
hands which were stretched out on every side,--it was as if her very
presence had power to heal.

How blessed her work!--to give life and strength; to soothe pain, change
sorrow to joy; to sit beside the dying, and talk of the Lamb of God that
taketh away the sin of the world; to wipe the dampness of death from
their brows, listen to their last words, and, when the spirit had flown,
to close the sightless eyes, and cut from the pale brow a lock of hair
for a fond mother far away, thinking ever of her dying boy.

So the months went by,--autumn to winter, winter to spring, and spring
to summer.

CHAPTER XXII.

UNDER THE OLD FLAG.

There was no change at Andersonville, but in the loathsome prison it was
ever the same terrible scene of starvation, corruption, disease,
despair, and death. Every morning those who had died during the night
were collected by the prisoners and laid in rows by the prison gate,
where, during the day, they were piled upon the dead-cart and borne out
to the trenches. There was no hope of relief for the living, and each
prisoner looked forward with indifference to his inevitable fate. Above
them floated the Rebel flag. They were kept there beneath its folds by
Jefferson Davis and General Lee, till thirteen thousand had been starved
and murdered.

Paul knew that, notwithstanding Uncle Peter's constant care and nursing,
he was growing weaker; but he had learned to look death calmly in the
face, and so was undisturbed by the prospect. He knew that God, who