The scene I can never forget.  As the strains of martial music fell upon the summer air, pale, gaunt forms struggled to their feet, feebly but eagerly donned clothes and accoutrements, and, staggering under their weight, crept to the office of the surgeon in charge, piteously begging that they might “get to go on with the boys.”  Many, too weak to rise, broke into bitter sobs:  tears poured from eyes bright with fever or dim with the shadow of death.  Passing among these, I was startled to see a patient, whom all had supposed to be dying, sitting up in bed.  Stretching his arms toward me, he cried out, “Lady, lady, come here!” He was a boy of sixteen years, one of the glorious Third Alabama, and he begged so hard to be allowed to see “the boys” that I had his bunk drawn up to an open window, supporting him in my arms so that he could see.  When his own regiment passed, he tried with faltering breath to cheer, but, failing, waved his feeble hand, gasping out, “God knows, I wish I could be with you, boys, but ’pears like the heavenly Master ain’t willing.”

His comrades passed on.  The boy was borne back to his place, whence, in a few hours, he passed beyond all pain and disappointment.

I need not mention here the magnificent record of the army that passed that day the streets of Richmond.  The pages of history are ablaze with the glory of it.  Not less glorious to me are the records written in my heart of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, sublime resignation.  Alas for my poor, worn, shattered, suffering, dying boys! how their souls were tried, yet never found wanting!

The fortunes of war led me from the scenes of my first service to rejoin my husband, who had been ordered to the Army of Tennessee.  On my journey, and while waiting to be assigned to duty, I lingered for a while among the homes of Southern soldiers.  How can I convey to you the impressions there received?

Here lay the main-spring of the valor which then and long afterward astonished the world.  In the towns and near the front thousands of women daily ministered to the sick and wounded.  When a battle ended, these could soon know the fate of loved ones, perhaps were permitted to nurse them, to attend their dying hour, or—­inestimable privilege—­reclaim the precious casket which had enshrined a gallant soul.  But in many a country home women endured, day after day, crucifixion of the soul, yet heroically, patiently, toiled and prayed on.  Startled by flying rumors, tortured by suspense, weary with unwonted labor, they never dreamed of leaving the post of duty or of neglecting the interests confided to their care.  No comforter had they save their God, no resource but unwearied prayer.

Memory brings back to me a scene which sadly illustrates the exalted courage and faith of these noble women.  I was present one night when, at a plantation home, the family and servants were assembled, as usual, for prayers.  The aged father led the worship, but, while praying for the absent sons, two of whom had already fallen in battle, he faltered and ceased.  Instantly the clear, sweet voice of the mother was heard as she prayed fervently, not only for the dear ones at the front, but for the holy cause, for other parents, other sons, and for strength to submit to God’s will.