I may as well state that I came off with flying colors, earning the precious privilege, so ardently desired, of being enrolled among those ready for duty and to be trusted.  My patient recovered, and returned to his command, the ——­ Mississippi Regiment.  His name was D. Babers, and twenty years after the war I met him once more,—­a stalwart, bearded man, as unlike as possible the pale young soldier who had lived in my memory.  His delight and gratitude and that of his family seemed unbounded, and so I found the bread once cast upon the waters very sweet when returned to me “after many days.”

Finding that my desultory wanderings among the larger hospitals were likely to result in little real usefulness, and that the ladies attached to the Soldiers’ Rest would be glad of my help, I became a regular attendant there.  This delightful place of refuge for the sick and wounded was situated high up on Clay Street, not very far from one of the camps and parade-grounds.  A rough little school-house, it had been transformed into a bower of beauty and comfort by loving hands.  The walls, freshly whitewashed, were adorned with attractive pictures.  The windows were draped with snowy curtains tastefully looped back to admit the summer breeze or carefully drawn to shade the patient, as circumstances required.  The beds were miracles of whiteness, and clean linen sheets, in almost every case, draped and covered them.  Softest pillows in slips of odorous linen supported the restless heads of the sick.  By the side of each cot stood a small table (one or two old-fashioned stands of solid mahogany among them).  Upon these were spread fine napkins.  Fruit, drinks, etc., were set upon them, not in coarse, common crockery, but in delicate china and glass. Nothing was too good for the soldiers.  The school-house contained three rooms.  The school-room proper was quite large, and here were ranged about thirty beds.  One of the recitation-rooms was set apart for patients who might need special attention or seclusion.  The other was occupied by the ladies whose duty it was to receive and distribute the delicate and nutritious supplies of food which unfailingly arrived at stated hours, borne by aristocratic-looking colored servants, on silver waiters or in baskets covered with snowy damask.  During every hour of the day, gentle women ministered untiringly to the sick.  They woke from fevered dreams to behold kindly faces bending above them, to feel the touch of soft hands, to receive the cooling draught or welcome food.  Every evening brought carriage-loads of matrons and young girls laden with flowers or fruit, bringing books, and, better than all, smiles and pleasant words.  The sick soldiers were objects of interest to all.  All hearts yearned over them, all hands were ready to serve them.  As night came on, the ladies who had served during the day were replaced by others.  No one ever failed to meet her self-imposed duties.  No patient was for a moment neglected.