laundresses, with whom he was always in “hot water.”  For this reason he was dubbed by the surgeons General Blandner, and his employees were called Blandner’s Brigade.  He was methodical in all things.  His books were exquisitely kept.  I had been a good musician, and now used often to sing to Blandner’s lute, which he played in a masterly manner.  His improvisations were a great delight to me, and, finding me so appreciative, he composed a lovely set of waltzes, “The Hospital Waltzes,” which were dedicated to me, but never published, only exquisitely written out on pieces of wall-paper by the composer.  After the war, Mr. Blandner obtained through Dr. McAllister the position of professor of music at the female college at Marion, Alabama, but removed later to Philadelphia, whore he now resides, still as a professor and teacher of music.

The cold increased, and the number of patients grew larger.  Snow and ice rendered it difficult for me to get to the wards, as they lay quite far apart.  The boarding-house at first occupied by the surgeons’ families was now vacated and fitted up for officers’ wards, a room being found for me in a log house, owned by an old lady, Mrs. Evans, whose sons, except the youngest, a mere lad, were in the Confederate army.

It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the courthouse.  The road thither, lying through a piece of piney woods, was almost always blocked by drifted snow or what the Georgians called “slush” (a mixture of mud and snow).  I must confess that the freezing mornings chilled my patriotism a little, but just because it was so cold the sick needed closer attention.  One comfort never failed me:  it was the watchful devotion of a soldier whom I had nursed in Gainesville, Alabama, and who, by his own request, was now permanently attached to my special corps of “helpers.”  No matter how cold the morning or how stormy, I never opened my door but there was “Old Peter” waiting to attend me.  When the blinding storms of winter made the roads almost impassable by night, Peter would await my departure from the hospital with his lantern, and generally on very stormy nights with an old horse which he borrowed for the occasion, savagely cutting short my remonstrances with a cross “Faith, is it now or in the mornin’ ye’ll be lavin’?” He would limp beside me quite to the door of my room, and with a rough “Be aisy, now,” in reply to my thanks, would scramble upon the horse and ride back.

“I know not is he far or near, or that he lives, or is he dead,” only this, that my dreams of the past are often haunted by the presence of this brave soldier and humble, loyal friend.  I seem to see again the lined and rugged face ("harsh,” others thought, wearing always for me a smile which reminded me of the sunlight brightening an old gray ruin,) and the toil-hardened hands which yet served me so tenderly.  I seem to hear once more the rich Irish brogue which gave character and emphasis