say that never during the whole four years of the war was that trust disturbed by even the roughest man of them all, although I was often placed in very trying circumstances, many times being entirely dependent upon their protection and care, which never failed me.  So I used to set at naught the well-meant counsels of my kindly old friend, to laugh at his lugubrious countenance and the portentous shaking of his silvery head.  We remained firm friends, however, and, though my dear old mentor has long since passed away, I still revere his memory.  Dr. Yates was an ideal Texan, brave, determined, plain, and straightforward, either a warm, true friend or an uncompromising enemy.  He wished to be at the front, and was never satisfied with hospital duties.  Mrs. Yates was a favorite with all.  Dr. Jackson, of Alabama, in charge of the officers’ quarters, performed some miracles in the way of surgical operation.  He was a great favorite with his patients, who complained bitterly because they were so often deprived of his services for a time, when his skilful surgery was needed at the front.  Besides these were Drs. Devine, Ruell, Estell, Baruch, Frost, Carmichael, Welford, and Griffith, none of whom I know particularly well.

Meantime, the wounded of several battles had filled and crowded the wards.  As before, every train came in freighted with human misery.  In the Buckner Hospital alone there were nearly a thousand beds, tenanted by every conceivable form of suffering.

An ambulance-train arrived one night, bringing an unusually large number of sick and wounded men, whose piteous moans filled the air as they were brought up the hill on “stretchers” or alighted at the door of the hospital from ambulances, which, jolting over the rough, country road, had tortured them inexpressibly.

Occasionally a scream of agony would arise, but more frequently suppressed groans bespoke strong men’s suffering manfully borne.  In the ward where those badly wounded were placed, there was so much to be done, that morning found the work unfinished.

It was, therefore, later than usual when I found time to pay my usual morning visits to other wards.

Upon entering Ward No. 4, my attention was attracted by a new patient, who lay propped up on one of the bunks near a window.  He was a mere lad (perhaps twenty).  His eyes, as they met mine, expressed so plainly a sense of captivity and extreme dislike of it that I felt very sorry for him.  He had been dressed in a clean hospital shirt, but one shoulder and arm was bare and bandaged, for he was wounded in the left shoulder,—­a slight wound, but sufficient to occasion severe pain and fever.

At first I did not approach him, but his eyes followed me as I paused by each bed to ascertain the needs of the sick and to bestow particular care in many cases.  At last I stood by his side, and, placing my hand upon his head, spoke to him.  He moved uneasily, seemingly trying to repress the quivering of his lip and the tears that, nevertheless, would come.  Not wishing to notice his emotion just then, I called the nurse, and, by way of diversion, gave a few trifling directions, then passed on to another ward.