It chanced that there was in one of the boxes a piece of red flannel.  With this I trimmed the suit under his careful supervision.  I can never forget how happy he was to get into this suit, or how he danced around me, pretending to go through the artillery drill, and to load and fire at imaginary Yankees.

Later, his cap was retrimmed, the letters and artillery badge furbished up, and one beautiful day was made sad and gloomy to his friends and myself by the departure of this brave, dear boy, to rejoin his command.

Eager, bright, full of fire and ardor, the young soldier went to meet his doom.  He reached the front (where the company to which he belonged was always to be found) shortly before the battle of Peach-tree Creek, and here, his bright young face turned to the foe, his eager hands serving his gun to the last, he met a soldier’s death.

Alas! poor Percy, his fate seemed hard; yet, while sincerely grieving, I remembered with some degree of comfort the fact that so he had wished to die,—­“Upon the field of glory.”

There came to the hospital at the same time with young Percy an intimate friend and comrade of his, whose name and the circumstances of his death were preserved in a diary kept by me, but which, with all my papers, fell into the hands of the enemy subsequently.  This poor fellow had pneumonia, which soon developed into typhoid.  He was delirious when brought in and never regained consciousness.  Vainly I strove to soothe him, stroking back the long, straight hair, black as a raven’s wing, vainly trying to close the magnificent black eyes, which forever stared into space, while the plaintive voice repeated ceaselessly, “Viens a moi, oh, ma mere” and thus he moaned and moaned until at last the white eyelids drooped beneath the gaze of Death, and the finger of eternal silence was laid upon the fevered lips.

Of course Percy was not told how his friend died until long afterward, when his questions could no longer be evaded.  He was deeply moved, crying out, “I don’t want to die like that.  If I must die during this war, I hope I shall be instantly killed upon the battle-field.”  This wish was granted.

He sleeps in a soldier’s grave.  In the light of eternity the sad mystery which still shadows the hearts of those who live to mourn the holy cause—­loved and lost—­exists no more for him.

Besides the “Buckner,” there were the “Bragg” and two more hospitals, the names of which I have forgotten, one presided over by two gentle ladies,—­Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. ——­, of Florida,—­whose devotion and self-sacrifice, as well as their lovely Christian character and perfect manners, made them well-beloved by everybody at the post.  Mrs. Harrison was a zealous Episcopalian.  Through her influence and correspondence frequent services were held in Newnan.  We several times enjoyed the ministrations of Bishops Quintard, Beckwith, and Wilmer.  The large number of wounded men,