would soothe one throb of pain, and she quietly kept on with her task.
There is no high-sounding record of what those women did, who, in plain, hoopless dress, recognized as army nurses, on a pay of twelve dollars a month, stood by the beds of death-struck soldiers—combing out locks of matted hair, binding up their wounds, and smoothing out the pillow when in the delirium of pain they called for mother, wife, or sister.
Hers was a hand which shrank from no festering wound, which recoiled not when the blood and dirt of the deadly trenches bespattered the torn uniform — she washed away the grime of battle smoke from faces unrecognizable through the mask surrounded with the locks of tangled and scorched hair. Her hand fed with pitying gentleness many a one whose good right arm, mangled by shot or shell, lay food for the worms. Surely a reward should be due her for this faithful toil, even if the pages of her story failed to bring an interest to those whose hearts have bled, and been well-nigh broken before the stroke of battle.
Many were "Unknown" who were brought into those hospitals—perhaps it was her hand which closed the eyes of him for whom you mourn—perhaps it was her hand which helped to make decent the shroud in which your noble one was brought home to you
