“We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall never forget the pale, worn faces, or the great, sunken eyes which looked at me so wistfully as I went from cot to cot, speaking words of cheer to the sufferers, some of whom were Mark’s companions in prison, their dim eyes lighting up with joy as they recognized him and heard of his escape.  There are several nurses here, but no words of mine can tell what one of them is to the poor fellows, or how eagerly they watch for her coming, following her with so greedy glances as he moves about the room, and holding her hand with a clasp, as if they would keep her with them always.  Indeed, more than one heart, as I am told, has confessed its allegiance to her; but she answers all the same:  ’I have no love to give.  It died out long ago, and cannot be recalled.’  Yon can guess who she is, Katy.  The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as Marian.”

There were great tear-blots upon that letter as Katy put it aside, and nestling close to Morris, laid her head upon his knee, where his hand could smooth her golden curls, while she gazed long and earnestly into the fire, musing upon Helen’s closing words, and thinking how much they expressed, and how just a tribute they were to the noble woman whose life had been one constant sacrifice of self for another’s good—­“The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as Marian.”

THE END.