"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 to all he said, a _naughty_ character and a most
_unpleasant_ emphasis sometimes, I must admit, fully appreciated by
any who chanced to displease him, but to me always as sweet and
pleasant as the zephyrs blowing from "the groves of Blarney." Peter
was an Alabama soldier. On the first day of my installation as matron
of Buckner Hospital, located then at Gainesville, Alabama, after the
battle of Shiloh, I found him lying in one of the wards badly wounded,
and suffering, as were many others, from scurvy. He had been morose
and fierce to all who approached him. At first I fared no better.
"Sure, what wad a lady be wantin' in a place like this?" said he,
crossly. "Why, comrade," I replied, "I thought you would like to have
a lady to nurse you ?" "Divil a wan," growled he, and, drawing the
coverlid over his face, refused to speak again. I felt disheartened
for the moment, but after a consultation with Dr. McAllister, surgeon
in charge,--than whom a better disciplinarian or a kinder-hearted man
never lived,--it was decided that Peter should be induced or compelled
to receive my ministrations. For several days, however, he remained
sullen and most unwilling to be nursed, but this mood softened, and
long before he was well enough to leave the ward the warm Irish heart
had melted, and I had secured a friend whose unalterable devotion
attended me through all the vicissitudes of the war.

Being permanently disabled, by reason of his wound, from service in