The long lane had its turning at last. The wounded from Inkerman who survived the first crowding, the hospital gangrene, and other causes of mortality, could not forget, if they were to live a thousand years, the first approaches of comfort, the first sensations of convalescence. Too many of them died, in spite of the resistance to death set up by devoted doctors and nurses. Some were kept alive, when given over from the severity of their wounds, — kept alive by watchful hands administering spoonfuls of nourishment through the night, and strengthening them for surgical treatment in the morning. Others were long in hospital, and not a few were invalided home; and, finally, more and more went back to the siege of Sebastopol. If these men honour their nurses, not less do the nurses honour most of the men. The courage of our soldiers was never doubted,—their valour in the battle-field; but it could never have been known but by being witnessed what was their pluck in hospital, — their indomitable patience as they lay on their beds of pain. Whatever their anguish, they could consider others. Among thousands of them, scarcely one uttered an oath, or any other word that could give pain to their nurses. They were grateful for every wish to serve them. They never flinched from the duty which cost them so dear, and gave up limb and life as if they themselves did not estimate the sacrifice; and after such an act as that, they accepted the smallest aid as so much bounty.