"No! no!" exclaimed the Major, impatiently. Lloyd, feeling from his tone
that ignorance on this subject was something he could not excuse, tried
again.

"I've heard of Florence Nightingale. In one of my books at home, a
_Chatterbox_, I think, there is a picture of her going through a
hospital ward. Mothah told me how good she was to the soldiahs, and how
they loved her. They even kissed her shadow on the wall as she passed.
They were so grateful."

"Ah, yes," murmured the old man. "Florence Nightingale will live long in
song and story. An angel of mercy she was, through all the horrors of
the Crimean War; but she was an English woman, my dear. The one I mean
is an American, and her name ought to go down in history with the
bravest of its patriots and the most honored of its benefactors. I
learned to know her first in that long siege at Strasburg. She nursed me
there, and I have followed her career with grateful interest ever since,
noting with admiration all that she has done for her country and
humanity the world over.

"If America ever writes a woman's name in her temple of fame (I say it
with uncovered head), that one should be the name of _Clara Barton_."

The old soldier lifted his hat as he spoke, and replaced it so solemnly
that Lloyd felt very uncomfortable, as if she were in some way to blame
for not knowing and admiring this Red Cross nurse of whom she had never
heard. Her face flushed, and much embarrassed, she drew the toe of her
slipper along Hero's back, answering, in an abused tone:

"But, Majah, how could I be expected to know anything about her? There