stove, and lay myself away upon it. The night grows very cold, and the wind creeps in everywhere. I am in a perfect chill, and cannot get warm even by a large fire. Mr. C —— sleeps quite well, and the unnatural heat about him makes him insensible to the change of temperature. How I shiver, and remember all the poor who know no other way of passing their autumn nights or winter days, than in this forlorn chill. If my bed-clothes were only here, how comfortable we all might be! Strange they are so delayed! P —— sleeps soundly 'over-head, with a few old quilts of his. Can I ever learn to make so hard a bed the place of rest, forgetfulness, or dreams? Ah, mother of mine, I do like a nice bed, and am quite homesick without it all the while. Though P —— seems comfortable, I cannot reconcile it to myself not to place him more according to my ideas of ease and rest.
Morning is met with gladness for the days are still warm. Morning brings the Doctor, and he confirms my fears of a fever for Mr. C ——. Now the cotton door is thronged with calls, to see or learn of my poor patient. At
