Where are the thoughts which should have budded into rich blossoms of love—where are the creeping mosses of sweet remembrance? Alas, alas! Here I sit in womanhood's prime, in my coarse dress, with hands roughened by hard toil—a Hospital Nurse,—and my heart is buried in the past.
The evenings are long as I sit alone—hearkening to the wind, or the constant nibbling of the mice, which keep me in a continual flutter. I think of all which has gone away, and wonder if the future holds anything bright in store for me. Life seems a dream—my heart seems to sleep in an enchanted house, haunted by many ghosts.
Well, it is only a little while. How many lamps I have seen go out—and mine may disappear as suddenly. I will try to be content in doing the work which my hands find here, and earn the commendation of the Master when we shall go up at that great day, bearing our sheaves with us.
Those mice—Oh, those nibbling mice—I think I will fix them this night, so that sleep may not be scared away from my pillow.
February 7.
Another gloomy day without,—no sun,—no rain,—no wind,—only cold, dull dampness, which chills to the marrow of one's bones, and renders a warm fire a positive necessity. Within my cloth house the horror of a murder lies red and glaring. Only think of a little life going out in Aunt Becky's tent, but I cannot endure the patter-patter of those little feet,
