deeply attached to Max,
and I can't bear to see a cloud between them. Max, with Annie and Reeney,
drove off an hour ago, Annie so glad at the prospect of again seeing her
mother that nothing could cloud her day. And so the close companionship of
six months, and of dangers, trials, and pleasures shared together, is
over.

_Oak Ridge, July 26, 1862, Saturday._--It was not till Wednesday that H.
could get into Vicksburg, ten miles distant, for a passport, without which
we could not go on the cars. We started Thursday morning. I had to ride
seven miles on a hard-trotting horse to the nearest station. The day was
burning at white heat. When the station was reached my hair was down, my
hat on my neck, and my feelings were indescribable.

On the train one seemed to be right in the stream of war, among officers,
soldiers, sick men and cripples, adieus, tears, laughter, constant
chatter, and, strangest of all, sentinels posted at the locked car-doors
demanding passports. There was no train south from Jackson that day, so we
put up at the Bowman House. The excitement was indescribable. All the
world appeared to be traveling through Jackson. People were besieging the
two hotels, offering enormous prices for the privilege of sleeping
anywhere under a roof. There were many refugees from New Orleans, among
them some acquaintances of mine. The peculiar style of [women's] dress
necessitated by the exigencies of war gave the crowd a very striking
appearance. In single suits I saw sleeves of one color, the waist of
another, the skirt of another; scarlet jackets and gray skirts; black
waists and blue skirts; black skirts and gray waists; the trimming chiefly
gold braid and buttons, to give a military air. The gray and gold uniforms
of the officers, glittering between, made up a carnival of color. Every
moment we saw strange meetings and partings of people from all over the
South. Conditions of time, space, locality, and estate were all loosened;
everybody seemed floating he knew not whither, but determined to be jolly,
and keep up an excitement. At supper we had tough steak, heavy,
dirty-looking bread, Confederate coffee. The coffee was made of either
parched rye or cornmeal, or of sweet potatoes cut in small cubes and
roasted. This was the favorite. When flavored with "coffee essence,"
sweetened with sorghum, and tinctured with chalky milk, it made a curious
beverage, which, after tasting, I preferred not to drink. Every one else
was dr