;
May angels guard us while we sleep,
Till morning light appears."

_June 7th, 1863. (In the cellar.)_--I feel especially grateful that amid
these horrors we have been spared that of suffering for water. The weather
has been dry a long time, and we hear of others dipping up the water from
ditches and mud-holes. This place has two large underground cisterns of
good cool water, and every night in my subterranean dressing-room a tub
of cold water is the nerve-calmer that sends me to sleep in spite of the
roar. One cistern I had to give up to the soldiers, who swarm about like
hungry animals seeking something to devour. Poor fellows! my heart bleeds
for them. They have nothing but spoiled, greasy bacon, and bread made of
musty pea-flour, and but little of that. The sick ones can't bolt it. They
come into the kitchen when Martha puts the pan of corn-bread in the stove,
and beg for the bowl she has mixed it in. They shake up the scrapings with
water, put in their bacon, and boil the mixture into a kind of soup, which
is easier to swallow than pea-bread. When I happen in they look so ashamed
of their poor clothes. I know we saved the lives of two by giving a few
meals. To-day one crawled upon the gallery to lie in the breeze. He looked
as if shells had lost their terrors for his dumb and famished misery. I've
taught Martha to make first-rate corn-meal gruel, because I can eat meal
easier that way than in hoe-cake, and I prepared him a saucerful, put milk
and sugar and nutmeg--I've actually got a nutmeg. When he ate it the tears
ran from his eyes. "Oh, madam, there was never anything so good! I shall
get better."

_June 9th, 1863_.--The churches are a great resort for those who have no
caves. People fancy they are not shelled so much, and they are substantial
and the pews good to sleep in. We had to leave this house last night, they
were shelling our quarter so heavily. The night before, Martha forsook the
cellar for a church. We went to H.'s office, which was comparatively
quiet last night. H. carried the bank box; I the case of matches; Martha
the blankets and pillows, keeping an eye on the shells. We slept on piles
of old newspapers. In the streets the roar seems so much more confusing, I
feel sure I shall run right into the way of a shell. They seem to have
five different sounds from the second of throwing them to the hollow echo
wandering among the hills, which sounds the most blood-curdling of all.

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