rible strife is over, and so many thousands return to
their homes, what will peace bring us of all we hoped? Jimmy! Dear
Lord, spare us that one!

November 2d, 1864.

This morning we heard Jimmy is engaged to Helen Trenholm, daughter of
the Secretary of the Confederate States. He wrote asking Brother's
consent, saying they had been engaged since August, though he had had
no opportunity of writing until that day--the middle of September. I
cried myself blind. It seems that our last one is gone. But this is the
first selfish burst of feeling. Later I shall come to my senses and
love my sister that is to be. But my darling! my darling! O Jimmy! How
can I give you up? You have been so close to me since Harry died!

Alone now; best so.

NO. 19 DAUPHINE ST.,
Saturday night, December 31st, 1864.

One year ago, in my little room in the Camp Street house, I sat
shivering over Tennyson and my desk, selfishly rejoicing over the
departure of a year that had brought pain and discomfort only to me,
and eagerly welcoming the dawning of the New One whose first days were
to bring death to George and Gibbes, and whose latter part was to
separate me from Miriam, and brings me news of Jimmy's approaching
marriage. O sad, dreary, fearful Old Year! I see you go with pain!
Bitter as you have been, how do we know what the coming one has in
store for us? What new changes will it bring? Which of us will it take?
I am afraid of eighteen sixty-five, and have felt a vague dread of it
for several years past.

Nothing remains as it was a few months ago. Miriam went to Lilly, in
the Confederacy, on the 19th of October (ah! Miriam!), and mother and I
have been boarding with Mrs. Postlethwaite ever since. I miss her
sadly. Not as much, though, as I would were I less engaged. For since
the first week in August, I have been teaching the children for Sister;
and since we have been here, I go to them every morning instead of
their coming to me. Starting out at half-past eight daily, and
returning a little before three, does not leave me much time for
melancholy reflections. And there is no necessity for indulging in them
at present; they only give pain.

NO. 211 CAMP ST.,
April 19th, 1865.

"All things are taken from us