July 14th, 1863.—­Moved yesterday into a house I call “Fair Rosamond’s bower” because it would take a clue of thread to go through it without getting lost.  One room has five doors opening into the house, and no windows.  The stairs are like ladders, and the colonel’s contraband valet won’t risk his neck taking down water, but pours it through the windows on people’s heads.  We shan’t stay in it.  Men are at work closing up the caves; they had become hiding-places for trash.  Vicksburg is now like one vast hospital—­every one is getting sick or is sick.  My cook was taken to-day with bilious fever, and nothing but will keeps me up.

July 23d, 1863.—­We moved again two days ago.

Aug. 20.—­Sitting in my easy chair to-day, looking out upon a grassy slope of the hill in the rear of this house, I have looked over this journal as if in a dream; for since the last date sickness and sorrow have been with me.  I feel as if an angry wave had passed over me bearing away strength and treasure.  For on one day there came to me from New Orleans the news of Mrs. B.’s death, a friend whom no tie of blood could have made nearer.  The next day my beautiful boy ended his brief life of ten days and died in my arms.  My own illness caused him to perish; the fatal cold in the cave was the last straw that broke down strength.  The colonel’s sweet wife has come, and I do not lack now for womanly companionship.  She says that with such a pre-natal experience perhaps death was the best for him.  I try to think so, and to be glad that H. has not been ill, though I see the effects.  This book is exhausted, and I wonder whether there will be more adventures by flood and field to cause me to begin another.