It is this waiting so long a prisoner, begging to be liberated.  My hands will not remain folded or my brain idle.  I must write again of poor Miss Snow.  I ventured into her room, feeling anxious to help her by coaxing her into a better frame of mind.  She is wasted to a shadow; I am sure if she had any food to tempt her to eat she would grow stronger; some nice bread and milk at bed time would help her to sleep.  I soothed her as I would a child in trouble, until she ceased her raving, and then questioned her to discover the cause of her disease.  She is a well-educated, intelligent lady.  In her ravings she often says she is the only lady in the hall, and seems to have a temper of her own, which has been made more than violent by her stay in this ward.  She is very fond of drawing small pencil sketches, and works at them late at night, which I think is certainly injurious.  I conclude she is the victim of late hours and fancy work; she acknowledges she used to sew until after twelve, working for bazaars.  If the ladies would only come here and study the needs of these poor victims of insanity, and make better arrangements for their welfare, they would find a higher calling than exhausting their energies working for bazaars, and leaving us to the care of those who care nothing for us and will not learn.  Too much temper and too much indolence rule here.  I go in sometimes and coax her to stop talking and lie down.  I cover her up to keep her warm; she is blue with the cold.  If I could keep her in a nice warm room, with kind treatment and nourishing food!  She could not eat that horrible, sour bakers’ bread with poor butter.  Sometimes her food would set in her room a long time.  I guess she only eats when she is so starved she can’t help it.  I eat because I am determined to live until I find some one who will help me out of this castle on the hill, that I may tell the Commissioners all about it.  Sometimes I term it a college, in which I am finishing my education, and I shall graduate some day—­when will it be?  My impatient spirit chafes at this long delay.  I sit at the grated window and think, if I were one of those little pigeons on the window sill I would be happy; content to be anything if only at liberty.

April.—­The friends of Miss Short have been here and taken her home, and word returned that she is better.  I am thankful to think she is with her mother, and I do not see her so improperly treated; it made me feel wretched to think of her.

Poor Katy Dugan’s friends came one day.  I watched my chance and told one of them to let her mother know she was getting worse and was not well treated.  I had many heart-aches for that girl; I scarcely know why.  They must have seen she looked worse; her dress of flannel, trimmed with satin of the same color, which looked so nice when she came, was filthy with spots of gruel and milk they had been forcing her to eat.  This day, I remember, was worse than common days of trouble.  I had been