I come back to my own room and write again; what shall I do?  I cannot—­how can I stay here any longer! and I cannot get away, locked in as prisoners in our rooms at night, fed like paupers.  If I were committed to the penitentiary for a crime, I would not be used any worse than I am here.  My heart longs for sympathy, and has it not.  I have tried to soften Mrs. Mills’ heart, and win her sympathy, but I cannot, and I cannot withhold my pity for those poor invalids who fare even worse than I.

March 13.—­I must write this while fresh in my mind, for fear I may forget.  There is a Miss Short here—­a fair-haired, nice-looking girl; she stands up and reads in the Testament as if she were in Sunday-school, recites poetry, and tries to play on the piano.  I did not think her much out of order when she came, but she is now.  She has grown steadily worse.  Her father came to see her, and she cried to go home with him.  I wished very much to tell him to take her home, but Mrs. Mills did not leave them, and I dared not speak to him.  She has grown so much worse, she tears her dress off, so they have to put leather hand-cuffs on her wrists so tight they make her hands swell.  I say, “Oh, Mrs. Mills, don’t you see they are too tight, her hands look ready to burst—­purple with blood.”  She paid no heed:  “It does not hurt her any.”  Yesterday she tied a canvas belt round her waist so tight that it made my heart ache to look at it.  I am sure it would have stopped my breath in a short time; they tied her to the back of the seat with the ends of it.

March 17.—­Another poor victim has come to our ward today—­a black-eyed, delicate-looking girl.  She looked so sad, I was drawn to her at once.  I sat beside her in Mrs. Mills’ absence, and enquired the cause of her trouble; she said her food gave her pain—­she is dyspeptic.  If the Doctor would question the patients and their friends as to the cause of their insanity, they might, as in other cases of illness, know what remedy to apply.  This dear child has been living at Dr. Wm. Bayards’ three years—­chambermaid—­that is enough to assure me she is a good girl.  I think she wears her dress too tight.  I unloosened her laces and underskirts to make them easy; they are all neat and tidy, as if she had come from a good home.

Another day is here.  That poor girl is in great trouble yet.  When I went out into the hall this morning, she was kneeling by the door; she laid her cheek on the bare floor, praying for her sins to be forgiven, murmuring something of those who had gone before.  I cannot think she has sinned; poor child! she has lost her health in some way; she has transgressed some law of nature.  I think it has been tight lacing that caused some of the trouble, for she sat up on the floor when I invited her to stand up for fear some one would open the door and walk over her, and rubbed the calf of her leg, saying it was all numb.  Anything too tight causes pain and distress by interrupting