within her, and they went on to the bath-room.  Shortly after that I met her looking fresh and nice; she was in Mrs. Mills’ room, in her rocking-chair.  Sometimes I look in there to see if that chair is empty, to have a rock in it myself.  I think it better for her health to knit in the rocking-chair than to lay down and knit or read either, so I leave her there.  Perhaps she has read too much and injured her brain; if so, I would not let her read so much.

March 20.—­Poor Mrs. Mills has served thirty-two years here, and has become hardened as one will to any situation or surroundings.  She is too old a woman, and her temper has been too much tried.  She is tidy, and works well for so old a woman, but she is not fit for a nurse.  If she were a British soldier, and had served her country so long, she would be entitled to a pension.

Poor Miss Short!  Last week I saw her lying on the floor nearly under the bed, her dress torn, her hair disheveled.  How can her friends leave her so long!  Some ladies came to see her a short time ago, and as they left the hall I heard her call them to take her with them.  If they knew all as I do, they would not leave her here another day.

There is a Miss Snow here from St. Stephens.  I remember distinctly when I first came, she raved all the time.  I did not dare to look in her bed-room.

I must write something of myself today.  I can look back and see plainly all my journey here.  The day may come when I shall be laid away in the grave, and my boys—­the dear boys I have loved so well—­will look over my trunk and find this manuscript; they will then perhaps believe I am not crazy.  I know Dr. Steeves tells them I am a lunatic yet.  They will weep over this, as they think of the mother they have left here to die among strangers.  It would be happiness to die surrounded by my friends, to be able to tell them they have only to live well that they may die well.  To be true to ourselves and to our fellows, is all the good we need.  That I have always striven to do, does now my spirit feed.

I have been so near the grave, the border land of heaven.  I heard angels’ voices; they talked with me even as they did with John on the Isle of Patmos, when they said to him, “Worship God who sent me.”

I was very much alone, engaged in writing a book on the laws of health.  My desire to write increased; I became so absorbed with my work I forgot to eat, and, after a day or two, I seemed to think I had done some wrong.  The angel voices whispered me that I must fast and pray; I know I had plenty of food in my closet, but I don’t remember eating any more.  I fasted eight days, and felt comfortable and happy most of the time.  I sang to myself, “O death, where is thy sting, where is thy victory, boasting grave.”  I wept for my own sins, and wished to die, the world to save.  I was trying to perform some ancient right or vow, one day, and my sons came in.  I ordered them away, but they