word. "A soft answer turneth away wrath;" I have known this all my life,
but I never felt it so forcibly as now.

There is a lady here from Westmoreland; her hair is cut short, and her
eyes are black and wild. The first time I spoke to her she struck me,
lightly, and I walked away; I knew she was crazy. After I had met her a
few times and found she was not dangerous, I ventured to sit down beside
her. She was lying on her couch in a room off the dining-room; she lay
on her back knitting, talking in a rambling way: "Do you know what kind
of a place this is? Aren't you afraid I'll kill you? I wish I was like
you." I smoothed her hair with my hand as I would a child. I thought,
perhaps, she had done some great wrong. She said she had killed her
mother. Often before, I had stood beside her, for I looked at her a
number of times before I ventured to sit by her. I had no recollection
of seeing her when I first came, till I found her in this room. I
suppose she was so violent they shut her in here to keep her from
striking or injuring any one. I could not discover the cause of her
trouble, but I comforted her all I could, and she has always been
friendly with me since, and listened to my words as if I were her
mother. She has been here a long time. Last Friday--bathing day--two
young, strong nurses were trying to take her from her room to the
bath-room (I suppose she was unwilling to be washed, for I have noticed
when I saw her in that room on the couch, she was not clean as she
should be--her clothes did not have a good air about them). The nurses
were using force, and she struggled against it. They used the means they
often use; I suppose that is their surest method of conquering the
obstinate spirit that will rise up to defend itself in any child or
woman. She was made more violent by her hair being pulled; one nurse had
her hands, and the other caught her by her hair, which is just long
enough to hold by. They made her walk. I was walking near them when I