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.