New York, June 14, 1861.
At 10 p. m. the expected telegram arrived saying the “Adriatic” would be at her wharf by 11, and Charley and Mr. S. left at once in carriages to bring the girls up. The travellers all look remarkably well and by no means as seedy and seasick as they ought to by rights. Molly has a sore throat, but is bright and very smart in spite of it, and the other children are lovely as possible. Bertha is the stranger after all, for Una is like most other sweet babies — round and plump and laughing—but Bertha is a little darling, unlike May and unlike Elsie, unlike all other children—not belonging to anyone, in likeness or manner. She is a mere baby herself; just running about and beginning to talk, saying, “I will” and “I won’t” in the sweetest and most winning way.
Robert has been out to the country with Charley, and the rest of us have had a grand “opening” of foreign traps. . . . Aren’t you glad Harper’s Ferry has been evacuated without bloodshed?
