Friday night, November 21st.
Lying on my face, as it were, with my poor elbows for a support, I try to pass away these lonely hours. For with the exception of old Mrs. Carter, who is downstairs, and the General, who is elsewhere, Anna and I are the only white people on the place. The cause of this heartless desertion is a grand display of tableaux vivants at Jackson, for the benefit of the Soldiers’ Hospital, and of course it would be sinful to stay away, particularly as Anna is a great deal better, and I need no care. . . .
