July 2d. 1864.
No tidings yet from home. Everything is going favorably with me. Good health, a good position, numerous friends, abundant opportunity to do good, and will to do it, and yet I am very miserable. How can I endure this agonizing suspense? Were it not for the hope of hearing from my loved ones in three or four days, at farthest, I should, indeed, despair. There lies the secret: “Were it not for hope,” which keeps the heart from breaking in its sorrow.
I am requested to go to Washington with a boat load of wounded—must go immediately.
