March 1st, 1865.—We have a new lot of sick and wounded soldiers in this morning; two of them, wounded and sent here because they will probably never be fit for duty again, were completely worn out when they came. Father gave them a hot toddy and mother sent them some soup and such things as they could take and, after a while they slept and woke about bed-time and felt like talking.
Mr. Blount, the elder of the two, is from the Army of Northern Virginia and, singularly enough, Mr. Glendenning is from the army of the West. They had never met until they were helped into the ambulance to come here. Both of them give depressing accounts of the different commands they are from. “Pessimists” we would have called them once, but now we hesitate. I believe, I must believe that our cause will succeed, we pray to our God for help and surely He will hear our cry.
It is late and Mother and I are waiting for Father. He never rests while there is anything to do, which will make his patients more comfortable. Father is so hopeful, too, he never gets despondent, he never lets an opportunity pass to help our beloved South.
