Through Some Eventful Years

May 27th, 1862.—They have gone. It is bad enough to give up the sisters but it is even worse to let the children go. Mother says I love them too well. But she loves them as well as I do if the truth was known. The girls have promised to write us every day, that is, if the writing paper holds out; nearly everything is scarce and hard to get. At last I am growing taller, and pretty soon my dresses will all be too short. Mother is having a piece of checked homespun woven and she is going to make me some dresses for next winter from that; the dresses she made me last fall for the trip to Raleigh are getting too small as well as too short. A growing girl in these days doesn’t stand a ghost of a chance.