my mother she almost died, like.
I told her, Mother, said I, I am coming back when I am independent, and can do as I please.
Write to me, mother dear; I will write to you and my sisters when I get to New York, and tell you where I am ; and I did write to Mary and to my mother.
I could not write to my father; I could not forgive him, when I thought how he had grieved Mary and me; and I could not be deceitful.
As soon as I got to New York, I engaged with a gentleman at Williamsburg, on Long Island, to work his garden.
For two years I worked, and laid up my wages; and not a single letter came for me. I grieved and sorrowed, and thought about Mary — I thought maybe her letters were stopped by somebody.
I knew she would not forget me. Sometimes I thought I would go home to Ireland, and see what was the matter.
At last, one day, my employer came into the garden with a newspaper in his hand.
Mr. Crumley, says he, here is something for you; and sure enough there was a line to John C
obeyed the affectionate impulse of his heart, took it up quickly, kissed it, and replaced it on the table.
March 12th, 1865.
A deep gloom has just been thrown over the city by the untimely death of one of its own heroic sons.
General John Pegram fell while nobly leading his brigade against the enemy in the neighbourhood of Petersburg.
But two weeks before he had been married in St. Paul's Church, in the presence of a crowd of relatives and friends, to the celebrated Miss H. C., of Baltimore.
All was bright and beautiful.
Happiness beamed from every eye. Again has St. Paul's, his own beloved church, been opened to receive the soldier and his bride — the one coffined for a hero's grave, the other, pale and trembling, though still by his side, in widow's garb.
March 31st, 1865.
A long pause in my diary.
Every thing seems so dark and uncertain that I have no heart for keeping records.
The croakers croak about Richmond being evacuated, but I can't and won't believe it.