"I's had so many children," she said, "I can't tell till I call de names: Pomp, Jim, Tom, Sol, Sue, Dick, an' Dilcy; den some babies I's got in heaven. I seed heap o' trouble in my time. I nursed at de breas' eleven of my firs' massar's chillen, Isaac Wiston, and six of his gran'-chillen. I dress 'em firs', an' some on 'em for de grave. My secon' massar, William Winfield, Jun., da have six chillen, an' I dress 'em all firs', and most all at las' for de grave. O my God, I can neber, neber tell de trouble I's had. O how hard I prayed for freedom, an' de Lord come at las'. I's praise his name. De one dat I nurst when a babie ordered me whipped 'case I cried so much when da sole my chillen down de riber. But I hear dat de war free five of my chillen, an' I's prayin' God to sen' 'em to poor me." Notwithstanding her great age her mind was unusually clear, and the frequent starting tear manifested strong maternal affection. There was not a house, yard, or grove but bore the mark of shell or bullet. An exciting scene passed before us October 15th. Young Mrs. Pollard, daughter of my host, who had became the wife of the noted Confederate editor of the most rabid paper in Richmond, had been forbidden to visit or even to correspond with her parents. Her husband said if she should attempt it, it would be at her peril. She found him to be inconstant, as he had become the paramour of a Cyprian in New York city, where he spent several weeks writing a book on the bravery of Confederate soldiers. "When she discovered these facts, with her heart full of grief, she told him the reports she had heard of his inconstancy. He acknowledged all, and entreated her pardon. But he soon became as cruel as ever. During his absence in New York she took her son of less than two years and came to her father's house, a poor, heart broken woman. A divorce was immediately sued for, and she received a summons to appear in court in Richmond. Although her father was there to receive her, she feared Mr. Pollard would take her life, also her father's, at their parting. She threw her arms around her mother's neck and wept upon her shoulders; then, sobbing, said, as she rested her head upon my shoulders: "Mrs. Haviland, you won't leave me after our arrival in Richmond until I am with my father, will you?" With an assurance that I would remain at her side until her father took her under his protection, she left her babe with her mother and we departed for Richmond. We met her father, with whom I felt she would be safe. I find these extremes of love and hate more prevalent in the South than in the North.