The room adjoining ours was occupied by an old Quaker lady and her son. The mother’s name was Ann Roman, the boy’s Isaac. He was wounded, and she had come to take him home, but he was not able to travel, and a furlough could not immediately be secured. They were detained several weeks and we became great friends. They were the first Quakers I had ever seen, and “auntie” Roman’s Quaker garb and quaint “thees” and “thous” were a novelty to me, and I sometimes addressed her in her own dialect, much to her amusement. Isaac suffered much from his wound, and was a little inclined to be cross, while I was greatly inclined to be noisy. Many times in trying to suppress a laugh I would giggle, and “auntie” would say, “Thee had better go into the hall, where thee can give vent to the giggles;” and fearing a scolding from Isaac, I always went. But Isaac grew better, and through a plea made by Mother B. to Gen. Grant, then at Memphis, a furlough was secured, and mother and son went to their home at Old’s Post Office, Washington County, Ohio. I have their address yet, written in my little cramped hand, on a faded bit of blue paper, at auntie’s dictation. After their departure we were given their room, which we occupied during the rest of our stay in the hospital. While here I had a severe attack of quinsy, and was very sick for several days and nights. I had a burning fever, and in my delirium would cry out for water from the “cool well” on the bank of the river, in far away Ohio. The water at Corinth was not satisfying. It had to be boiled before drinking, and the tin fruit can on the window ledge outside was a familiar “institution.” Everything which had no particular name was called an “institution.” A place where cooking was done was called a “shebang,” and I was always running across one. In one of my morning rambles I came upon a little bake shop where bread and pies were made for the camp. A man was sitting on the steps, who at once entered into conversation with me. Learning that I was there with my parents, he went in and got a pie which he told me to take to my mother. It became so common for me to come home carrying something good to eat, that about the hospital they called me “The little forager.”