_Saturday, July 31st._ It is just midnight. I am on duty to-night. Everything is quiet and there are not likely I think to be any more wounded until the morning. I am sitting in the room where they brought Marie. It's strange to think of that, and when you're sitting with a candle in a dark room you can imagine anything. It's odd in this affair how little things affect one. There's a book here, a "Report on New Mexico." I looked at it idly the other day and now I'm for ever picking it up. It always opens at the same page and I find myself thinking, speculating about it in a ridiculous manner. I shall throw the thing away to-morrow, but I know the page by heart anyway. It's an account of the work of some school or other. Here are a few of the lectures that were given: Mr. Fred. A. Bush. What the Community owes the Newspaper and what the Newspaper owes the Community.--Rev. I. R. Glass. Fools.--Hon. W. T. Cessna. Don't Pay too dearly for the Whistle.--Prof. Wellington Putman. Rip van Winkle.--Rev. R. S. Hanshaw. The Mind's Picture Gallery. Then they acted _Othello_--The "Normal Students," whoever they may be. Othello, E. F. Dunlavey. Iago--Douglas Giffard. Desdemona--Carrie Whitehill. Emilia--Gussie Rodgers.... Afterwards I see that Miss Gussie Rodgers gave a lecture on the Anglo-Saxon in Literature. She must have been a clever young woman. Then I see that they decorated one of their rooms with "a large number of carbon prints of celebrated paintings," "the class picture being the most important and costing in the neighbourhood of $100--this is the hunting scene of Ruysdael...." Also they added to their Museum "manufactured articles from abroad illustrative of the habits and customs of foreigners."