His face brightened. “I never thought of that; but it’s full of barrels and boxes, and is not in order.” “No matter; there will be shelter and room, and there is a lock on the door, and I’ll get on all right.” A candle and some matches were procured, and, accompanied by the agent and his assistant, I went into the storeroom near by. It was a great, rough, strong plank barracks; boxes and barrels were piled up nearly to the roof. There was a vacant space where they handled the supplies, near the door. “There is not a cot on the premises; they have all been taken for the sick and wounded. What will you do?” “I’ll sleep on the floor, of course,” I answered cheerfully. But they turned some of the boxes around, and gathered up all the straw and shavings that were in sight, that had been used in packing, and put them together, and I placed my satchel for a pillow; and after I had assured them that it would be all right, they left, and I locked the door after them. They had not been gone ten minutes till there was a knock at the door. I went very close to the door and called,-- “What is wanted?” “Mrs. Wittenmyer, Miss Dix is here, and she has no place to stay. Can she come in?” “Certainly; of course she can.” And I opened the door, and that stately woman, with all her dignity upon her, which was really a part of herself, entered, glad to find even such a shelter as that. My candle lighted up the building sufficiently to show its unsightliness, and the dust and rubbish that were all about us. As Miss Dix was old enough to have been my mother, of course there was but one thing to do, and that was to give up my bed of shavings and straw to her, and with the stub of an old broom try to clear a place on another part of the floor for myself. She generously offered to divide her bed; but there was not enough to divide, so I spread my blanket-shawl down on the rough, uneven floor for my bed, and I took my satchel for a pillow. I was weary and anxious, and for a few moments I felt the service was too hard to be endured much longer. But there came another train of thought, as I heard the booming of the cannon at no great distance. “How glad the brave men on the picket-line, where to sleep is death, the men in the trenches, and working the guns, would be to have a good dry floor to sleep on, and the right and privilege to sleep,” I said to myself. Somehow my bed grew soft and my pillow downy, and all the clouds of care and spirit of self-pity cleared away before the magic power of patriotism and sympathy for the brave men who stood so gallantly for my country and its flag; and I never in all my life had a better bed, or a sweeter night’s sleep. HARDSHIPS OF CAMP-LIFE AT VICKSBURG.