"I am sorry," said Dr. Khayme, "to be unable to offer you the best of quarters. The Commission has so recently been organized that we have not yet succeeded in getting thorough order into our affairs; in fact, my work yesterday was rather the work of a volunteer than the work of the Commission. Our tents are now beyond Georgetown Heights; in a few days we shall move our camps, and shall increase our comfort." The ambulance was driven through some of the principal streets. The sidewalks and carriageways were crowded; civilians and soldiers; wagons, guns, caissons, ambulances; companies, spick-and-span, which, had not yet seen service; ones, twos, threes, squads of men who had escaped from the disaster of the 21st, unarmed, many of them, without knapsacks, haggard. At the corners of the streets were rude improvised tables behind which stood men and women serving food and drink to the famished fugitives. The rain fell steadily, a thick drizzle. Civilians looked their anxiety. A general officer rode by, surrounded by the remnant of his staff, heads bent down, gloomy. Women wept while serving the hungry. The unfinished dome of the Capitol, hardly seen through the rain, loomed ominous. Depression over all: ambulances full of wounded men, tossing and groaning; fagged-out horses, vehicles splashed with mud; policemen dazed, idle; newsboys crying their merchandise; readers eagerly reading--not to know the result to the army, but the fate of some loved one; stores closed; whispers; doom. I turned to Dr. Khayme; he smiled. Then he made Reed halt; he got out of the ambulance and went to one of the tables. A woman gave him coffee, which he brought to me, and made me drink. He returned to the table and gave back the cup. The woman looked toward the ambulance. She was a tall young woman, serious, dignified. She impressed me. We drove past Georgetown Heights. There, amongst the trees, were four wall-tents in a row; one of them was of double length. The ambulance stopped; we got out. The Doctor led the way into one of the tents; he pointed to one of two camp-beds. "That is yours," said he; "go to sleep; you shall not be disturbed." "I don't think I can sleep, Doctor." "Why not?" "My mind will not let me." "Well, try," said he; "I will peep in shortly and see how you are getting on." I undressed, and bathed my face. Then I lay down on the bed, pulling a sheet over me. I turned my face to the wall. I shut my eyes, but not my vision. I saw Ricketts's battery--the First Michigan charge;--the Black-Horse cavalry ride from the woods. I saw the rebel cannons through dust and smoke;--a poplar log in a thicket;--a purple wound--wet clay;--a broken rifle;--stacks of straw. Oh, the gloom and the shame! What does the future hold for me? for the cause? What is to defend Washington? Then I thought of my father; I had not written to him; he would be anxious. My eyes opened; I turned to rise; Dr. Khayme entered; I rose. "You do not sleep readily?" he asked.