August 7.--Drifting along, I know not how, up the St. Lawrence. The weather calm, and two or three sailors able to manage the ship. Captain and mate both dead. Ten cabin passengers dead. Three more sailors dead. Only thirty-two steerage passengers dead since last report, but nearly all are sick. Hardly any one to attend to them. August 10.--Mrs. Brandon and Edith both sick. Frank prostrate again. God in heaven, have mercy! August 15.--Mrs. Brandon and Edith very low. Frank better. August 16.--Quarantine Station, Gosse Island. I feel the fever in my veins. If I die, farewell, sweetest sister. December 28, Halifax, Nova Scotia.--More than four months have elapsed since my last entry, and during the interval marvelous things have occurred. These I will now try to recall as I best can. My last entry was made on the day of the arrival of the _Tecumseh_ at the Quarantine Station, Gosse Island, Quebec. We were delayed there for two days. Every thing was in confusion. A large number of ships had arrived, and all were filled with sick. The authorities were taken by surprise; and as no arrangements had ever been made for such a state of things the suffering was extreme. The arrival of the _Tecumseh_ with her frightful record of deaths, and with several hundred sick still on board, completed the confusion. At last the passengers were removed somehow, I know not how or when, for I myself on the evening of our arrival was struck down by the fever. I suppose that Frank Brandon may have nursed me at first; but of that I am not sure. There was fearful disorder. There were few nurses and fewer doctors; and as fast as the sick died they were hurried hastily into shallow graves in the sand. I was sick for two or three weeks, and knew nothing of what was going on. The first thing that I saw on coming to my senses was Edith Brandon. She was fearfully changed. Unutterable grief dwelt upon her sweet young face, which also was pale and wan from the sickness through which she had passed. An awful feeling shot through me. My first question was, “Is your mother on shore?” She looked at me for a moment in solemn silence, and, slowly raising her hand, pointed upward. “Your brother?” I gasped. She turned her head away. I was silent. They were dead, then. O God! and this child--what had she not been suffering? My mind at once, in its agony of sympathy with her, burst through the clouds which sickness had thrown around it. “Poor child!” I said. “And why are you here?” “Where else can I go?” she answered, mournfully. “At least, you should not wear yourself out by my bedside.” “You are the only one left whom I know. I owe you far more than the small attendance which I have given you.” “But will you not take some rest?” “Hush! Wait till you are stronger. You are too weak now to think of these things.”