August 15, 1915.
In the face of all the terrible things which are happening one must not worry over little things. I have got to the stage now when I feel as if one should never complain or worry if they have a roof over their heads and enough to eat, and that all one’s efforts should be given to helping others.
I feel perfectly overwhelmed with the letters that ought to be written, but cannot find time to do them. I have been up all night and a couple of days. We got thirty new patients last night. They arrived at 3 a. m. and it was half-past five before we got them to bed. I did not get any of this lot, as my rooms were full. There were not so many wounded,—more sick, rheumatism, bronchitis, etc. One poor man said it was like going directly from hell to heaven; it was the first time he had slept in a bed for a year. Some of them have been wounded for the second time.
It is nearly eleven and I must be up early, so good-night.