Friday, September 6.—Handicapped with a horrible cold, which won't go away; throat hoarse; unpleasant day, very; wind, dust.
Daily routine: Hospital; visits; dinner; visits; funerals; visits; supper; bed.
Nine buried this afternoon; "Heere gij zijt ons een Toevlucht van Geslacht tot Geslacht" (Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations); dreary business.
There have died during one month (August) about 230 people.
A new doctor has come, and now I hope things will grow brighter.
Miss Snyman in hospital little better.
Sad case this evening; found mother at bedside[34] of sick child; she has lost two already this week, and this one is the last; husband died Green Point. The sorrow of it! May God spare that child's life.
Hear from Mr. Becker that the old Tante[35] beyond the Camp, with sick mother and sick children, has broken down. What on earth will become of them?
Some here unconsciously overdo it, and overtax their own strength in their grim fights with Angel of Death. A sort of superhuman power sustains them for a time, and then—the collapse!