Called to 104, Hugo's; great sorrow; baby died this morning; poor mother; talk about tears rolling down! Let me not think on it!
179, Roelvert's baby; convulsions after measles; also dying.
A mother's heart: the most delicate, mysterious, profound piece of architecture in creation. Let a man not attempt to fathom its depths; there are mazes which he can never pass through; and there are recesses (illuminated, I guess) which he can just barely know of, let alone enter.
Thursday, September 19.—Two women cleared last night; burghers evidently in near neighbourhood. There are always numbers of women who go to hills to collect wood, and for long, weary distances they carry their loads of oven wood, like so many Kaffir girls. It hurts to watch them return.
Camp continually getting bigger; there must be some 800 tents now, and quite 5,000 souls.
Feel bad at thought of so many thousands whom it is impossible to reach just now, because of the sickness all about.
I have been here just a month, and have, during that time, done nothing but visit sick and dying.
Hospital, too, grown larger; five big marquee tents; began visit there this morning; disturbed by arriving patients and doctor.
Found Martie Snyman dying; dead a quarter of an hour after. We gathered round her bedside and committed her spirit into God's safe keeping; poor child! she had such a time of suffering; mostly always delirious; and her mother! Let me not think of it!