4 | O’Clock
We have passed Tejería, the last Mexican station; the sand-hills and spires of Vera Cruz will soon be distinguishable. I have just looked out the window, my eyes dim with tears. Far up the broken track the blessed white flag of truce can be seen approaching—our people, our men, coming for their own. Admiral Fletcher evidently got the telegram. Am writing these words on the bottom of a little bonbon-box, which afterward I will tuck into my hand-bag. Oh, the burning dreariness of this land! The hot, dry inhospitality of it! The Mexican officers of our escort are passing and repassing my door, with troubled, anxious, hot faces. It is a bitter pill, but I see no use in trying to sugar-coat it by conversation. They know my heart is heavy, too.