’Norfolk Island:  March 26, 1868.  ’My dearest Sisters,—­How you are thinking of me this anniversary?  Thirteen years since I saw your dear faces and his face.  Oh! how thankful I am that it is so long ago.  It was very hard to bear for a long long time.  Last night as I lay awake I thought of that last Sunday, the words I said in church (how absurdly consequential they seem to me now), the walk home, calling to see C. L., parting with the Vicar and M., the last evening—­hearts too full to say what was in them, the sitting up at night and writing notes.  And then black Monday!  Well, I look back now and see that it was very hard at first, and I don’t deny that I found the mere bodily roughnesses very trying at first, but that has long past.  My present mode of life is agreeable to me altogether now.  Servants and company would be a very great bore indeed.  So even in smaller ways, you see, I have all that I can desire.  I always try to remember that I may miss these things, and specially miss you if it should please God to send any heavy sickness upon me.  I dare say I should be very impatient, and need kind soothing nurses.  But I must hope for the best.

’Just now we have some anxiety.  There has been and is a bad typhoid fever among the Pitcairners:  want of cleanliness, no sewerage, or very bad draining, crowded rooms, no ventilation, the large drain choked up, a dry season, so that the swampy ground near the settlement has been dry, these are secondary causes.  For two months it has been going on.  I never anticipated such a disease here.

’But the fever is bad.  Last night two died, both young women of about twenty.  Two, one a married man of thirty, with five children, the other a girl of twelve, had died before.  I have been backwards and forwards, but no one else of the party.  The poor people like to see me.  For three weeks I have felt some anxiety about four or five of our lads, and they have been with me in my room.  I don’t like the symptoms of one or two of them.  But it is not yet a clear case of the fever.’

’Easter Eve.—­Dear Sisters, once more I write out of a sick hospital.  This typhoid fever, strongly marked, as described in Dr. Watson’s books, Graye’s edition of Hooper’s “Vade Mecum,” and, as a very solemn lesson of Lent and Holy Week, seven Pitcairners have died.  For many weeks the disease did not touch us; we established a regular quarantine, and used all precautions.  We had, I think, none of the predisposing causes of fever at our place.  It is high, well-drained, clean, no dirt near, excellent water, and an abundant supply of it; but I suppose the whole air is impregnated with it.  Anyhow, the fever is here.

’April 23rd.—­My house consists, you know, of Chapel, my rooms, and hospital.  This is the abode of the sick and suspected.  The hospital is a large, lofty, well-ventilated room; a partition, 6 feet high, only divides it into two; on one side are the sick, on the other side sleep those who are sickening.