. . . lost and ruined sinner as I amI, even I, have humbled myself to the ground and prayed as never man prayed before, that the great God might let this cup pass from me,that he would strike me to the earth, but spare my brotherthat he would pour out the fulness of his just wrath upon my wicked head, but have mercy, mercy, mercy upon that unoffending boy. The horrors of three days have swept over methey have blasted my youth and left me an old man before my time. Mollie, there are grey hairs in my head to-night. For forty-eight hours I labored at the bedside of my poor burned and bruised, but uncomplaining brother, and then the star of my hope went out and left me in the gloom of despair. Then poor wretched me, that was once so proud, was humbled to the very dust,lower than the dustfor the vilest beggar in the streets of Saint Louis could never conceive of a humiliation like mine. Men take me by the hand and congratulate me, and call me "lucky" because I was not on the Pennsylvania when she blew up! My God forgive them, for they know not what they say.