no one was permitted to pass. The guard at the gate told us that Mr. Lincoln had not been brought home, but refused to give any other information. More excited than ever, we wandered down the street. Grief and anxiety were making me weak, and as we joined the outskirts of a large crowd, I began to feel as meek and humble as a penitent child. A gray-haired old man was passing. I caught a glimpse of his face, and it seemed so full of kindness and sorrow that I gently touched his arm, and imploringly asked:
"Will you please, sir, to tell me whether Mr. Lincoln is dead or not?"
"Not dead," he replied, "but dying. God help us" and with a heavy step he passed on.
"Not dead, but dying! then indeed God help us!"
We learned that the President was mortally wounded—that he had been shot down in his box at the theatre, and that he was not expected to
