Our last breakfast is over. At worship little Charless seated himself opposite his grandpa, and observed him attentively as he read the Bible and one of the metre Psalms. We knelt in prayer, the only words of which, that I remember, are, "We thank thee, O God, that thy mercies are new to us every morning, and fresh every evening." After worship he stood erect before us, his countenance full of his usual look of benevolence and love, as he asked, "What's the order of the day? I will go around to the Planters' House, and see if Dr. and Mrs. Palmer have arrived, and will be back in ten minutes to let you know." (Dr. and Mrs. Palmer of New Orleans were on their return from the "General Assembly" of the Presbyterian Church, and had been invited to stay with us, while they remained in St. Louis). In ten or fifteen minutes the door bell rang violently. A young man entered and tremblingly said, "Mr. Charless is badly hurt on Market Street." I heard nothing more, but running, and hoping that he was not hurt so seriously, I found myself among a crowd of people, and then beside my dying husband! He lay on the floor in the back part of a small store, pale and sweet. Like an angel he looked to me. I did not lose my senses, and I was so impressed with the sanctity of the spot that it seems to me I dropped, but dropped very softly beside him. "Be still and know that I am God," seemed to be spoken by the Holy One, into my ear and heart. And I was still. I thought, of course, this was an accident, but when I heard from his own pale, slightly parted lips, as he answered some one who asked, "Who did this, Mr. Charless," that he was murdered! Where! Who! I exclaimed, could do this deed! But instantly turning to my husband, I said, "He is more to be pitied than your are, my dear, for he is a fiend! not a man." Oh, Oh, Oh! If my Father, God, had then lifted up the veil and showed me all I have passed through since, I must have died. But he does not try us more than we are able to bear. Indeed he bestowed such rich spiritual blessings upon us (your dear mother and myself) in that dark hour, that we were astonishingly sustained. We were filled with gratitude because "dear father" was ready. We knew that he had nothing to do, but to die. Like Stephen, he "fell asleep." My beloved children, I have his dying words written down, and after I show you "what the newspapers say," and you have read his funeral sermon, perhaps I will tell you more about the last moments of your honored, it must be forever honored, grandfather. Yours, affectionately, GRANDMA. Belmont, March, 1861. Letter Fifteen My Dear Grandchildren: