When I had eaten my supper, Miss Bewley asked me if I would go over to the Whitman house to take food to her brother who was lying terribly ill in the little room just off the kitchen. He had seen and heard some of the awful things that had taken place during the day, but had not been molested, probably because the Indians thought him dying anyway. I told her I was afraid to go, as I would have to step over the dead bodies. Mrs. Sanders took me into a bedroom and spread a quilt on the floor and I laid down, but not to sleep until far into the night. Mr. Gillam, the tailor, had been wounded while sitting on his table sewing and had run into this room; he was suffering terribly and begging to be put out of his misery; along towards morning he was given his release from suffering. We got up very early and ate a scant breakfast, as we knew not what daylight would bring. The Indians would surely ask to be fed as they were then sitting in the early glimmerings of light on Monument hill, chanting the Death song. The wind had blown and whistled so mournfully in the night that it had added to my fear and I never hear the sound of the wind blowing in the winter, but my mind goes back to that terrible night; and it has been 72 years since I heard it wail its requium around desolated Waiilatpu. My four sisters and the two half-breed girls, with the wounded Mr. Kimball, were alone in the chamber of the Mission house all night, for they had made no attempt to leave when the others had gone in the afternoon. The children were all ill with measles and two were very ill--sister Louise and Helen Meek. They begged constantly for water, but there was none upstairs; the pitchers of water that were there on Monday morning had had cloths dipped in them to put on Mrs. Whitman's wounds. Mr. Kimball's broken arm pained him excessively and he sat on the floor with his head against a bed until toward morning, when he told Catherine to tear up a sheet and bandage his arm and he would go to the river for water.