bridge, asked, “Mamma, where is that God that Mr. Beale and Mr. Moore told us about, and said that he would save us?” but another little boy, despairing of temporal deliverance, was heard closing his prayer with the beautiful words of the 23rd Psalm: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.” A son asked his mother, “Will we die?” She answered, “I can not tell; but one thing I _do_ know, that God does all things well, and if he wants us to-night, he will take us; if not, he will find a way for our escape. We will go and sit down and see what the Lord will do.” A pastor, just escaped with his family to the third story, and waist-deep in water, before he could reach it, instantly opened and read from the family Bible, which he had caught up in his flight: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble; therefore, will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof roar and be troubled; though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.” One of the sweetest singers in the city had retreated with her family to the attic; the house was lifted and apparently moving to destruction, when, to soothe her children and her husband, she calmly sang, “Jesus, lover of my soul.” While she continued to sing, the end of a large tree, having great roots, was driven through the house, anchoring it firmly just in the edge of Stony Creek River. A man who was carried over the Stone Bridge, saw a lady on a piece of wreckage shooting down the valley of death, and heard her singing those same immortal words of Charles Wesley; written by him at night, by a feeble spark, in a spring-house, where he was hiding from a raging mob: “Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the raging waters roll, While the tempest still is high.” A venerable man was seen upon his knees, with clasped hands, gazing steadfastly at the cross above St. John’s Roman Catholic church; while another, converted the previous winter, full of faith, and always rejoicing in hope, was last seen kneeling upon the roof of his house, riding with the torrent, and shouting, “Glory to God.” The narratives of the survivors, whether from the upper, middle, or lower portions of the city, all alike serve to show that the suddenness of the doom could only be equalled by its awful horror.