No sooner did Gen. Baird see Mrs. Horton and knew who she was, than he expressed much surprise that her husband had not been seen, and told her he had ordered his release. Perhaps she would find him at the City Hall. To this place she immediately went, but she searched in vain. He had not been there. She then hurried to the First Police Station, determined to wring from the brutal officers a confession of what they had done with her husband. Entering the office, she forced her way within the rails, and asked of the clerk what had been done with her husband. The man declared that "Preacher Horton" had been sent by him to Charity Hospital, and she at once hurried thither. Again she was disappointed. He had not been seen there! (The truth was, the cart which carried Mr. Horton's body had stopped there, and been sent away, as it appeared to be occupied only by blacks.) The horrible idea now suggested itself to the afflicted woman that her husband had been conveyed away with a load of dead bodies, and had been buried alive, but, as a last resort, she determined to visit the Marine Hospital. This was in a low and distant part of the city, and devoted entirely to negroes, and she could not have believed he would be carried there by his worst enemies, but at a friend's suggestion she sought the place, still accompanied by Mr. Henry. Arrived at the gate, she was refused entrance, but catching a glimpse of Dr. Harris, the head surgeon, whom she knew, she called to him, and asked him if her husband was there. Dr. Harris could give her no positive assurance, but immediately ordered the servant to admit her. Forgetting her weariness in her joy that her long quest had at last succeeded, the faithful woman bounded up the steps, and without waiting to be directed, rushed in among the patients, found out her husband, and sank exhausted upon his bosom. What a spectacle! The form she loved a bruised and helpless mass of flesh and blood, his head swollen to the size of two, his left arm useless, and his right shattered and mangled. He moved perpetually about with the restless, nervous gestures of a dreaming infant. So badly trampled and beaten was his head and face that his eyes were blinded, and a painful retching, produced by the injuries to his stomach, obstructed his breath and speech. But through all the anguish and darkness of his wreck he knew his wife. That she should have recognized him is a miracle to all who do not understand the inspired sagacity of a wife's affection. "Wipe my face, Emma," he gasped, as if she had been bending over him ever since he fell.