Morning dawned at last, calm and clear, and we were soon plowing the yellow Mississippi, with the dark Missouri forests on our right. As we neared Cairo my mother called me on deck to view the “meeting of the waters.” To me, as I recall it now, it resembled a bias seam running across from shore to shore. At Cairo my mother debated long whether to continue the homeward journey by river or rail, having a presentiment of an accident in either case, but finally decided in favor of the latter. We had nothing to eat since our lunch on the Rob Roy, brought from the hotel, until we reached Centralia, Ill. Just after nightfall the train stopped in front of an eating house, my mother called for coffee and lunch, which were handed through the car window. We ate and drank hurriedly, and even then the train was moving as the empty dishes were handed back to the waiter, and we settled down for a night’s steady traveling. Throughout this journey there had always been some one to arrange a seat for my comfort, and this part of it was no exception to the rule. I was soon sound asleep and knew no more until rudely awakened by a loud crash, and by being thrown violently to the floor. My mother was thrown forward on her knees, while the baby struck the seat in front. The accident had happened. Consternation and excitement prevailed, but it was soon learned that the track had been torn up and our train wrecked. It was 4 o’clock in the morning, but was yet quite dark. Examination by the light of lanterns showed that the engine, baggage, mail and express cars had plunged down an embankment 40 feet deep. Our car became uncoupled from the one in front, which was all that saved it from a like fate. Even then it was so tilted toward the edge of the precipice that it was with difficulty we could get out. We sat on a log and waited for dawn and the righting up of our car. The engine caught fire and burned up. The engineer was killed outright, and the fireman so badly hurt that he died a few days later. “Little Rosebud” came home with blood on her dress that dripped from his wounds as he was carried through our car. We were in Indiana when the accident happened, and it was supposed to have been the work of “copperheads” or rebel sympathizers. We were about seventy-five miles from Cincinnati, and four miles from the nearest station, to which the conductor walked and telegraphed to the city for help. We sat for hours in the coach with nothing to eat. The train men, with bandaged heads, and arms in slings, passed in and out rehearsing the accident and trying to cheer us as best they could. Late in the afternoon an engine came out from the city, and we were soon speeding along, getting hungrier each mile.