There was a gentleman on the train who was very kind to us. He, too, had been south, speculating in cotton and was now returning to his family in Cincinnati. He tried at every station where we stopped to get something for us to eat, but strangely enough, nothing could be obtained, not even a cup of coffee, which my mother so much needed, she being nearly exhausted from loss of sleep and lack of food. The gentleman at last secured some small cakes of maple sugar, some of which he gave to me, keeping the others for his two little girls, whose home, he said, was at the Burnett House, and who had never even heard of maple sugar. He laughingly told me to read the signs on the restaurants as we passed, and try to think I was having something good to eat. As we rolled into the great city, the lights were gleaming everywhere, and the newsboys were crying the accident on the streets. We went immediately to the Henrie House. It was Saturday evening, and we feared we would have to stay until Monday, but were informed by the clerk that the steamer Marmora would start in a very few moments. There was no time for supper, and we hurried down to the boat. A lunch was hastily prepared for us, of which we partook sparingly, and at the regular supper we did ample justice to the meal. We traveled all night without knowing it, so soundly did we sleep, and on Sunday morning, February 22, 1863, we walked up the snow-clad banks of the Ohio, shivering with the cold, and wishing ourselves back in the sunny clime of the beautiful Southland. CONCLUSION YEARS after these events, when white-winged peace hovered o’er all the land, while conning my geography lesson at school, and trying to fix in my mind that the city of Constantinople is situated on the Sea of Marmora, that night of hunger came back to me vividly, and the stern-wheel steamer Marmora, with her lights reflected in the broad bosom of the Ohio, loomed up before me with a reality never to be forgotten. The dear mother who made that long, and in those days perilous, journey, with the care of two little children, has gone to her reward, borne to her last resting place by six honored and respected soldiers of the community. The father for whose sake the journey was made still lingers on the shores of Time. “Little Rosebud,” the pet of the hospital, is a happy wife and mother, while the writer fills an humble sphere at home, and writes her name today just as she did thirty-seven years ago. My little story is done. It is but a faint and feeble outline of those far off-days, and but a slender thread that connects me with The Great Rebellion. But such as it is, I dedicate it to the G. A. R. in general and the “boys” of Corinth in particular, and to my dear sister who as an infant in arms, could know nothing of this period in her life and mine.