Mother B. had an assistant, whose name was Frank Williams, from St. Paul, Minn. He had been sick, and not being able for field service, was detailed for hospital duty. He and I were great friends, and he often came to our room and talked with my parents. He was a Christian, and sometimes had prayers in our room. One day I entered the tent, when to my dismay I found it full of men, and a prayer meeting in progress. I was about to beat a hasty retreat, when my friend Frank very kindly invited me to come in, found a seat for me, and put in my hands a little leaflet bearing upon its white surface the hymn beginning, “Just as I am, without one plea.” A chaplain conducted the services; my friend and some of the other soldiers offered prayer. I was the only child present. I have no recollection of any woman being there, although Mother B. or one of the lady nurses may have been. That prayer meeting was indelibly impressed upon my childish mind, and even now stands out clear cut and in bold relief, over every other prayer meeting I have ever attended. And, let me be where I may when “Just as I Am” is sung, the mingled joys and sorrows of the long years vanish as it were, and again I am a little child in that prayer tent on a Southern battle-field, and again I hear those bearded men singing as with one voice: Just as I am: without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me And that thou bidds’t me come to Thee, Oh Lamb of God! I come, I come. TOUR OF BATTLEFIELD AND DINNER TO MR. CROOKS ONE of our fellow townsmen, Mr. Nathan W. Crooks by name, now a resident of Washington C. H., Ohio, was in camp at Corinth at this time. Escorted by him, my mother and I made the tour of the battle-field. Mr. Crooks carried my little sister in his arms, and to this day, upon occasion, introduces her to friends as the little girl he carried all over the battle-field of Corinth, with the accent on the _inth_. We visited the R. R. cut where my father held his emergency hospital, with shot and shell screaming and bursting all around him; we stood within the enclosure of Fort Robinet, where brave Col. Rogers of the Texas Brigade fell, and was buried with his colors. And little I reck’d the day would come when I would thrill with patriotic pride at the recollection of having stood on the parapet of this historic fort, with “Old Glory” floating proudly in the breeze above me, while at my feet, in the trench surrounding the fort, lay friend and foe, buried in one common grave. As one has fittingly written of them, “They sleep, and glory is their sentinel.” I have wandered all over this field of battle. My playground was that portion occupied by the 14th Wisconsin during the fight, and of the many minnie balls, grape and cannister I picked up on this memorable spot, but one battered minnie ball remains.