During one of the early days Mr. K., a citizen of the town, came into my tent, bringing with him another man--tall, firmly knit, dark visaged, with hair tangled and matted, and still the bearing of a man if not a gentleman. On introducing his companion, Mr. K. said that he had been exceedingly unfortunate, and he had brought him to me to see if anything could be done for him. "I hoped so," and turned to inquire what was most needed. "Had he a family; did they want food, or clothing? Had he little children?" His face grew darker still and his frown deeper, as at length, in a tone approaching contempt, he replied: "No; I don't want anything _you_ can give; you have nothing for me." I had still the courage to persevere, and added, "What would you have me do, if I could do it?" Again a silence and a mental struggle that shook his whole frame, as he half hissed between clenched teeth, "Let me look on the face of one dead child;" and rushing from the tent, he disappeared from me forever. He had had five motherless children, for whom he toiled early and late in the great Cambria Iron Mills. The flood swept his little home before he could reach it, and every child was lost. He had wandered about the river banks, watched the receding waters, dug in the sands for the little bodies hidden beneath, until reason had given way--till even God seemed cruel and mankind weak idiots. [Illustration: _Executed and presented to Clara Barton by one of the Johnstown sufferers._ A PEN MEMORIAL TO CLARA BARTON BY ONE OF THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD SUFFERERS, MR. J.F. DRURY.] THE RUSSIAN FAMINE, 1891-1892.