“It is too late. It is too late!” he cried with such bitterness of soul that the men lying upon their cots--brave young men, who bore in their own persons the marks of their heroism--covered their faces with their bedclothes, and wept like little children. But I urged that it was not too late, and commenced telling him of the thief on the cross; but he stopped me. “Oh, I know about the thief on the cross; but, lady, I am a thousand times worse than the thief on the cross.” “If you were _ten thousand times worse, Jesus could save you_; for he can save to the _uttermost_.” These words gave hope, and he exclaimed, “Pray for me!” I knelt by his cot-side; and while he prayed and I pleaded, “the opening heaven around us shone,” and the mighty power of saving grace came down upon his soul. The tempest was stilled, and all was _peace_. I looked up into his face to see, that in a moment--as it were, in the twinkling of an eye--all the lines of despair had been taken out of his face, and that it was beaming with joy; a joy unspeakable, and full of glory. If I had been an infidel up to that time, it seems to me that I should have been convicted of the truth of Christianity in that presence. There were many witnesses to that scene; and it was as though the Master would show his mighty saving power, for _he healed that man soul and body_. My secretary was with me. Three days from that time I found him on the shady side of the house reading the Testament I had given him the day before. The same look of peace and joy was in his face, as he said,-- “Oh, I am so happy this morning! I have a _furlough_, and I am going home. How glad my Christian mother will be to know that I have found salvation.” “Young man,” I said, “wherever you go, remember that you were snatched as a brand from the burning.” “I can never forget that. My disease and despair were crushing me down. I must have died if salvation had not come just then; but when you _spoke the name of Jesus_, I knew you were a Christian, and that you would help me if you could.” THE NEW YORK HERALD REPORTER WHO LIVED FOR TWO WORLDS. Two weeks after the surrender of Vicksburg, I took passage on a steamer for the North. Just before the boat left the wharf, a gentleman whom I knew came on board in company with a sick friend, whom he introduced as Mr. Brown, “Correspondent of the _New York Herald_.” I was so weary with the scenes of war, with the heat and hard labor which had been the common lot of all workers during the siege, that I did not want to talk to any one, much less to a “_Herald_ reporter.” He was sick, and was going home for a season of rest, so he said. How deceptive appearances are. I set him down at once as a drinking man, because his face was flushed and his eyes red; and I determined to be as unsocial as possible. I did not see him again till evening, when he came back into the ladies’ cabin and began social conversation.