a child of ten wrapped in a ragged blanket.  In the body of the wagon, lying on a mattress pressed down in the midst of broken, cheap furniture and filthy kitchen ware, lay a gaunt woman in the rain.  Her eyes were closed, and a hump on the surface of the dirty quilt beside her showed that a child must be there.  From such a picture the girl fled in tears.  But the sight of it, and of others like it, haunted her for weeks.  Through those last dreary days of November, wretched families, which a year since had been in health and prosperity, came to the city, beggars, with the wrecks of their homes.  The history of that hideous pilgrimage across a state has never been written.  Still they came by the hundred, those families.  Some brought little corpses to be buried.  The father of one, hale and strong when they started, died of pneumonia in the public lodging-house.  The walls of that house could tell many tales to wring the heart.  So could Mr. Brinsmade, did he choose to speak of his own charities.  He found time, between his labors at the big hospital newly founded, and his correspondence, and his journeys of love,—­between early morning and midnight,—­to give some hours a day to the refugees.

Throughout December they poured in on the afflicted city, already overtaxed.  All the way to Springfield the road was lined with remains of articles once dear—­a child’s doll, a little rocking-chair, a colored print that has hung in the best room, a Bible text.

Anne Brinsmade, driven by Nicodemus, went from house to house to solicit old clothes, and take them to the crowded place of detention.  Christmas was drawing near—­a sorry Christmas, in truth.  And many of the wanderers were unclothed and unfed.

More battles had been fought; factions had arisen among Union men.  Another general had come to St. Louis to take charge of the Department, and the other with his wondrous body-guard was gone.

The most serious problem confronting the new general—­was how to care for the refugees.  A council of citizens was called at headquarters, and the verdict went forth in the never-to-be-forgotten Orders No. 24.

“Inasmuch,” said the General, “as the Secession army had driven these people from their homes, Secession sympathizers should be made to support them.”  He added that the city was unquestionably full of these.

Indignation was rife the day that order was published.  Sixty prominent “disloyalists” were to be chosen and assessed to make up a sum of ten thousand dollars.

“They may sell my house over my head before I will pay a cent,” cried Mr. Russell.  And he meant it.  This was the way the others felt.  Who were to be on this mysterious list of “Sixty”?  That was the all-absorbing question of the town.  It was an easy matter to pick the conspicuous ones.  Colonel Carvel was sure to be there, and Mr. Catherwood and Mr. Russell and Mr. James, and Mr. Worington the lawyer.  Mrs. Addison Colfax lived for days in