just before it went down. I am trying
to be brave.

Good News at Last.

SUNDAY MORNING.

You see, dearest mother, I could not write, and now I am happy, though
tired, for Andrew is home and safe, and I thank God for the great mercy
he has shown his child. I won't dwell on my anxiety, it can better be
imagined than described. From the letter I had from him at Johnstown,
written at 9 A.M. Friday, until 6.30 last evening, I never knew whether
he was living or dead. Thomas, our man, brought the news. God bless him,
and it nearly cost him his life to do it, poor man. Andrew got separated
from the party, and was close to the bridge when it was carried away,
but escaped by going up the mountain. He tried to signal to his men he
was safe, but could not make them see him, nor could those men that were
with him; all communication was impossible. Thomas left him at nine
o'clock Friday night on the mountain and tried to get home. He got a man
to ferry him across the river above Johnstown, and the boat was upset,
but all managed to get ashore, and Thomas walked all night and all
yesterday, and came straight to me and told me my husband was safe, and
an hour later I had a telegram from Andrew. He had walked from the
Conemaugh side to Bolivar. The bridge at Nineveh was the only bridge
left standing. He took the first train home from Bolivar and got home
about 9.30.

I telegraphed you in the morning, or rather Uncle Clem, that I was safe
and Andrew reported safe, though now they tell me every one here thought
he was lost and Thomas with him. Thomas's wife was met at the station
and informed of his death by some of the men, and six hours afterwards
Thomas came home, yet more dead than alive, poor man. It is very hard to
write, as all the country people and men have been here to tell me how
glad they are "I got my husband safely back, and that I am a powerful
sight lucky young woman." Well, mother darling, make your mind easy
about your children now. Andrew is safe and well, though pretty well
exhausted, and his feet are so sore and swollen he can hardly stand, and
can't wear anything but rubbers, as his mountain shoes he cut to pieces.
He left early this morning, but will be back to-night. I cannot begin to
tell you of the horrors, as the papers do not half picture the distress.
New Florence was not flooded, though some of the people left the place
on Friday night and went up on Squirrel Hill.

Scenes at the River.

I went d