others, I left my sweet home and the loved ones who still clustered
around it. On my way to the depot I was met by Rev. P. Powell, who
inquired how much money I had. "Fifteen dollars," was my answer.

"Why, Mother Haviland," he exclaimed, "you can never go with only that.
Stop a day or two, and I'll get up eighty or a hundred dollars for
you."

"But I have arranged for all my supplies to go on today. There are
three or four boxes waiting for me at Hillsdale, and I wrote them I
would be there to-night. I have not asked for money, but for supplies.
I have a free pass to Chicago and return, and if I can get a pass free
to Cairo and return, I think I can get along, and perhaps lives may be
in peril in the twenty-four hours I might be waiting here for money."

"Will you telegraph me if you do not succeed in getting the passes in
Chicago?"

"I will," I said, and went forward.

As I was taking leave of my son Joseph, and was about to enter the
car, he held me by the hand, and said: "One promise I want you to make
me, and make it so strong that your conscience will come in for a
share; and that is, that you will stop, once in a while, to think
whether you are tired or not. You are going among the suffering and
dying, and I know you so well that you will go and go and do and do,
until you will drop before you will think of yourself. If you will
make me this promise I will feel a great deal better about you."

"Joseph," I said, "I will promise to do this," and we parted.