hed. What more could such a
  woman wish?

  We cannot thank Miss Barton in words. Hunt the dictionaries of all
  languages through and you will not find the signs to express our
  appreciation of her and her work. Try to describe the sunshine. Try
  to describe the starlight. Words fail, and in dumbness and silence
  we bow to the idea which brought her here. God and humanity! Never
  were they more closely linked than in stricken Johnstown.

  Men are brothers! Yes, and sisters, too, if Miss Barton pleases. The
  first to come, the last to go, she has indeed been an elder sister
  to us--nursing, soothing, tending, caring for the stricken ones
  through a season of distress such as no other people ever knew--such
  as, God grant, no other people may ever know. The idea crystallized,
  put into practice. "Do unto others as you would have others do unto
  you." "Even as ye have done it unto the least of these, so also have
  ye done it unto Me!" Christianity applied, Nature appeased and
  satisfied. This has been Miss Barton's work, and nobly has she done
  it.

  Picture the sunlight or the starlight, and then try to say good-bye
  to Miss Barton. As well try to escape from yourself by running to
  the mountains. "I go, but I return" is as true of her as of Him who
  said it. There is really no parting. She is with us, she will be
  with us always--the spirit of her work even after she has passed
  away.

  But we can say God bless you, and we do say it, Miss Barton, from
  the bottom of our hearts, one and all.

Some bard, whose name I do not know, but whose sad, lovely words
frequently recur to me, has commemorated the disaster of the Conemaugh
in the following beautiful poem, which, I think, is worthy of
preservation:


                         "THE DREAD CONEMAUGH."

                  I tarried in Conemaugh Valley
                    One beautiful morning in spring,
                  And loveliness mantled the mountains,
                    The meadows and everything.
                  The breezes were laden