He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.

His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother’s sudden death.  She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from which she never recovered.  The wretched father soon left that part of the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far away in a land of strangers, they made his grave.  No dear child was near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.

Matilda gradually failed.  She had given her heart with her hand in early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living, and with this they were contented.  She united her industry with that of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like a bird’s nest from the trees that surrounded it.  Charles Abbot was a happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of their united love.

They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home.  Matilda’s failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.

A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in the eye, were almost its only indications.  It was a calm evening in the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.

Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety, clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening to the boatman’s whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped the silver waves.  The towering mountains rose high above their heads, and “Father Abraham” looked as though it were about to fall and crush them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect before them.  Charles adjusted Matilda’s shawl as she seated herself by his side, with a sharp cough.

He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.