Mrs. Wharton’s hopes had been more excited than she was herself aware of, and she vainly tried to rally from the disappointment.  This never-ending uncertainty, this hope forever deferred, was harder to endure than would have been the knowledge that her dear son was dead.  She thought it would be a relief, even if fragments of his clothes should be found, showing that he had been torn to pieces by wild beasts; for then she would have the consolation of believing that her darling was with the angels.  But when she thought of him hopelessly out of reach, among the Indians, imagination conjured up all manner of painful images.  Deeper and deeper depression overshadowed her spirits and seriously impaired her health.  She was diligent in her domestic duties, careful and tender of every member of her household, but everything wearied her.  Languidly she saw the seasons come and go, and took no pleasure in them.  A village was growing up round her; but the new-comers, in whom she would once have felt a lively interest, now flitted by her like the shadows in a magic-lantern.  “Poor woman!” said the old settlers to the new ones.  “She is not what she was.  She is heart-broken.”

Eight years more passed away, and Mrs. Wharton, always feeble, but never complaining, continued to perform a share of household work, with a pensive resignation which excited tenderness in her family and inspired even strangers with pitying deference.  Her heartstrings had not broken, but they gradually withered and dried up, under the blighting influence of this life-long sorrow.  It was mild October weather, when she lay down to rise no more.  Emma had outgrown the trundle-bed, and no one occupied it; but it remained in the old place.  When they led her into the bedroom for the last time, she asked them to draw it out, that she might look upon Willie’s pillow once more.  Memories of her fair boy sleeping there in the moonlight came into her soul with the vividness of reality.  Her eyes filled with tears, and she seemed to be occupied with inward prayer.  At a signal from her, the husband and brother lifted her tenderly, and placed her in the bed, which Aunt Mary had prepared.  The New Testament was brought, and Mr. Wharton read the fourteenth chapter of John.  As they closed the book, she said faintly, “Sing, ’I’m going home.’” It was a Methodist hymn, learned in her youth, and had always been a favorite with her.  The two families had often sung it together on Sabbath days, exciting the wonderment of the birds in the stillness of the prairie.  They now sang it with peculiar depth of feeling; and as the clear treble of Aunt Mary’s voice, and the sweet childlike tones of Emma, followed and hovered over the clear, strong tenor of Uncle George, and the deep bass of Mr. Wharton, the invalid smiled serenely, while her attenuated hand moved to the measure of the music.

She slept much on that and the following day, and seemed unconscious of all around her.  On the third day, her watchful husband noticed that her countenance lighted up suddenly, like a landscape when clouds pass from the sun.