The birds of spring were caroling their first songs of the season, and the white mantle of snow disappearing under the sun-rays.  These tokens told me I must be “up and doing.”  Selecting a companion among the kind group of Pecatonica friends, Miss Sarah Rogers, a lady of sterling virtue and pronounced character, I went to Chicago.  The war conflict being still at its height, I could do little in the way of book selling, but managed to dispose of sufficient bead work to be entirely self-sustaining.  In my business route in Chicago I entered a millinery establishment, and was surprised by a greeting from the familiar voice of my sister Jennie, and they alone who are members of a scattered household can realize what must be such a meeting.  In the lapse of years since our separation, our paths had so diverged that we had lost trace of each other.  I sat down and eagerly listened to a recital of an experience fraught with varied incident.  They had moved from Chicago to Monroe city, Missouri, a place which (as most will remember) received the baptism of fire, being utterly destroyed by the Northern troops.  My sister not only lost her home, but was separated from her family for several days.  As soon as they were gathered together, and had gained sufficient strength to travel, they returned without a resource to Chicago, there to begin life anew, my sister lending a helping hand by opening this business.  Her daughter Cora, whom I had left a little girl, was then a graceful young lady, has since married and is living in the city.

My brothers, Charles and Howard, both entered the ranks of the army, returned with health impaired from service, and afterward yielded up their lives.

My father had settled with his new family at Farmington, Ill., and thither my brother Howard repaired when utterly broken down in health.  No mother could have more tenderly and steadfastly ministered to him, than did my father’s wife; she, her two bachelor brothers and a maiden sister attending him, in the lingering, languishing hours of suffering, and gently smoothing his “pathway to the grave.”

I must not fail to mention among Chicago friends the name of Mrs. Dean, which has been written in letters of light upon a hallowed life page, standing out in bold relief upon the background of years.  Her house was my home, and she was ever a fond mother to me.

Her lovely little daughter, Ada, has since matured to womanhood, assumed the relations and duties of a wife, and is now presiding over an elegant home in one of the flourishing towns of Iowa.

CHAPTER IX.

                   “And when the stream
    Which overflowed the soul was passed away,
    A consciousness remained that it had left. 
    Deposited upon the silent shore
    Of memory, images and previous thoughts,
    That shall not die and cannot be destroyed.”

For three years longer lowered the lurking war-cloud, and I, among so many others, felt its baneful shadow.  During this time I made Chicago my headquarters, taking occasional trips upon the various railroad routes converging there.