CHAPTER XXXII.

    “’Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog’s honest bark,
    Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw
          Near home;
    ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye
    Will mark our coming, and look brighter
          When we come.”

We reached home in mid-winter, and found a scene of indescribable desolation, the fire having devastated so many familiar spots in the city’s approach; depots in ashes and entire streets a wide waste.  Finding no one to meet us, with the longed-for, loving welcome, we were tortured with fear, and went at once to Mr. Arms’ place of business, where we learned that he was at home and sick.  Thither we hurriedly wended our way, and, although we found the invalid unable to leave his bed, we thought it sweet to find ourselves in this our first home, which, having been reared in my absence, seemed like a magic castle bridging over the sad separation.

My husband soon convalesced and we began to lay plans for furnishing our new abode.  I still suffered from a cold upon my lungs contracted from the long exposure on the plains, and it fell to the lot of Hattie to assist Mr. Arms in the selection of our household goods.  She had become eyes and hands for me, and I never so fully realized how the touch of sympathy could blend two tastes in one, for every article met my entire approval.  I will not dwell upon the joys of our new home; but well has the poet said—­

    “Each man’s chimney is his golden mile stone,
    Is the central point from which
    He measures every distance
    Through the gateway of the world
    Around him.

    “We may build more splendid habitations,
    Fill our rooms with paintings
    And with sculpture;
    But we cannot buy with gold
    The old association.”

In every Paradise since the first Eden the inevitable trail of the serpent has been over all, and too often it comes in its halcyon hours.  Insidiously and surely came the stealthy trail of our serpent in the declining health of my husband, and the impending danger to the dear life of Hattie.

I took her to every physician who made her disease a specialty, going far and near to consult them, each one of whom would shake their heads in despair, yet all seeming willing to undertake her case.  But to me she was too precious to be submitted to experimental treatment.  Finally the fame of Dr. Kingsley reached us.  He was known as the Great American Cancer Doctor, and we went at once to his cure, in Rome, New York.

The same ominous shade came with his examination, and he too failed to promise a cure.  Passing through the wards of his hospitals, with their agonizing and appalling scenes, the shrieks of pain ringing like death-knells in our ears, decided us, neither of us being willing she should submit to a fate so fraught with fearful contingencies.