dearly purchased now at the cost of his poor mother’s peril.  Still, my ardent temperament led me to hope that my dear wife would be spared.  Her loss seemed an event too dreadful to realize, for the boy-husband had had no experience in sorrow then, and his buoyant spirits had never anticipated the crushing blow that had already annihilated his visions of domestic happiness.  Fifty-five miles lay between me and my suffering wife.  The roads were heavy from the effects of the late rains, and I had the misfortune to lose my way, which added three miles to my long pedestrian journey.  Once I overtook a cart containing a boy and girl, whom I vainly entreated to give me a ride.  I told them the painful circumstances which induced me to solicit their aid; but the boy was over-cautious, and the girl unusually hard-hearted for one of her kind and compassionate sex.  I could easily have compelled them to give me a seat, but for a sense of moral justice which would not permit me to take that by force which they denied to pity.  Mr boyish indignation, I recollect, was so great that I could scarcely help throwing stones after my unkind fellow-travellers.

It was evening by the time I reached Darlington Mills, and I was still five miles from my father-in-law’s house.  It was quite dark, and I was so overpowered with my fifty miles’ walk, that to proceed without refreshment and rest appeared then to be impossible.  I stopped at the tavern and asked for some tea.

I had scarcely been seated two minutes before some men entered, in whose conversation I became immediately and deeply interested.  They were discussing what to them was merely local news, but the question, “When is the funeral to take place?” riveted my attention at once.

Putting down the much-needed but untasted refreshment, I demanded of the speaker “Whose funeral?” My heart at once foretold from its inmost depths what the dreaded answer would be.

Yes, she in whom I had placed my earthly hopes of a life-long happiness was, indeed, no more.  She was snatched away in the bright morning of her existence with the rapturous feelings of maternity just budding into life.  I never knew how I got out of the house, or in what manner I performed the last five miles of the journey.  But I remember that in the excitement of that hour I felt neither hunger, thirst, nor weariness.  Sometimes I doubted the truth of what I had heard.  Indeed, it seemed really too dreadful to be true.

On my arrival at my father-in-law’s house, I found that the information I had accidentally heard was unfortunately a sad reality.  My brother-in-law had not left Darlington an hour on his journey to Otonabee before my wife breathed her last.  I had not even the consolation of bidding her a last adieu.  Few can comprehend my feelings on this trying occasion, except those who have suffered under a similar bereavement.  I was not yet twenty-one years of age.  I was in a strange country—­the tie severed between me and my only friends in a manner so afflicting and melancholy—­all my hopes and future prospects in life dashed, as it were, to the ground.  I had expended all my little capital in providing a comfortable home for her, who, alas! was doomed never to behold it; and I had a little son to bring up without the aid of my poor Emma, whose piety and sweet temper would have been so invaluable to our child.