Time passed happily on with us, with no event to ruffle life’s peaceful stream, until 1845, when I met Frederick Turner, and in a few short months we were made man and wife.  After our marriage, we removed to Quincy, Ill., but our happiness was of short duration, as my husband was killed in the explosion of the steamboat Edward Bates, on which he was employed.  To my mind it seemed a singular coincidence that the boat which bore the name of the great and good man, who had given me the first joy of my meagre life—­the precious boon of freedom—­and that his namesake should be the means of weighting me with my first great sorrow; this thought seemed to reconcile me to my grief, for that name was ever sacred, and I could not speak it without reverence.

The number of killed and wounded were many, and they were distributed among friends and hospitals; my husband was carried to a friend’s, where he breathed his last.  Telegraphs were wanting in those times, so days passed before this wretched piece of news reached me, and there being no railroads, and many delays, I reached the home of my friend only to be told that my husband was dead and buried.  Intense grief was mine, and my repining worried mother greatly; she never believed in fretting about anything that could not be helped.  My only consolation from her was, “‘Cast your burden on the Lord.’ My husband is down South, and I don’t know where he is; he may be dead; he may be alive; he may be happy and comfortable; he may be kicked, abused and half-starved. Your husband, honey, is in heaven; and mine—­God only knows where he is!”

In those few words, I knew her burden was heavier than mine, for I had been taught that there was hope beyond the grave, but hope was left behind when sold “down souf”; and so I resolved to conceal my grief, and devote myself to my mother, who had done so much and suffered so much for me.

We then returned to St. Louis, and took up the old life, minus the contentment which had always buoyed us up in our daily trials, and with an added sorrow which cast a sadness over us.  But Time, the great healer, taught us patience and resignation, and once more we were

    “Waiting when fortune sheds brightly her smile,
    There always is something to wait for the while.”

CHAPTER VII.

Four years afterward, I became the wife of Zachariah Delaney, of Cincinnati, with whom I have had a happy married life, continuing forty-two years.  Four children were born to us, and many were the plans we mapped out for their future, but two of our little girls were called from us while still in their childhood.  My remaining daughter attained the age of twenty-two years, and left life behind, while the brightest of prospects was hers, and my son, in the fullness of a promising youth, at the age of twenty-four, “turned his face to the wall.”  So my cup of bitterness was full to the brim and overflowing; yet one consolation was always mine!  Our children were born free and died free!  Their childhood and my maternity were never shadowed with a thought of separation.  The grim reaper did not spare them, but they were as “treasures laid up in heaven.”  Such a separation one could accept from the hand of God, with humble submission, “for He calleth His own!”