Little Rachel died.  The father dug her grave near by their humble dwelling; he made the rough coffin in which they enclosed her; and then bore out the body and laid it in the ground, while the weeping mother stood by his side.  Sole mourners were they at these sad funereal rites.  No holy words from the book of consolation were read, no solemn hymn was sung—­all was silence, heart-oppressing silence.

On the succeeding day Parker had to go for the physician again.  His next child was taken sick.  His wife was far from being well, and he felt strangely.  After the doctor had prescribed for the family, and was about leaving, he took Mr. Parker to an eminence overlooking the river that bounded his farm on the western side, and spoke to him thus: 

“My friend, do you see that river, with more than half of its muddy bed exposed to the hot sun?  Your farm lies upon its eastern side, and the poisonous miasma that arises from its surface and banks is steadily blown upon you by the south-westerly and westerly winds of summer.  Is it any wonder that your family have become sick?  I wouldn’t live here if you would give me fifty farms like this!  Already a whole family have died on this spot, and your’s will be the next if you do not leave immediately.  You have lost one child; let that suffice.  Flee from this place as hurriedly as Lot fled from Sodom.  Medical aid I solemnly believe to be useless while you remain here.  The village of A—­ is healthy.  Remove your wife and children there immediately.  Do not wait for a single day.  It is the only hope for their lives.”

A warning like this was not a thing to be let go by unheeded.  Parker promptly announced to his wife what the doctor had communicated, and ended by saying—­

“We must go at once.”

“And leave Rachel?” she returned, sadly.

“Our staying here cannot do her any good,” replied the husband, in a choking voice.

“I know—­I know,” quickly answered the mother.  “I am weak and foolish.  Yes—­yes—­we had better go.”

A few hours sufficed for all needful preparations, and then, with his wife and children in his wagon, Parker mounted one of the horses and drove off for the village of A—­, distant a little over ten miles.  As they moved away the mother’s eyes were turned back upon the little mound of earth beneath which slept the body of her precious child, and remained fixed upon that one spot until by intervening trees all was hidden from her sight.  Then her eyes closed, and she leaned her head down against the side of the wagon, while her arm tightened its hold of the babe that was sleeping on her bosom.  For a long time she remained lost to all that was around her.  Years afterward she said to a friend that the severest trial of her whole life was in leaving her child alone in that wild, desolate place.  It seemed as if the little one must feel the desertion.