rowing 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.

A nurse was obtained for my poor motherless babe, the babe over whom I
shed so many tears--a sad welcome, this, to as fine a boy as ever a
father's eye looked upon!

I followed the remains of my belove