this son, their especial pride, should
not have married into one of the wealthy families in his own village. At
first there had been a little visiting to and fro; it had lasted but a
little time, and then the two households had settled down, as the way is
in the country, to follow each its own natural course of living. George
Pelham's wife had always lived in an odd little house, all doors and
windows, near by her father, in her native village.

It was from Porto Cabello that that message came,--yellow fever--a short
sickness--a burial in a stranger's grave. George Pelham's wife had been
for two or three years of less than her usual strength. It was not long
after that news came,--came so suddenly, with no warning,--that she
began to fade away; and after ten months she died.

I remember seeing her a week or two before her death. Her bed had
been set up in her little parlor for the convenience of those who were
attending upon her. She lay on her back, bolstered up. The paleness of
her face was intensified by her coal-black hair, lying back heavy on
the pillow. Her hands were thin and transparent, and I remember well the
straining look in her eyes as she talked with me about the boy whom she
was going to leave.

She was living, as I have said, close by her father. It was natural that
in the last few days of her illness the child should be taken to her
father's house, and when she died and the funeral was over, it was there
that he returned.

Picture now to yourself a boy toward nine years old, symmetrically made,
firm and hard. His head is round, his features are good, his hair is
fine and lies down close. He is clothed in a neat print jacket, with
a collar and a little handkerchief at the neck, and a pair of short
trousers buttoned on to the jacket. He is barefoot. He is tanned but not
burnt. His complexion is of a rich dark brown. He is always fresh and
clean. But the great charm about him is the expression of infinite fun
and mirth that is always upon his face. Never for a moment while he is
awake is his face still. Always the same, yet always shifting, with a
thousand varying shades of roguish joy. Quick, bright, full of boyish
repartee, full of shouts and laughter. And the same incessant life which
plays upon his face shows itself in every movement of his limbs. Never
for a moment is he still unless he has some work upon his hands. He has
his little routine of tasks, regularly assigned, which he goes through
wit