ur hundred miles was accomplished in less time
than my short walk. I had just returned when it arrived.

I saw by my husband's countenance as he read it, and by his extreme
tenderness of manner toward me, that a great misfortune had befallen me.
I sank down on the floor beside him, trembling with apprehension, yet
longing to know the worst. 'Is it mother?' I gasped. He handed me the
telegram, which was directed to him:

'Your father-in-law died this morning. Can Elsie come to the funeral? If
so, what day? Telegraph immediately.'

And this was all. My father was _dead_! How long he had been ill, or
what was his disease, I knew not. 'Why did they not send for me sooner,
that I might have seen him alive once more?' I asked, in the first
unreasoning agony of grief. But he was _dead_. All I could do for him
now was to yield him my last tribute of reverence and affection.

'Can Elsie come to the funeral?' Yes, I could go. It was all I could do
for my father now; I knew that. My family would be well cared for in my
absence. My husband did not oppose me, though he could not approve. But
he exerted himself in every way to further my plans.

There were difficulties at the outset. The regular morning stage had
already left. The 'air line,' as it is called, was the only route
remaining to me. Now this 'air line' started from a point thirty miles
north of us, and lay through ninety miles of wilderness. I had heard of
it before I ever came to the island, and had been told a wild story
about a stage coach having been chased by a pack of wolves for several
miles on this route a few years before. The innkeeper, too, spoke very
dubiously about it to my husband. But what were the hundred and twenty
miles between me and the cars--the four hundred between me and my
father, then! Should these few miles of earth detain me? No! It was
possible for me to go, and go I must.

My preparations were soon made; but I found, to my dismay, on applying
for a passage in the stage to C----(where the journey proper would
begin) that all the seats were taken. The innkeeper sent me word,
however, that he would furnish me a private conveyance, if I _must_ go.
So at two o'clock, P.M., an open, low-backed buggy appeared at my gate.
I kissed my little ones, who gathered wonderingly around to 'see mamma
go away,' and wrapping my old plaided cloak about me (the cloak I wore
when a child), I seated myself beside the buffalo-bundled driver, and
was soon whirli