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ng them with those strange questions which come from a boy just exploring his way into the world of talk. "Benjamin," says Rachel, as they were nearing home upon one of these drives, "Reuben is quite a large boy now, you know; have you ever written to your friend, Mr. Maverick? You remember he promised a gift for him." "Never," said the minister, whose goodness rarely took the shape of letter-writing,--least of all where the task would seem to remind of a promised favor. "You've not forgotten it? You've not forgotten Mr. Maverick?" "Not forgotten, Rachel,--not forgotten to pray for him." "I _would_ write, Benjamin; it might be something that would be of service to Reuben. _Please_ don't forget it, Benjamin." And the minister promised. In the autumn of 1824,--the minister of Ashfield being still in good favor with nearly all his parishioners, and his wife Rachel being still greatly beloved,--a rumor ran through the town, one day, that there was serious illness at the parsonage, the Doctor's horse and saddle-bags being observed in waiting at the front gate for two hours together. Following close upon this, the Tew partners reported--having received undoubted information from Larkin, who still kept in his old service--that a daughter was born to the minister, but so feeble that there were grave doubts if the young Rachel could survive. The report was well founded; and after three or four days of desperate struggle with life, the poor child dropped away. Thus death came into the parsonage with so faint and shadowy a tread, it hardly startled one. The babe had been christened in the midst of its short struggle, and in this the father found such comfort as he could; yet reckoning the poor, fluttering little soul as a sinner in Adam, through whom all men fell, he confided it with a great sigh to God. It would have been well, if his grief had rested there. But two days thereafter there was a rumor on the village street,--flying like the wind, as such rumors do, from house to house,--"The minister's wife is dead!" "I want to know!" said Mrs. Tew, lifting herself from her task of assorting the mail, and removing her spectacles in nervous haste. "Do tell! It a'n't possible! Miss Johns dead?" "Yes," says Larkin, "as true as I live, she's dead"; and his voice broke as he said it,--the kind little woman had so won upon him. Squire Elderkin, like a good Christian, came hurrying to the parsonage to know what t
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