llen his house, fell with crushing weight on
his heart. For the sake of his wife and remaining children he bore up
nobly, but his distress was keen, and every straw of hope that floated
by was eagerly clutched at. From time to time came vague rumors of the
boy having been seen in different directions, and the faintest hope of
success sufficed to send off the bereaved father or some trusty
messenger to follow up the clue, but always without success. The last
information that assumed the appearance of probability was received in
1829, from a man who had been traveling among the Indian tribes of
Illinois, and who asserted that he had seen among the Indians of that
country a white child whose age and appearance corresponded generally
with that of the missing Matthew Brayton. Without an hour's delay Mr.
Brayton wrote to General Cass, then Indian Commissioner, but his
answer crushed out the last remnant of hope. The letter bade the
anxious father to renounce all hope based on such a rumor, for there
was no such white child among the Indians of Illinois. On what
authority the General based his assertion, cannot be said, but it is
more than probable that in this he was mistaken.

The weary years passed on but brought no comfort to the stricken
household. As all strong impressions fade in the course of time, so
faded away the memory of the loss from the minds of men. But deep in
the hearts of the parents remained the image of the lost boy, and the
thrilling scenes and emotions connected with the search of him
recurred again and again long after others had nearly forgotten the
incidents. The father never forgot him. His "lost Matthew" was ever in
his heart, and his name was often on his tongue. The oldest brother,
William, could not forget him, for the mother's reproaches, silent or
spoken, for his neglect in sending so young a boy alone on such a
path, sank deep into his heart. And could the mother that bore him
forget the missing lamb of the fold? The paling cheek, the wasting
form, the decaying strength told how deep the love, how bitter the
anguish of the mother for her lost son. If she were but sure of his
fate,--if but one rag of his clothes, but a particle of his body, had
remained to assure her that her darling had perished by wild beasts,
or been slain by still wilder men, it would at least have given rest
to her weary heart; but this torturing mystery was too great to be
borne. So the years dragged slowly onward, and ea