upied in making the great railroad through Jersey that was the
pioneer of engineering progress, and a mighty link between two kindred
States. He was in this way, though often absent, never for any length of
time, and his return was always a fresh source of joy to his household.
Mabel worshiped him; Ernie silently revered; Evelyn with all of her
growing peculiarities acknowledged he had merit; and Mrs. Austin
regarded him with mingled awe and affection, for to her he was
singularly kind and affectionate.

"To grow old in servitude," he would say, "what sadder fate can befall
any being, or more entitle him or her to forbearance and respect? What
life-long hardships does this condition not impose? And this is a field
for universal charity, which costs not much, only a little patience and
a few kind words and smiles."

Ours was a happy household; no cloud rested upon it, save for a few
brief days of illness or discomfort, until the great blow fell. In her
seventeenth year and on the eve of her marriage with Norman Stansbury
(again our neighbor, at intervals, when he came to visit his relatives,
a man of noble qualities and singularly devoted to my sister), Mabel
died suddenly of some secret disease of the heart which had simulated
radiant health and bloom.

I had sometimes observed with anxiety a slight shortness of breath, a
gasping after unusual exercise, and called the attention of physicians
to this state of things in my sister, who regarded it merely as a
nervous symptom, and this was all to indicate that the fell destroyer
was silently at work. She had just laid a bunch of white roses on her
toilet, and crossed the chamber for water to place them in, when she
called my name in a strange, excited way, that brought me speedily to
her side from the adjoining room. She was lying white and speechless on
her bed, beside which the crystal goblet lay in fragments.

The waters of her own existence had flowed forth with those prepared for
her flowers, and before assistance could be summoned she expired
peacefully in my arms, without a struggle. She had inherited her
mother's malady.

The anguish and disappointment of the lover, and my own despair, may be
better imagined than portrayed. My baby died a few weeks later--partly,
I think, from the effect of my own condition on her frail organization,
and the hope of years was blighted in this fragile blossom--the first
that had blessed our union.

The little Constance slumber