n, and the
good old-fashioned morning glory, laced across the window, unfolded,
every day, tints whose beauty, though cheap and common, the finest
French milliner might in vain seek to rival.

When, in travelling the western country, you meet such a dwelling, do
you not instinctively know what you shall see inside of it? Do you not
seem to see the trimly-sanded floor, the well-kept furniture, the snowy
muslin curtain? Are you not sure that on a neat stand you shall see, as
on an altar, the dear old family Bible, brought, like the ancient ark of
the covenant, into the far wilderness, and ever overshadowed, as a
bright cloud, with remembered prayers and counsels of father and mother,
in a far off New England home?

And in this cottage there was such a Bible, brought from the wild hills
of New Hampshire, and its middle page recorded the marriage of James
Sandford to Mary Irving; and alas! after it another record, traced in a
trembling hand--the death of James Sandford, at Toledo. And this fair,
thin woman, in the black dress, with soft brown hair parted over a pale
forehead, with calm, patient blue eyes, and fading cheek, is the once
energetic, buoyant, light-hearted New Hampshire girl, who has brought
with her the strongest religious faith, the active practical knowledge,
the skilful, well-trained hand and clear head, with which cold New
England portions her daughters. She had left all, and come to the
western wilds with no other capital than her husband's manly heart and
active brain--he young, strong, full of hope, prompt, energetic, and
skilled to acquire--she careful, prudent, steady, no less skilled to
save; and between the two no better firm for acquisition and prospective
success could be desired. Every body prophesied that James Sandford
would succeed, and Mary heard these praises with a quiet exultation. But
alas! that whole capital of hers--that one strong, young heart, that
ready, helpful hand--two weeks of the country's fever sufficed to lay
them cold and low forever.

And Mary yet lived, with her babe in her arms, and one bright little boy
by her side; and this boy is our little brown-eyed Fred--the hero of our
story. But few years had rolled over his curly head, when he first
looked, weeping and wondering, on the face of death. Ah, one look on
that awful face adds years at once to the age of the heart; and little
Fred felt manly thoughts aroused in him by the cold stillness of his
father, and the deep, ca