this year of our Lord, 1883, was a sad one for us
all. The pecuniary loss, resultant upon the town-building disaster,
was severe; but the revelation which came to me of the innate meanness
of human nature in matters of money, was the more depressing by far.

It was amazing to hear wealthy people, who had bought of me a few
hundred dollars' worth of stock, and who really felt the loss of it
much less than they would suffer from a fly bite, whine as if this had
reduced them to the direst poverty, and insinuate that I, who had lost
manifold more than they, should refund, though the loss was entirely
the result of their own stupidity in failing to send me the proxies I
had asked for by mail.

We consoled ourselves, as usual, with the knowledge that we had acted
honestly and conscientiously towards all, and that the miseries of
this short life are "not worthy to be compared with the glory which
shall be revealed in us in the near future of the life eternal."

The blue arch above us, ever changing like the sea, has always
possessed a peculiar fascination for me, and I never let slip a
convenient opportunity to feast my eyes upon it. I was pursuing this
favorite occupation one day this year, when an unusually beautiful
cloud attracted my attention, and as I watched its rapidly changing
forms, there was slowly evolved from it the kindly loving face of my
mother. It was no fancy, no distorted figment of a dream. The dear
face smiled upon me with angelic sweetness, glanced upward, and was
gone; then I knew that I had another guardian angel in heaven.

In a short time, news came from R---- that she who had gladly devoted
her life to self-sacrifice for her children, had been relieved from
the always weak and suffering body.

Dear, good mother! Her highest and only ambition was to do good; not
a selfish thought ever even flitted across her horizon. Frank as the
day, constant as the sun, pure as the dew; like our Lord himself, she
sacrificed herself for the good of others. Her sons, Richard and Mark,
welcomed her at the gates ajar, and she was at rest.

What is death but a journey home?
A perfect rest when the work is done,
A gentle sleep for earth-weary eyes,
And the soul ascends to the azure skies.

We in the earth life went on as best we could. My only brother Joshua
sold the old homestead with its burdens, too heavy for him to bear
alone, bought our former home for one-half it had cost us, which was
much more tha