he terminus at 9:30. As
usual, that night I got the engine out, oiled, switched out the cars,
and took the train to the station, trimmed my signals and headlight, and
was all ready for Jim to pull out. Nine o'clock came, and no Jim; at
9:10 I sent to his boarding-house. He had not been there. He did not
come at leaving time--he did not come at all. At ten o'clock the
conductor sent to the engine-house for another engineer, and at 10:45,
instead of an engineer, a fireman came, with orders for John Alexander
to run the "Roger William" until further orders,--I never fired a
locomotive again.

I went over that road the saddest-hearted man that ever made a maiden
trip. I hoped there would be some tidings of Jim at home--there were
none. I can never forget the blow it was to "mother;" how she braced up
on account of her children--but oh, that sad face! Christmas came, and
with it the daughter, and then there were two instead of one: the boy
was frantic the first day, and playing marbles the next.

Christmas day there came a letter. It was from Jim--brief and cold
enough--but it was such a comfort to "mother." It was directed to Mary
J. Dillon, and bore the New York post-mark. It read:

"Uncle Sam is in need of men, and those who lose with Venus may win
with Mars. Enclosed papers you will know best what to do with. Be a
mother to the children--you have _three_ of them.

"JAMES DILLON."

He underscored the three--he was a mystery to me. Poor "mother!" She
declared that no doubt "poor James's head was affected." The papers with
the letter were a will, leaving her all, and a power of attorney,
allowing her to dispose of or use the money in the bank. Not a line of
endearment or love for that faithful heart that lived on love, asked
only for love, and cared for little else.

That Christmas was a day of fasting and prayer for us. Many letters did
we send, many advertisements were printed, but we never got a word from
James Dillon, and Uncle Sam's army was too big to hunt in. We were a
changed family: quieter and more tender of one another's feelings, but
changed.

In the fall of 64 they changed the runs around, and I was booked to run
in to M----. Ed, the boy, was firing for me. There was no reason why
"mother" should stay in Boston, and we moved out to the little farm.
That daughter, who was a second "mother" all over, used to come down to
meet us at the station with the horse, and I talked "sweet" to he