others will teach them, no tale of distress will soften them, no apprehension of future judgment will move them. The sad history of those times, you have told me, has been written over and over again by several excellent historians, and therefore I need not dwell upon it. It maybe summed up in these words: "The History of the Reign of Evil Passions."
'Wearied out with constant watchfulness and anxiety, and almost driven to desperation by ever-recurring insults, and depredations on his cattle and other property, my poor father determined to abandon his little farm and take refuge in London. We had endured a life of extreme hardship and isolation for two years; often for weeks without the bare necessaries of life. But we were destined to retire from our beloved home under one of the darkest clouds which are allowed to rest upon the human race—one which seemed like the grave of what was past, and the ominous shadow of what was to come. My brother Charles, a gentle affectionate child, the idol of his parents, and one of the sweet sisters of Rhyndal House, Clara, quite as beautiful as Helen, sickened and died. Words cannot paint the grief and despair of the afflicted mothers. They contrived to meet and spend some hours weeping in each other's arms. My father felt the blow keenly. He loved his three children, but I think the fragile Charles found a deeper and warmer place in his heart than either my sister or myself. Now, I felt, with a slight qualm of jealousy—my first attack of that fearful disease—that the place of Charles would be occupied by Agnes. I was a strong and healthy fellow, able to take care of myself; often annoying my father by my propensity for mischief, but spoiled by my mother, who doted on me.
'We arrived safely in London, having availed ourselves of a strong military escort proceeding thither. My father
