at four o'clock on the afternoon of the third, I was on my way from London to Liverpool; and embarked from Liverpool on the fifth, in the steamer Canada, bound for Boston. On the twentieth of the same month I arrived at my own Canadian home. Those who have been placed in similar situations, can realize what must have been my feelings as I drew near my humble dwelling. I had heard nothing since the information contained in the letter which reached me at Liverpool. I knew not whether my dear wife, the mother of my children, she who had travelled with me, sad and solitary, and foot-sore, from the land of bondage; who had been to me a kind, and affectionate, and dutiful wife, for forty years, I knew not whether she was still alive, or whether she had entered into rest.
A merciful Father had, however, kindly prolonged her life, and we were permitted once more to meet. And oh! such a meeting; it was worth more to me than all the fancied gains from my English book. I was met in the yard by four of my daughters, who rushed
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