Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living, and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of their united love.
They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.
A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.
Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety, clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads, and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by his side, with a sharp cough.
He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.
She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast, and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O, Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance, and yet feeling it would be vain."
"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."
"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."
The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife, and she continued,
"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to come and stay with me a while."