In 1869 we bought property on both sides of Lake Street, in the second block west of Western Avenue, where we built homes on the south and a factory on the north side of the street. We then sold our teams, mostly to our men on the installment plan, holding the property in our name until paid for. Then we started manufacturing tinware, working about fifty tinners, selling the ware to those who bought the teams. It was a success. Soon all the teams were off our hands, and the once prolific and romantic business and escapades of the three Richardson brothers had entirely disappeared. In 1872 Collins sold out to Gordon and me, he returning to Connecticut and settling down on a farm. In 1874 we sold out the tin factory, and Gordon, who had always been a lover of fast horses, began dealing in them again. I, who had all the time been exhorting and writing books, entered the Evanston Theological Seminary, preparing for the ministry, but when Dr. H. W. Thomas experienced his troubles with Rock River Conference, I abandoned that course, but kept up, through private instructors, the languages and scientific studies for five years, including one year of experimental astronomy on the great telescope then at Cottage Grove. DR. THOMAS Thomas' ideas moulded my thoughts into lines of truth. He was a good man, a profound scholar and deep thinker, but lived before his time. The following I copy from his thoughts: THE ORIGIN AND DESTINY OF MAN BY H. W. THOMAS, D.D. We say that this is the 12th day of December. We say that this is the year 1870. We say that it is the Sabbath evening, and that we are gathered here in the house of worship. We say that we look into each other's faces, and that you hear my words. But is this a dream, or is it reality? For in the night-time we have often dreamed that we have seen large assemblages; we have heard music and singing; we have listened to sermon or lecture; we have loved, we have hoped, we have wept, we have been glad--and in the morning we have found it was only a dream. There have not been wanting, in our world's history, those who have held that all our day-life is only another kind of a day-dream. And, when we come to think of it, it is not the easiest thing to disprove this. I do not know how to prove that I am here better than just to say so. I do not know how I can be much more certain of the fact than I am of certain facts in my dreams. Yet somehow we feel that there is something more in this life than simply an illusion, and I guess that our senses do not deceive us. The revolving earth is beneath our feet; the heavens are above our heads. But if this be so, how came we here? How and whence did we come? Are we the results of some process of material nature, the fortuitous concurrence of innumerable atoms, or are we the creatures of a living God? Is there an order and a plan about our being? Shall our days end with the autumn and the snow, or