While occupying the old church and making preparations to rebuild, Secretary S. B. Treat visited us. After consultation, our plans were changed, and we erected our mission buildings at Hazelwood, twenty-five miles further down the Minnesota, and near to Dr. Williamson's and the Yellow Medicine Agency. During the eight years spent there, many things connected with the family life transpired. First among them worthy to be noted was the rounding out of the number of children to _eight_--"Toonkanshena," so called by the Indians--just why, I don't know--and Octavia the Hakakta. In those days our Family Education Society had to devise ways and means to keep _one_ always, and sometimes _two_, away at school. By and by, Zitkadan-Washta graduated at Knox College, and Hapan and Hapistinna at the Western Female Seminary and College Hill respectively. How we got them through seems even now a mystery. But I remember one year we raised a grand crop of potatoes, and sold 100 barrels to the government for $300 in gold. That was quite a lift. And so the Lord provided all through--then and afterward. Nothing was more remarkable in our family history for twenty-five years than its general health. We had very little sickness. I remember a week or so of doctoring on myself during our first residence at Lac-qui-parle. Then, the summer after our return there, the fever and ague took hold of two or three of the children. The mother also was taken sick suddenly in the adobe church, and Dr. Williamson and I had a night ride up from Hazelwood. At this place (Hazelwood) the baby boy _Toonkanshena_ was sick one night, I remember, and we gave him calomel and sent for the doctor. But the most serious sickness of all these years was that of my "urchin" and Henry, both together of typhoid fever. I have always believed that prayer was a part of the means of their recovery. QUARTER OF A CENTURY. When the summer of 1862 came, it rounded out a full quarter of a century of missionary life for us. Alfred had completed his seminary course, and in the meantime had grown such a heavy black beard that when he and I sat on the platform together, in a crowded church in Cincinnati, the people asked which was the father and which the son. While waiting in Ohio for the graduating day of Hapistinna to come, I ran up to Steubenville, where I was born, and walked out into the country to the old farm where my boyhood was spent. The visit was not very satisfactory. Scarcely any one knew me. Everything had greatly changed. THE OUTBREAK.